It was a blow to Labar that Malone's journey to Goodwood in company
with the bank cashier should have been wasted. He had fully made up
his mind that Mrs. Gertstein was the author of the forgery, and her
identification would have been an important link in the evidence.
His view was based upon something more solid than the lady's
misadventures with the bookmakers. The bogus cheque had been under
much examination. A negative enlarged in the big magic lantern at
Scotland Yard showed by the marks of the pen that the signature had
most certainly been traced. That betrayed the amateur. No expert would
have committed an imitation by such a method. The inspector had made
diligent search for an original signature that would fit exactly over
the forgery, which would have demonstrated the crime beyond all doubt,
for no one ever writes his signature twice in precisely the same
manner. He had failed in that, but he had managed to procure one or two
letters of Mrs. Gertstein's written from "Maid's Retreat," and these,
with the cheque, he had submitted to the scrutiny of a distinguished
analyst who held a retainer from the Home Office.
"No question about it being a forgery," that gentleman told him.
"You've seen that for yourself. But to suppose that from a mere
examination of the writing one can pin it down to a particular person
is asking too much. This sort of thing is not an exact science. But I
can tell you this. The person who wrote these letters used the same
kind of ink as the person who wrote the forged cheque. That ink is
chemically different from that used in the genuine cheques. It is a
fountain pen ink and I should say that it was used on a broad nib."
Which view, taken in conjunction with other matters, carried conviction
to Labar, although he knew that he could not formulate a case that
would be satisfactory in a court of law. By and by, no doubt, some of
the other notes for which the cheque had been changed would come back
to the Bank of England, and the chances were that it would be possible
to trace them back through the various hands in which they had been.
That, however, was likely to be a matter of weeks.
What Gertstein's attitude would be in the event of this crime being
brought home to his wife had been a matter of speculation with
Labar. The little man had insisted on the matter being probed to
the bottom, though, of course, he had no suspicion where it would
end. The inspector thought it probable that he would refuse to
prosecute--perhaps, if his hand was forced, he would declare that
there had been no forgery, and that the signature on the cheque was
genuine. As matters stood there was no purpose in giving a hint to the
millionaire. Labar felt that he would be quite content to ignore the
forgery if he could lay Larry Hughes by the heels. He had an idea, not
very clearly defined, that he might induce Mrs. Gertstein to clear up
many points that troubled him if he could use some weapon to hold over
her.
Luck favoured him. For the letter that Mrs. Gertstein had written to
Larry went to the latter's Hampstead home. Now the Post Office is
jealous of the sanctity of the mail--even that of a crook--and there
could be no tampering with correspondence under official cognizance.
There are more ways of killing a cat than one, however. Some of Labar's
men engaged on the task of watching the house had made themselves on
good terms with the postmen. And so it was that a delivery bag was left
unguarded for two minutes at a certain garden gate. Mrs. Gertstein's
letter was included in the next delivery at Larry's house, but
meanwhile Labar had become possessed of a copy of it.
He whistled a little jig air as he read. Here was a flood of light.
Here also--to vary the simile--were muddy waters which it behoved him
to stir carefully. Before he made any move it would be well to guard
himself.
He went to see Marlow, the detective superintendent, who was his
immediate chief. Marlow read the letter with impassive face.
"Well, Harry? What do you want me to do?"
He looked over his steel spectacles inquiringly at the inspector and
Labar fancied that he could detect the glimmer of a smile.
"This affects Gertstein, sir."
"Well, he's not the only man whose wife has been blackmailed."
"No. But he might make it difficult, when he sees how a big scandal may
come home to him."
"Ah." The superintendent polished his spectacles, and readjusted them.
"You think Gertstein might deliberately try to gum up things to hush up
the scandal."
Labar nodded. Both these men understood something which neither of them
said. "I take it that it's Larry we want, sir."
Marlow leaned back with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and studied
the inspector. "Out with it, Harry. Is it that you want me to handle
this? Losing your nerve?"
The other lifted his shoulders without reply. This, win or lose, was a
big and delicate affair. It was such a case as usually fell to the lot
of one of the Big Four. Marlow had every right to deal with it himself
if he wished.
"Don't get worried," went on the superintendent. "I've got enough
business of my own to attend to." He got up and laid a hand on Labar's
shoulder. "The old man asked me to stand down to give you a chance. I'm
not going to interfere now unless you ask me to. Carry on in your own
way--and at your own risk. Only get Larry and you can go as far as you
like."
