IV

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 cleanup, 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.

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. Goodbye.”

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, anyone 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 fingerprints, 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.