No one can tell with certainty how a great disaster will affect a
man. Gertstein, chewing a cold cigar, and with hands thrust deep in
his trousers pockets, strode with rolling gait about the room while
Labar told in carefully selected phrases the truth about his wife.
The little man, whose interviews with the inspector hitherto had been
marked by temperamental outbursts, was now as cold as ice. Labar had
expected either a breakdown or a vast explosion of passion. This frigid
acceptance of a great blow surprised him. He mentally contrasted the
emotion that the financier had shown when the robbery had taken place.
"You tell me that Adèle has gone away with this lover of hers--this
crook?" said Gertstein, as indifferently as though he was discussing
the weather.
"I am afraid there is no doubt of it," agreed Labar. He was wondering
whether the indifference was real or assumed. For the life of him he
could not come to a decision.
"And that she has forged my name and attempted to kill you."
"I have told you the circumstances as I know them, Mr. Gertstein.
Your wife has brought herself within the scope of the criminal law.
Whether she has still kept up a liaison with Larry Hughes it is beyond
my province to decide. Personally I think her late actions have been
caused by pure unreasoning panic."
"That side of it is my affair. She is my wife," declared the
millionaire sternly. "Now we come to your side." He dragged a
cheque-book from his pocket, and seating himself at a writing-table,
poised a pen. "How much is it?"
"I beg your pardon?" said Labar, with suave interrogation.
"How much?" repeated Gertstein, impatiently.
The inspector felt his patience oozing away. It was one thing for Larry
Hughes to try to buy him off. For Gertstein to assume, in this matter
of fact way, that it was only a question of price annoyed him. After he
had tried to save the little man's feelings, too.
"I am not to be bought," he announced gruffly.
The other applied a match to his cigar with cold deliberation. "I have
been long enough in this world to know that every man is to be bought
if the price can be paid," he said.
"You have still something to learn," retorted Labar acidly.
"As you like."
Gertstein fell again to pacing up and down the room. He had taken two
turns when he came again to a halt. "As one gentleman to another," he
said, "I want you to give me your advice. I can see that I have done
you an injustice, and I apologise."
Labar noted the change of tone. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gertstein," he said
with sincerity, "but I'm the wrong person to give advice. So much
depends upon your own feelings about your wife."
"Yes. I see. An old fool and a young woman. Well you can leave
my feelings about Adèle out of the question. I've kept my eyes
shut--wilfully shut. If she broke her neck to-morrow I wouldn't care.
You could shut her up in prison for life and it would not hurt me."
He spoke with level and dispassionate evenness. "But my name is my
concern, and my wish is that it shall not be dragged in the dirt. I
have been a nobody, Mr. Labar. I was born in Petticoat Lane, and my
father was an old clothes dealer. What I am now I have made myself. I
have friends among the highest in this and other lands. The name of
Gertstein might have been among the peers of the realm had I wished.
I have built it up. And it is because that woman bears my name that I
will not fold my hands and watch it become the sport of every muck rake
in the world. I would sooner see her dead at my feet." His bitterness
appeared the more strange and deadly to Labar, because he seemed to
have complete control of himself. It was as though he was speaking on
behalf of some other person. The inspector shook his head slowly.
"I can do nothing," he said. "I must do my best to arrest her, and if
that happens she must be tried."
"I suppose so," said Gertstein, thoughtfully. He muttered something
to himself in Yiddish which Labar did not catch. "There is no way
out. But if it could be, Mr. Labar, that she should not be tried? She
might"--his voice dropped--"she might die. If for instance, she was
arrested and the opportunity presented itself, she might prefer to die.
I could write her a letter----"
The inspector held up a protesting hand. The millionaire had made his
meaning sufficiently obvious, and hardened though he was, Labar was
repelled by the suggestion.
"In plain words you wish me to allow her to commit suicide if she
should fall into my hands."
"You are a hard man," protested Gertstein. "Cannot you see that so
justice would be done? You will have done all that is consistent with
your duty. You will have saved her and me the degradation of the gaol.
You will have made a friend who could do much for you."
"Again, I am sorry. All this is futile, Mr. Gertstein," said Labar, and
his lips set in a hard line. "I cannot swerve from my duty as I see it.
You may rely upon me to save you as much as I can. But while I take my
pay I do my job."
"Very well. You will let me know what happens."
With relief Labar saw that he had reached the end of the matter for the
time. He rose. "Of course. Believe me, I hate this. There is one more
thing. I suppose you don't recall a man in your service named Stebbins?"
Gertstein's small beady eyes fixed themselves steadily on the
detective's face. "I don't know the names of half my servants," he
observed.
"Ah, then I must find out from the butler or the housekeeper or
someone."
