CHAPTER XXXIII
Heldon Foyle and Chief Inspector Green paced to and fro along Westminster Pier watching a couple of motor-boats as they swung across the eddies to meet them. A bitter wind had chopped the incoming tide into a quite respectable imitation of a rough sea. There were three men in each boat. Wrington at the tiller in one, Jones, his lieutenant, steering the other.
"It's going to be a cold job," commented Foyle, as he turned up his coat collar and stamped heavily on the frosty boards.
"Ay," agreed Green. Then, without moving his head: "There's that chap Jerrold of the Wire behind us. Has he got any idea of what we're on?"
Foyle wheeled sharply, and confronted a thin-faced, sallow-complexioned man with a wisp of black hair creeping from under his hat, and with sharp, penetrating, humorous eyes. Jerrold was one of the most resourceful of the "crime investigators" of Fleet Street, and, while he had often helped the police, he could be a dangerous ally at times. He started with well-affected surprise as Foyle greeted him.
"Well, I never! How are you, Mr. Foyle? And you, Mr. Green? What are you doing down here?"
"For the matter of that, what are you doing?" asked the superintendent, who had made a shrewd guess that he and his companion had been seen from the Embankment, and that Jerrold, scenting something afoot, had
descended to wait an opportunity. But Jerrold was ready.
"Me?" he retorted. "Oh, I'm writing a story about Westminster Bridge. Cracks have developed in the pier. Is it safe? You know the kind of thing."