"I'm grateful----"
"Nothing to be grateful about. I've had thirty-three years of the
game and next year I hope to be in the country raising chickens." He
chuckled. "Don't forget you may find yourself in a mess. I'd just as
soon be out of it."
He lied, and Labar knew he lied. If there was trouble the
superintendent of the area could not altogether evade responsibility.
The inspector was a thoughtful man as he took his leave.
The immediate thing was to see Mrs. Gertstein. His future action
depended in some degree on what developed from that interview. He had
no desire to arrest her--just now. That would only happen if his hand
were forced. But as an instrument to lead him to his greater quarry she
was likely to be useful.
Five hours later he and Malone were walking through the lodge gates and
up the avenue of chestnuts that led to "Maid's Retreat." He had decided
against a cab from the station, preferring to take the three mile walk.
One never knew what information might be picked up on the way.
The old Elizabethan, half-timbered house nestled sleepily in the
sunshine as they plodded up the drive. A figure rose languidly from a
veranda and made its way into the house. They found no need to ring as
they reached the door. A trim maid awaited them.
Labar presented his card. The girl looked at it doubtfully. "I'm sorry.
Mrs. Gertstein is out."
"That's all right. We'll wait," said Labar serenely.
The maid shuffled her feet uneasily. "I'm afraid that she won't be back
to-day. She's gone to town."
"Well that is unfortunate," lamented the inspector. "After we've come
all the way to see her, too. When do you expect her back?"
"I'm--I'm not sure."
"You've carried out your instructions, my girl," said Labar, with stern
suavity. "Now you take that card straight in to your mistress and tell
her that we intend to see her. She was on the veranda five minutes ago.
You hear me."
This was utter guess work. Labar, so far as he knew, had never seen
Mrs. Gertstein in his life. But the figure that had vanished and the
maid waiting for them by the open door had given him an impression. The
maid flushed and stepped back. Labar gave a jerk of his head to Malone,
who stood his ground while the inspector followed the maid. She halted
as she saw his purpose.
"Go on," he ordered. A little uncertainly she led the way. She tapped
at a door and at a summons to enter pushed it open.
"Well, Rena," said a soft voice. "Have they gone?"
Labar pushed by the maid into the room. "No, Mrs. Gertstein," he
replied. "We are still here."
The woman lounging in a big divan chair regarded him dumbly. He laid
down his hat and stick and nodded to the maid. "You may go," he said.
With wondering eyes she withdrew. As the door closed the woman on the
chair drew herself up stiffly. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"
"It means that your maid is a bad liar," he said. "Need I introduce
myself? I fancy you know me. I am Detective Inspector Labar."
Her fingers clutched tightly on the elbows of the chair, and her eyes
roamed wildly about the room to come to rest at last on his impassive
figure. "You have no right--" she began furiously.
He smiled tranquilly down at her. "I suggest that you calm yourself,
madam. I shall not bite you."
She rose. "If you think I will suffer this impertinence you are
mistaken."
Labar soberly adjusted his tall figure to a settee. It was bad
manners, but he intended it simply as a gesture to this woman who,
half-afraid and half-angry, was wondering as to the purport of his
visit. He was confident that her curiosity would for the time hold her.
"I beg your pardon. If I tell you that I have in my possession the
letter you wrote to Larry Hughes yesterday, it may afford you some
reason for my insistence."
There were many things that Adèle Gertstein had feared, but this was
not one of them. Her jaw dropped. She tried to say something but words
would not come. She slumped back into her chair trying vainly to recall
what was in the letter beyond the appeal for money. She heard his voice
as from far away.
"I want to know who is blackmailing you."
"I am not being blackmailed."
She regained some command of herself and sat up so that she could see
his face. But Labar was too experienced to allow anything to show there
that he did not wish to be seen.
"Then I will tell you," he said picking his words with some
deliberation. "It is the man to whom you appealed for aid. It is Larry
Hughes himself who has been bleeding you. I want to know who he has
been using as a go between?"
She stared at him with white face. "Larry? How do you know that? I
don't believe you."
In point of fact Labar did not know. But he was pretty sure that the
assumption was right. "You may take it from me. Now to whom have you
been handing over the money?"
