Labar was a little uncertain of the value of his hand. Therefore, he
hesitated to disclose his cards fully to Solly Gertstein, the more so
as that gentleman at almost the first word declared his implicit faith
in Miss Noelson. It was at that moment that the detective came almost
near to liking the pompous little man.
All that the millionaire knew was that Labar had become suspicious
while questioning the girl, and that she had fainted when the
interrogation was closely pressed. Gertstein did not conceal his
opinion that only a fool could suspect her. It was unthinkable that she
could have anything to do with the robbery. She was as straight as a
die.
Now, although the divisional inspector liked this attitude on the part
of Gertstein, it failed utterly to convince him. In fact, his own view
of the situation might have been deduced from the fact that when he had
summoned a maid to help Penelope to her room, he had also given private
instructions to one of his staff to keep as close an eye upon her as
circumstances would permit. There was no telling what she might do if
she was really frightened.
Of one thing Labar was sure. Momentary though his glimpse of the girl
in the car had been, he had no doubt that it was Penelope Noelson. He
did not make that kind of mistake. Of course, coincidences do happen.
But those trained in the school of Scotland Yard are sceptical about
coincidence. It was asking too much to suppose that the singular
episode of the morning was entirely unassociated with the raid. It
was but a question of how deeply the girl was involved. Was she an
accomplice or merely a tool? She was not a professional thief. That
much was certain. Why had she tried to bribe him? If Larry Hughes was
at the bottom of the business--and he felt as certain of that as that
the sun would rise and set--in what way were the girl and he associated?
With these questions stirring in his mind, he decided that it would
be unwise to make any hasty move. There was, in fact, nothing very
definite to act upon. He had debated with himself whether he ought to
detain Penelope. He had small fear that she would get away from the
surveillance he had placed upon her, but she might gum up the trail a
bit. To hold her in present circumstances would, perhaps, be considered
a little bit arbitrary, and anyway, Gertstein might kick up a fuss. It
was quite simple to keep an eye upon her until the ground under foot
was a little more solid.
So he made his way back to Grape Street. His emissaries were scouring
London, and their reports had to be collated--whether for his own use
or for the man who might be detached from headquarters, was on the lap
of the gods.
He considered as he puffed at his cigarette. These reports now--why
should he worry unduly about them if another man was to handle the
case? If it was his own work, of course he would have to do it. But why
worry until he was certain. He put a call through to Scotland Yard.
Winter was more genial than he had been at the early morning interview.
"That you, Labar? How are things making out? You'll have to hump
yourself on this job, my mannie."
That was all right, then. For the time being at any rate he was not to
be superseded on the investigation. That had looked a probability when
the heads had left him to it at Streetly House. This, however, made
certain. He answered cheerfully.
"I'll do my best, sir; I've got hopes."
"Hopes won't carry you far. I've seen hopes land a man in a ditch."
"Oh, I'm not running ahead of myself. As you saw, it's a slick
clean-up, but I've got an idea that if Larry's in it he's made a break
this time."
"H'm. Other men have thought that," grunted the telephone,
sceptically. "If there's a hole in this it's not like friend Larry. So
don't go running away with any hasty impressions, my boy. And listen, I
don't want to know too much--especially over the 'phone. You and I will
have a talk some time. G'bye."
"The cunning old fox," murmured Labar, with almost affectionate
admiration, as he replaced the receiver. "He doesn't want to know too
much. That means I'm to be the goat if things don't pan out."
He ripped open a letter that lay upon his desk.
"SIR,--In accordance with your instructions, I made
inquiries at the Bank of England, and was informed that the note
No. K002947 was one of a series issued to the Midland Bank a week
ago. From the Midland Bank I learn that this was one of ten notes
numbered consecutively K002946 to K002955, paid to honour a cheque
drawn by Mr. S. Gertstein, of Streetly House, W., three days ago.
On inquiry at the London County Council Record Department I was
informed that the registration number, X20008, is that of a car
belonging to the same person.
"Yours faithfully,
"J. S. BYRON."
He laid down the note absently. "I was afraid so. A nice girl, too.
Well, nice girls do go wrong. Let's see what Gertstein has to say
about it."
He reached for the telephone and got put through to Streetly House. A
matter of minutes elapsed before he was in touch with the millionaire,
and he drummed impatiently on his desk. At last an irritable voice
reached him.
Labar spoke silkily. "Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Gertstein. This is
Labar speaking--Detective Inspector Labar. In the list of stuff stolen
there is no mention of cash. Is there any money missing?"
"If there had been I should have told you, Inspector," snapped
Gertstein.
"This is important. You have not lost any bank notes?"
"I've told you, no. I never keep enough cash in the house to bother
about."
A smothered exclamation escaped Labar. "But," he urged, "you changed a
cheque for a thousand pounds a day or two ago."
"I did nothing of the sort," snorted Gertstein. "What thing are you
dreaming about now? I haven't had a thousand pounds in cash for my own
personal use for years."
"Ah, well," said Labar, mildly. "Perhaps I've made a mistake. I'll hope
to see you in the morning and explain. Good-bye."
Detectives of Scotland Yard have more use for bowler hats than for
halos. Whatever the writers may make of them they have few illusions
about themselves. They are very much of the same clay as human beings
in less glamorous callings. Labar was no conjuror, and an odd sequence
of facts bore to him just as great an appearance of mystery as it would
to any other professional man. He swore crisply between his teeth,
as Mr. Thingumbob, the eminent collar merchant, might have sworn had
he found a competitor selling neckwear below the cost of production.
