XIII

“What are you going to do now?” she asked in a strained unnatural voice.

The inspector pressed his hand to his side, and his stern gaze dwelt upon her thoughtfully. “That depends,” he answered. “My plain duty is to arrest you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said wearily. “Nothing can matter now. Give me five minutes and I will be ready to go with you.”

The inspector read her purpose as an open book. He shook his head. Five minutes⁠—one minute⁠—alone, and such a woman in such a state of mind was ripe for any desperate act. He had no mind to add a suicide to the other complications of his position.

“I want to ask you a few questions before I decide what course I shall take. You are not bound to answer them. But I don’t suppose that the whole truth can make your position any worse than it is now.”

If it had been simply a question of any crime that Mrs. Gertstein had committed Labar would have arrested her there and then, without consideration of his sympathies, for or against, in the case. That, as he had said, was his obvious duty. He was in a sense violating his oath as a police officer in not doing so. And in attempting to question her on a matter which in some measure bore upon the charges that he knew should be brought against her, he was flagrantly outside the law. Any one of his Majesty’s judges would have commented sternly on such a procedure. Yet, long since, Labar had made up his mind to take the chance. Adèle Gertstein might be mad or vicious or both, but she was a less dangerous person to the community than Larry Hughes. Morally he was justified. All the same, although his course would not have been condemned by his Scotland Yard superiors, or by the Public Prosecutor himself, nothing could save him if any disclosure of this thing should come about.

The woman looked up eagerly, snatching at the slightest straw of hope. “Do you mean that if I tell you the truth you will do nothing to me⁠—that no one else will know?”

“I can make no promises,” he said.

She considered with sombre face. “You seem to know most of it,” she said at last. “What else is it that you want to know?”

“Tell me everything from the time you became acquainted with Larry Hughes in your own words. I will ask you if any points arise on which I am not clear.”

He had to lean forward to catch her opening sentences. In low tones, and sometimes incoherent sequence, punctuated by occasional questions from him, she told her story. It was much what he expected to hear.

She had been married to Gertstein for seven years. Two years before their marriage she had been introduced to Larry Hughes. She believed him then to be, as she had believed up to that day, a wealthy man about town, and nothing worse. She had been fascinated, infatuated, by him, and there had been an affair⁠—she insisted that it had been nothing but a sort of glorified flirtation, but, though Labar drew his own conclusions, in which love letters of the most ardent description had been exchanged. The episode drew to a close when he went abroad some eighteen months later. She had married Gertstein and she had seen no more of Hughes until it might have been eighteen months or two years ago, when she met him accidentally at a race meeting.

“Did you meet on the old footing?” asked Labar, bluntly.

“Oh, no, no,” she protested with some slight symptom of colour in her pale cheeks. “We were simply old friends.”

“And it was after this that the blackmail started?”

She assented. It had begun with a simple demand for a hundred pounds, which was accompanied by one of her long-ago letters to Larry Hughes, and the intimation that the rest of the correspondence was in the possession of the writer, and that failing her compliance it would be sent to her husband.

“You did not go to your husband or take any advice about it?”

“I dare not. I thought the man would be satisfied with his hundred, and that would be the end of it.”

Labar grunted. She went on with her recital. The money was sent to “James Smith,” at what was, as she had taken the trouble to find out, an accommodation address at Kennington. After she had conceded the first demand, others came with growing frequency and for increasing amounts. Always they had to be paid in cash, and always they were sent to varying addresses and varying names. At first she had been able to satisfy the blackmailer without great inconvenience to herself, but the time came when she was put to considerable stress. She sold her personal jewels, and replaced them with paste. She had dabbled with moneylenders. She had plunged on race meetings.

“What about Hughes?” broke in Labar at this point. “Didn’t you say anything about this to him?”

“Yes. He urged me to refuse, and to go to the police or my husband. I have asked him to help me out once or twice, but he made difficulties. However, I have had about a couple of thousands out of him.”

“I see. You didn’t know that most of that was going back into his own pocket. Tell me of this forgery.”

