Red Ike's swift wits were on the alert. Never before had he known this kind of hospitality to be tendered in a police station to a man arrested red-handed. And although suspicious, he was nevertheless flattered. All criminals, whether at the top or bottom of their profession, are beset by vanity.
"A little out of your usual line this," went on Foyle, watching his man intently. "As neat a job as ever
was spoiled by accident. Now you know, as well as I do, that we can't force you to talk. But it'll help us a bit if you tell us who you got those keys from, for instance."
The office was small and plainly furnished, and Ike stared into the fire as he sipped his whisky, with placid face. That the interview was to be the English equivalent of the third degree, he knew not. There would be no bullying, only coaxing. Foyle was in a position where consummate tact was needed if he was to extract anything from the prisoner. He dared neither threaten nor promise. However helpful Ike might be, he would still have to submit the issue of guilt and punishment to a judge and jury. Ike, unlike Dutch Fred, had no relations, and if he had it was doubtful if any promise of consideration for them would move him.
"It's no good, Mr. Foyle," said Ike. "The only man that was in this with me was Dutch Fred. You'd better go and get him, because I shall tell all about it in court. He gave me the keys."
"Don't be a fool, Ike," interposed Green.
The prisoner glanced from one to the other with cunning, twinkling eyes. He was too wary to say anything that may be used as evidence.
"I guess that it isn't bursting into the place that's put you two to work," he said. "You want to know something. If I could help you I s'pose you'd drop this case?"
Heldon Foyle shook his head resolutely.
"You know we can't do that in a case of felony. Mr. Green will put in a good word for you at the trial. That's the farthest we can go to."