For in these cases the problem that confronts the detective and the
ordinary business man is in essence the same. They each have to ask
themselves why. And if they get the correct answer they have scored a
point. If they are wrong the business man is hit in the bank balance,
and the newspapers attend to Scotland Yard. The bank believed that it
had let Gertstein have ten one hundred pound notes, and one of these
had reached Labar through a member of Gertstein's household. Yet the
millionaire denied that he had had that cheque cashed. It was entirely
improbable that he could have any motive for lying. On the face of it
someone had forged his signature, and so introduced the complication of
an additional crime.
It was certainly necessary to have a talk with the bank manager. Labar
summoned Malone and gave him a rough outline of the situation. The
bank would be closed, of course, but somehow the manager's private
address would have to be found. The big detective sergeant nodded
comprehendingly, and set forth on his mission.
That round of golf which Labar had reckoned upon in the morning was far
away. But his inclination to relaxation had vanished. An investigation
such as he had upon his hands leaves the man in charge with all he can
think about. He was fiercely energetic and his men were being driven
hard. Every few minutes the telephone bells were whirring, and men were
rushing in from various avenues of inquiry with verbal reports.
The net was being cast wide. The usual routine precautions had, of
course, been seen to. Lists of the stolen property had been sent out
to jewellers, pawnbrokers and others, and published broadcast in the
evening papers. That was a ten million to one chance. The goods in this
crime would be got rid of through obscure underground channels.
Labar had thrown two men to shadow Larry Hughes, not hopefully, but as
a matter of precaution. Others were trying to discover if Larry had
been in touch with any of the greater artists in burglary of late.
Then, again on general principles, the movements of every crook who was
big enough in his profession to be possibly involved had to be checked.
Any one of these possessed of sudden funds, any one absent from his
usual haunts, might be a link in the chain that Labar was trying
to establish. Nothing could be taken for granted. Even Gertstein
himself--this would have annoyed him--was having some of his private
habits pried into, and his associates looked up.
The Yard does not despise scientific methods; but here were no
bloodstains, no finger-prints, no trivialities from which a high-domed
scientist in an easy chair might deduce the name and address of the
main culprit. It was a thief taking enterprise in the good old way of
the Bow Street runners, differing only by the use of a more complex
and more perfect organisation. For a young detective inspector of the
Criminal Investigation Department who was under suspicion of slackness
it was decidedly not a day for golf.
Midnight was very near ere Malone returned to Grape Street. After
tracking the manager of the bank to his lair in Golder's Green, he
had dragged him back to the bank, and searched out the thousand pound
cheque, together with two others unquestionably genuine, for the sake
of comparison.
"This fellow knows nothing of the circumstances in which it was
changed," said Malone. "Suppose we'll have to look up the cashier in
the morning on that point."
Labar thrust his hand into a desk drawer and pulled out a magnifying
glass. Placing the suspected cheque and another in front of him he
studied them intently for a few minutes.
"Did he hold any views on whether it was a forgery or not, Bill?" he
asked without looking up.
The other shook his head. "He's a cautious Scot. You see if it is a
forgery the bank will be liable. Didn't want me to bring away the
cheques at first. Someone had been telephoning him to send back all
cancelled cheques to Gertstein early in the morning."
Labar abruptly laid down his magnifying glass and stared at his
aide-de-camp. "Who was that?" he demanded.
A slow grin broke over the usual inexpressive features of Malone. He
had an impish delight in sometimes startling his superior. "I thought
it would interest you, guv'nor," he said. "He didn't know. The voice
was that of a woman, and she said that she was telephoning on behalf of
Gertstein."
"A woman's voice," repeated the inspector, thoughtfully. He uncoiled
his six feet from his chair, and stretched himself. "I'm all in, Bill,"
he announced. "Let's put up the shutters for the night. Nine o'clock
sharp in the morning."
The thing for a man who has spent many hours within four walls, Labar
decided, was a good brisk walk. He parted from Malone under the blue
lamp at the entrance to the police station, and paused to light a
cigarette. He nodded amiably to the constable on reserve duty at
the doorway, and setting his face towards Chelsea where his modest
bachelor apartments were located, swung off briskly down the little
courtyard that leads from Grape Street to Piccadilly.
He had taken not more than a score of strides when some sixth sense
impelled him to whirl upon his heels. In that fraction of a second
he had an impression of a dark figure hurling itself upon him from a
doorway. An instant earlier and he had saved himself. As it was, he
flung up an arm, almost by instinct, and broke the impact of a sandbag.
Nevertheless, he went down half-stunned and feebly grappling with his
opponent.
His bewildered senses were dimly conscious of the dark figure bending
over him, and fingers groping about his pockets. Then the assailant
was gone, and he staggered uncertainly to his feet, supporting himself
against the wall. He felt his head gingerly where the half-broken blow
had taken effect. But his mind was not on his injuries.
"A woman again," he muttered. "What a nerve. Practically on the
doorstep of the police station. She certainly wanted something badly."
He stood for a moment to regain his shaken faculties. "I wonder if it
could have been a cheque?" he asked aloud.
He walked unsteadily back to the station where the brandy retained for
emergencies was called into requisition, and a hasty hue and cry--which
he knew to be hopeless--organised. But all trace of his assailant had
been lost. Nor, for some reason which he could not have satisfactorily
accounted for to himself, did he suggest that the pursuers should take
the direction of Streetly House.