The woman's mind was clouded by a haze of emotions. She was
thunderstruck at the accusation that her sometime lover was the real
blackmailer, but beyond that she wondered if this point alone was
the real object of the cool nonchalant man who was watching her with
serious eyes. She must guard herself. Suppose he was seeking to entrap
her.
"I shan't tell you," she exclaimed between clenched teeth.
"Oh, yes you will," he retorted. "Perhaps you don't understand. Shall
I tell you a little story, Mrs. Gertstein? It deals with a woman like
you who had the misfortune to be in a similar position. This lady was
married to a rich husband. She committed an indiscretion--we will call
it that--which gave a blackmailer a hold upon her. His demands grew
more and more insatiable, and although she had a comfortable allowance
from her husband she felt the strain upon her income. She became
involved in other directions, particularly with bookmakers, and it may
be that on one pretext and another she got still more money from her
husband, until it became difficult to find plausible explanations. But
the blackmailer continued to bleed her, and she continued to run into
debt in various directions. Certain bills cropped up that had to be
paid almost at once. Do you know what that lady did, Mrs. Gertstein?"
An incoherent word came from the woman. Labar went on:
"She forged her husband's name to a cheque--a silly thing to do because
the forgery was bound to become known. I can understand a distracted
woman in a moment of folly giving way to an impulse. But she did an
even more foolish thing. She found out who was the divisional detective
inspector and tried to bribe him with one of the hundred pound notes
that were part of the proceeds of her fraud. On that same day an even
more serious crime took place at her husband's house. I don't believe
that she had any direct concern in that, but as soon as the news
reached her by telephone, and she learned that the man she had tried
to bribe was there, in charge of the investigation, she lost her head
completely. That night she drove secretly to London and tried to murder
the detective. Forgery is nasty, madam, but attempted murder is an even
uglier thing."
The detective flattered himself that he had filled in the gaps in his
recital neatly. He had watched every change in the weak pretty face of
the woman from anger and astonishment to fear.
She got unsteadily to her feet, tottered to a writing-desk and buried
her face in her hands. "Does Solly--does my husband--have you told
him?" she asked.
"He knows nothing--yet."
Labar felt some urge of sympathy for her. She was a broken creature.
But his resolve to extract from her the uttermost that might help
clear his path did not weaken. He felt that he had got her entirely
under his sway, ready to answer tamely any questions with which he
might ply her. He had cause to realise that no man could safely
diagnose the reactions of Mrs. Gertstein a second later.
Like a tiger-cat she sprang at him, and there was the glitter of steel
in her hand. On the desk upon which she had feigned to give way there
had lain an ornamental dagger kept as a paperknife. This was the weapon
with which she now thrust fiercely and silently at him. He was taken
almost entirely off his guard, and had but half-risen to meet the
assault, when he felt the bite of the steel in his side.
He clutched at her wrist but she avoided him, and he swung a half-arm
blow at her face as she swung away. This was no time for any chivalrous
methods of fighting. She meant murder.
She held off for a second, her face flushed, her hair dishevelled, her
breath coming in quick, sharp gusts. She watched him warily and as
he cautiously swayed towards her she leapt at him again. This time,
however, he was ready. He parried the vicious blow that she aimed at
his heart with his arm, and catching her by the waist flung her with
all his force backwards to the floor.
Almost simultaneously he hurled himself at her, and this time he
succeeded in seizing the wrist that held the dagger. Harry Labar was
reckoned a strong man, but the woman fought with dynamic, maniacal
strength. He felt her body writhe and twist beneath him, and a little
ornamental table crashed as she tried to pull herself away. Once she
snapped at him with her teeth like some maddened animal. He found
a grip for his other hand and pinned her down till her hysterical
strength should have waned. Her fingers relaxed and the dagger dropped
to the soft carpet. He felt the tension of her resistance dwindle till
at length she was a limp figure in his hold. Slowly and cautiously he
got to his feet and picked up the dagger.
Not a word had come from either of them during the struggle. Indeed the
whole affair had been but a matter of seconds.
She continued prostrate on the floor, but her wide open and alert eyes
belied any idea that she had fainted. Watching her warily meanwhile he
removed his coat and waistcoat and examined his wound. There was a deal
of blood but as far as he could see the hurt itself was superficial.
He wedged a handkerchief in his clothing as a temporary expedient, and
resumed his garments. The woman had not moved.
"Get up," he ordered, grimly.
Slowly she rose.