CHAPTER XI

      THE man tried to jerk himself free, but the detective’s fingers closed tightly about his wrist.

      ‘There is no use making a scene, my man,’ he said, still speaking in French, his voice stern, but pitched in a low key. ‘You are Ivan something-or-other, and you know of the murder of your master. So come along.’

      ‘It’s a mistake,’ protested the other volubly in the same language. His words slurred into each other in his excitement. ‘I am not the man you take me for. I am Pierre Bazarre, a jeweller of Paris, and I have my credentials. I will not submit to this abominable outrage. I know nothing of M. Grell; you shall not arrest me—’

      Heldon Foyle cut him short. He had, without the appearance of force, quietly forced his prisoner outside the restaurant and signalled to a passing taxicab.

      ‘I am not arresting you,’ he said, ignoring the protestations of the other. ‘I am going to detain you till you give a satisfactory explanation of your reason for leaving Mr Grell’s house on the night of the murder.’

      They were on the edge of the pavement close to the cab. Ivan with a quick oath wheeled inward, and struck savagely at the superintendent’s face. Foyle’s grip did not relax. He merely lowered his head, seemingly without haste, and, as the man swung forward with the momentum of the blow, jabbed with his own free hand at his body. So neatly was it done that passers-by saw nothing but an apparently drunken man collapse on the pavement in spite of the endeavours of his friend to hold him up.

      The whole breath had been knocked out of Ivan’s body by those two swift body-blows. Before he could recover, Foyle had lifted him bodily into the cab.

      ‘King Street,’ he said quietly to the driver, and sat down opposite to Ivan, alert and watchful.

      ‘Sorry if I hurt you,’ he apologised. ‘It will be all right in a minute. It has only upset your wind a little. That will pass off.’

      Ivan, his hands pressed tightly to the pit of his stomach, groaned. Presently he straightened himself up, and Foyle, calmly ignoring the assault, produced a cigar-case.

      ‘Have a cigar? I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to make things all right when we get to the station. There’s nothing to worry about. You will just have a little talk with me, and as soon as one or two points are cleared up you’ll be able to go.’

      The case was struck angrily aside. Foyle smiled, and although his whole body was taut in anticipation of any fresh attempt at violence, he quietly struck a match and lit one himself.

      ‘As you like,’ he said imperturbably. ‘They’re good cigars. I have them sent over to me by a friend direct from Havana.’

      All the while he was speaking he was scrutinising the man who had been Grell’s valet with deliberate care. Ivan was sleek and well-groomed, with a dark face and prominent cheekbones that betrayed his Caucasian origin. The brows were drawn tightly in a surly frown; a heavy dark moustache hid the upper lip, and though the shoulders were sloping he was obviously a man of considerable physical strength.

      Foyle felt that it was going to be no easy matter to win this man’s confidence. Yet he was determined to do so. Beyond the fact that he had vanished when the murder was discovered, there was nothing so far to suggest that he was the actual culprit. Certain it was, however, that he must have knowledge of matters which would prove valuable. If he would volunteer the information, well and good. The detective did not wish to have to question him, for such a course, however advisable it might appear, could be made to assume an ugly look in the hands of the astute counsel, should the man be charged with the crime. Where by French or American methods a statement might have been extracted by bullying or by cross-examination, here it had to be extracted by diplomacy if possible.

      Sullen and silent, Ivan alighted from the cab as it drew up under the blue lamp outside King Street police station. He passed arm-in-arm with Foyle up the steps. With a nod to the uniformed inspector in the outer office, the superintendent led him into the offices set apart for the divisional detachment of the Criminal Investigation Department. A broad-shouldered man with side whiskers, who was writing at a desk, looked up as they entered.

      ‘Good morning, Mr Norman,’ said Foyle. ‘This gentleman wants to tell me something about the Grell case. Just give him a chair, will you, and send in a shorthand writer who understands French to take a statement.’

      ‘I shall make no statement,’ broke in the Russian angrily, speaking in French, but with a readiness that showed he was able to follow English. ‘It’s all a mistake—a mistake for which you will pay heavily.’

      ‘Ah! that’s just what I wish to get at. There seems to be a little confusion. Perhaps I have been over-zealous, but the fact is, Monsieur—er—Bazarre, you are wearing a false moustache, and that rather aroused my suspicions—see?’

      His hand did not seem to move, yet a second later the heavy moustache had been torn from the man’s face. He started to his feet with an exclamation. Foyle waved him back to his chair.

      ‘I only wanted to feel sure that I was right. Now, monsieur, I want to make it clear that I have no right to ask you anything. If you wish to say anything, it will be taken down, and what action I take depends on what you say.’

      Ivan scowled into the fire and preserved a stubborn silence. Whether he knew it or not, he held all the advantage. Unless he committed himself by some incautious word, there was little to implicate him in the murder. Suspicion there might be, but legal proof there was none. It would scarcely do to arrest him on such flimsy evidence. The Russian police had failed to trace his antecedents, and the Criminal Investigation Department were ignorant even of his surname. He had been known simply as Ivan at Grosvenor Gardens.

      Foyle tried again, and this time his voice was silky and soft as ever as he uttered a plainer threat.

      ‘I want to help you if I can. I don’t want to have to charge you with the murder of Mr Grell.’

      The warm blood surged crimson to Ivan’s face. In an instant he was out of his chair and had leapt at the throat of the detective. So rapid, so unexpected was the movement that, although Heldon Foyle had not ceased his careful watchfulness,