“There were a lot of small things falling due, and I knew that I hadn’t the means to meet them. One day I saw my husband’s chequebook lying on a desk and the thought of taking money from his account came to me. So I traced his writing. I must have been mad, but it all happened before I realised what I was doing. Then I changed the cheque and became frightened as I saw the trouble I was likely to land into. I came down here, but the more I thought of it the more frightened I became. I knew of you, and had had you pointed out to me at one or two places. I thought that if I gave you one of the hundred pound notes, and you used it, if it ever came to you to handle an investigation into the business you would understand that you had part of the money and wouldn’t push it too far.”

“Half a second,” he interrupted. “This extraordinary way you used to pass me the money. Do I understand that you intended that I shouldn’t know from whom it came, until I was brought into the case? Then I should find out from the numbers of the notes that I had become implicated, and should have my hands tied.”

“That was my idea. I did not want to give myself away to you unless the forgery was discovered. I hoped it might pass unnoticed.”

“A sanguine, not to say naive scheme,” he commented dryly. “Where does Miss Noelson come in?”

“She knew I was in trouble, but naturally she did not know all the details. I couldn’t trust anyone. But I told her I had special reasons for wanting to deliver a note to a man I would point out, and she agreed to help me. I had a chauffeur’s uniform made to fit me and drove up to town with her. She was to deny that I had left ‘Maid’s Retreat’ if anyone questioned her. I sent her to do some shopping after we arrived in town while I hung about Grape Street till you came out. I followed you to Scotland Yard, and while you were there I went back and met Penelope and the car. I guessed that you would return to Grape Street by the same route and we waited for you. After that I went back to Hampshire and she stayed in town.”

“Still another point that I am not quite clear about,” he said. “Why did you come back that evening and lay in wait for me with a sandbag?”

“The news of the burglary had been telephoned down to me. I had talked with my husband after he saw you. I had talked with Penelope. You had recognised her and I was alarmed at what you might find out. I saw that I had made a mistake. I had been told that all police officers would take money if they could do it safely.”

“Thank you,” he said ironically. “It is an impression that some other people have.”

There fell a silence for a while. He was thinking, with a puzzled little frown on his forehead, and the woman with burning eyes studied him as though to read what was passing in his mind. Presently he spoke again.

“Has Larry Hughes ever been in Streetly House?”

“Not so far as I know. I have never taken him there.”

“You have discussed the place with him⁠—talked over your husband’s collection?”

“At times. They have been quite casual conversations.”

Labar racked his brain. This seemed to be leading nowhere. Yet if Larry Hughes was at the bottom of the burglary it was inconceivable that he should not have used his acquaintance with Mrs. Gertstein to further his projects. No doubt those “casual conversations” had told him more than the woman dreamt. A point flashed to his mind.

“Have you found positions at Streetly House for any persons in whom Hughes was interested?”

She reflected. “I can’t quite remember. I believe there was someone⁠—ah! yes⁠—an odd-job man. I can’t remember his name, but it was someone with an excellent record whom Mr. Hughes was trying to help. He asked me to speak to the butler about him, and I think he was engaged.”

“You don’t remember his name? Was it Law⁠—or Jones⁠—or Lane⁠—or Wright?” he recited such names as he could recall of the big staff at Streetly House, and she shook her head at each one. He wondered if someone had evaded his questioning when he had examined the servants. “Had this man been engaged in Hughes’ service?”

She passed a hand with a weary gesture over her forehead. “No, I am sure that he had never been with Mr. Hughes. I believe he came from some big restaurant that was reducing its staff. I’ve got it. His name was Stebbins.”

Offhand Labar could not place the name among those he had interviewed. But, of course, it would be easy to get hold of the man now. Here at least there would be one link if he played his cards well that would lead to the conviction of Larry Hughes.

A shadow darkened the French windows and Labar sprang to his feet. A cold voice addressed him.

“Keep your hands down if you please and don’t make any hasty move. I’m afraid that I’m a little late.”

Larry Hughes holding an automatic in front of him stepped into the room.