The millionaire shook his head. "That is not fair, Mr. Labar. You can
scarcely expect me to lift a finger to help you now. I cannot permit
you to interview any of my servants, or rather I shall forbid them to
answer any questions."
This was an unexpected twist, although at the bottom of his heart Labar
saw logic in the other's attitude. "But this is childish," he protested.
Gertstein rolled the butt of his cigar from one corner of his mouth to
the other. "Childish it may be," he agreed. "For my part I refuse to
have anything more to do with your investigations. I am not going to
help in dragging my own name in the mud."
It was clear that he was in no mood to alter his decision, through
any argument that might be advanced. Labar took his leave without
further pressure. There might be some trifling inconvenience from the
ban, but he could not see that it was likely to interfere seriously
with his plans. What, however, might prove embarrassing, was the fact
that Gertstein himself now had an object in frustrating the work of
the Criminal Investigation Department. Labar wondered how far he would
go. There was something about the little man's manner that made the
detective sure that he would not content himself with folding his hands
and accepting whatever occurred.
This sort of speculation, however, could wait. There were other things
that couldn't. One of these was Mr. Stebbins, the odd-job man who had
been engaged at Streetly House on the recommendation of Hughes. Labar
was a very weary man, but, if as he suspected, Stebbins was one of the
keys to the mystery, it was of importance that he should be looked up
before the inspector would be able to call it a day. Larry would no
doubt learn of Mrs. Gertstein's disclosure and he was likely to act
fast to get the fellow out of the way.
Malone had gone home when the inspector reached Grape Street. So
it was to another sergeant that Labar gave the mission of seeking
out Stebbins, while he himself spent half an hour going through the
statements that had been collected from the Streetly House servants, to
see whether, after all, his memory was at fault, and that he had seen
the man. But there was nothing at all in the records. Labar yawned
drowsily. This kind of thing had to be done, but its tedium bored him.
He could put up with fatigue and hardship while it was a matter of
action. But pinned to a desk, poring futilely over papers was silly. He
let his hands drop to his arms on the desk and fell sound asleep.
It was after midnight that he was awakened by a discreet plucking at
his sleeve. He yawned and brought his feet to the floor with a crash.
Moreland, the Flying Squad inspector, was at his elbow.
"What's the trouble?" grunted Labar. "Hello, Moreland. Why aren't you
tucked up in your little bed like all the other loafers?"
"Cut it out, Harry," snapped Moreland. "Pull yourself together. There's
a bit of a row on. Lucky I was on hand, or you'd have had one of your
people croaked."
The divisional detective inspector listened with grave face, as
Moreland recited some of the evening's happenings.
The Flying Squad man, with a couple of his subordinates, had happened,
in the course of another case on which he was engaged, to be in the
dining-room of a little Soho restaurant, when the sergeant who had
been sent out to find Stebbins, entered with a man who was unknown to
Moreland. They had sat down at a table where a third man was already
eating, and Moreland saw the sergeant introduced. Without hesitation
the hand of the diner immediately sought a water carafe and aimed
a terrific blow at Labar's sergeant. The blow had missed, but in a
second the place was in an uproar and the two were rolling across an
overturned table grappling with each other.
Moreland had dashed across the room in time to knock up a pistol,
which exploded. To add to the confusion, an agitated Italian waiter
had switched the light off. Only such light as could penetrate through
the windows from the street illuminations reached the room. There was
a chaos of struggling men for a while, and ultimately one wriggled
free. Revolver in hand he gained the doorway with the detective in
close pursuit. Firing wildly, he fled through a small by-street and
through the open door of a house which let cheap rooms. At the top of
the narrow stairs he paused, and defied the detectives, who by this
time were reinforced by many uniformed police, to come nearer. Moreland
had taken charge of affairs and, deciding that it was inadvisable to
risk lives by a frontal attack, had left the house with a cordon drawn
around it, and after a word with Labar's man had decided to fetch the
divisional inspector himself.
Most of this he related hurriedly while they were racing towards the
scene of the affray as fast as a taxi-cab could take them. Labar had no
difficulty in surmising with fair accuracy the blanks in the story.
Their cab was halted at the entrance to a narrow street where a belt
of uniformed men held back a thin crowd. They descended and pushed
their way through, and the detective sergeant who had brought about the
episode joined them.
"Well, Marr?" said Labar. "I suppose that's Stebbins up there?" He
jerked his head to the dismal three-storeyed house where most of the
eyes were focussed.
"That's the man, sir."
"How did you locate him?"
In a few quick succinct sentences Marr told how he had tried to gain
some information at Streetly House, and been told in the most polite
manner that no questions would be answered. Then he had way-laid the
servants' entrance and made himself friendly with such of the servants
as passed in or out. He learned that on the day of the robbery Stebbins
had complained of illness and had gone home. Since then he had not
resumed his job at Streetly House, but he was known to be occasionally
meeting one of the maids. Marr pressed his inquiries until he found
one footman who had been on friendly footing with Stebbins, and who
on occasion had been with him to eat at a Soho restaurant which the
other frequented. Taking a long chance Marr had induced the footman to
accompany him to the restaurant, where as luck would have it they found
their man.
"Lucky for you that Mr. Moreland was there," commented Labar.
"He was fighting drunk, sir," explained the sergeant.
"Drunk or sober, we can't wait here all night," declared the inspector.
"Find out if there's a skylight to the place. If so, two or three men
had better try to get through other houses and take him from the rear.
I'm going to see whether he's in a mood to talk to. We can't have one
man hold us up like this."
"You're not going up those stairs, Harry," said Moreland. "It's sheer
suicide."
"Oh, I'll be careful," said the other. "If he's drunk and in the dark
it's odds against him touching me. Besides, I may persuade him to see
reason."
"You're a head-strong fool," asserted Moreland with emphasis. "I guess
I'll have to come along too, and dry-nurse you."
"No, you don't. You stay here and watch points. One man is quite
enough. No sense in doubling the target."
The Flying Squad man grumblingly saw commonsense in this. All the same
as Labar quietly stole up to the narrow doorway and crept within, he
collected two or three men and with them posted himself, so that a
swift and sudden rush could be made after his friend if necessary.
It was almost pitch-black within. Labar felt his way along the wall
till he came to the foot of the stairs and then paused to listen. He
could detect no sound in the house. He dropped to his hands and knees
and stealthily ascended the first step, registering a mental oath as
it creaked under him. He remembered that he had failed to retrieve the
pistol that he had lent to Dr. Ware. Well, that would not matter much.
He was not relying on gun-play.
Inch by inch he crawled to the first landing and moved up the second
flight. Not till he had reached the third flight, however, could he
detect the sound of a man's hurried, irregular breathing. He flattened
himself as closely as he could to the outline of the stair and waited,
listening, for a second or two. Then he raised his voice sharply.
"Now then, my man, if you've had enough of this tomfoolery we'll finish
the business. You don't want to be hung for murder, do you?"
He could in imagination visualise the figure at the top craning
forward with ready weapon striving to pierce the darkness below. He
instinctively braced himself for a shot.
A thick voice answered him. "You go away. Don't drive me too far. I
don't want to do anybody any harm, but I won't be took."
It was something gained, at any rate, that the other had hesitated to
shoot. That lonely vigil at the top of the darkened stairs had either
sobered him or shaken his nerve. The inspector slowly wormed himself a
step higher.
"Don't be a silly ass, Stebbins. It won't do you any good to kill
me. Think what you'd feel like when they came to pinion you in the
condemned cell." He crawled cautiously to a further step. "Think of
the hangman adjusting the straps, and the parson reading the burial
service."
"I can hear you moving," said the voice above, and Labar fancied that
there was irresolution in the tone. "Don't you try no monkey business
now."
"You'll have a white cap over your face," went on Labar, "and they'll
take you out in a little procession----"
"Shut up," said the voice ferociously. "You can't frighten me."
"I don't want to frighten you," said Labar. "I don't think you're the
kind of man to be frightened. You've got sense--not like some of those
other fellows. Suppose you give me that gun and let me look after you.
You'll trust me, won't you?"
There was no obvious reason why Stebbins should trust a detective who
was trying to arrest him, but Labar did not feel that this was a time
at which the other would consider the point deeply. He was concerned
chiefly to hold the man in talk till such time as he was near enough to
make a dash. If he could tackle the fellow round the knees, the steep
flight of stairs would do the rest.
"And who the blazes are you?" demanded Stebbins.
The inspector mounted another stair. "I'm Divisional Detective
Inspector Labar," he said. "I'm anxious to do the fair thing by you."
"What do you want me for?"
"I'll tell you all about that later on." Labar's voice was coaxing.
"Come on now. You throw me down that gun and we'll have a talk."
There was a pause. Labar was sure that he was almost within reach of
his man, but his eyes could tell him nothing. It might be fatal to make
a miscalculation.
Something fell behind him and clattered down the stairs. "There you
are," said the voice. "I'll give in."
The detective pulled himself to his feet, and groping forward felt an
ankle. He moved up two or three steps and thrust his arm through the
other's arm. "I knew that you had commonsense," he declared amiably.
"Half a moment till I strike a match. It's as dark as the pit in here.
We don't want to break our necks."
Together they emerged from the front door just as Moreland was thinking
of organising a rescue party of one, and as the crash of glass behind
them told of a smashed skylight.