II
Anyone who could afford to live in Streetly House, that imposing and historic residence just off Park Lane, must by that fact alone, be known in some degree to the public. Mr. Solly Gertstein had added claims to a certain amount of limelight. He had been—was still to some extent—a financial power. He had interests in gold, in diamonds, in oil, but of late years he had relinquished the reins of his enterprises to brothers and cousins, while he concentrated on his ambition to get together a unique, and fabulously costly, collection of gems, and what the dealers call objets d’art.
He was not an artistic object in himself. A rotund little man, with a gait that somehow suggested a milk can rolled by a railway porter, and with a tendency to pomposity in his speech and manner, he yet contrived to hold some poise of dignity. He was unquestionably excited when Labar introduced himself.
“So you ’ave come.” In moments of stress he was apt to lose his usual meticulous command of the English language. “You ’ave come at last.”
“It is less than ten minutes since I got your message,” observed the inspector.
“Ach!” Mr. Gertstein flung his hands wide in an expressive gesture, as of one who accepts an excuse in which there is no body. He rotated round the room, buzzing like an agitated wasp. “An hour. Dis is what I pay for,” he proclaimed. “For dis I pay my thousands a year to the rates for police salaries. What protection do I get for it? None.” He waved a podgy hand. “All the work of the finest craftsmen in the world stripped from me. You will get it back, eh?”
Labar felt that it was only the vulgarity of the expression that prevented Gertstein from adding, “I don’t think.” He lifted his eyebrows.
“You are insured?”
The other gave an impatient snort. “Insured! What is insurance to me? Do you think that I—Gertstein—want the money? That—poof—a fleabite. The insurance companies will pay, but will that help me to get back all my beautiful things? Years and years of work gone like dat.” He snapped his fingers viciously.
“We’ll do our best,” said Labar, mildly. “Perhaps you will walk round with me and tell me all you know.”
In his mind he felt small hope. The very magnitude of the crime showed it to be the work of men who thoroughly understood their business. Jewels would be dismounted and cut up, gold melted down, and other things rendered unrecognisable in the swiftest and most efficient fashion.
Other of the C.I.D. men from Labar’s division were in the house by this time, and under his supervision a systematic and thorough search of the premises proceeded. It was a big rambling place, and it was obvious that the thieves, once they had obtained entrance, would have had no difficulty in secreting themselves till such time as they could work unobserved. As Labar expected, every burglar alarm in the place had been cut or put out of action in some way. The thieves must have gained precise information beforehand.
On the first floor two magnificent rooms had been given up to the display of Gertstein’s treasures. The chastely-designed glass cases still stood in their imposing splendour, but alas, they were mere cenotaphs with their treasures vanished. At a superficial glance, indeed, it was difficult to realise that they had been tampered with, so delicate had been the skill with which they had been opened.
As Gertstein pointed out with some bitterness, the marauders had selected their spoil with the most consummate judgment. It was obvious that the raid had been carried through to clean-cut specifications. There were many dainty bits of artistry left, but they were such things as enamels, ivory carvings and the like, which had value only for their craftsmanship, and would be difficult to dispose of intact.
Nor was there evident any indication of the manner in which entry to the house had been gained, or the method by which the thieves had left. The windows and doors were unmarked. Not a bolt or lock had been forced. Throughout the night no suspicious noises had been heard, and it was only when in the course of ordinary routine that a maid had entered one of the exhibition rooms, at eleven o’clock in the morning, that the robbery had been discovered.
“Not so much as a blighting fingerprint,” Bill Malone observed, and at the finish of a meticulous examination of the windows, added that it was the smoothest bust that he had ever run across in the course of his carmined career.
But a mystery may be too mysterious, too faultily faultless. Any defect, any lapse on the part of the thieves might have left the police even more in the air. As it was, there remained little doubt in the minds of the detectives that their first surmise was right—that they could breathe in a word the name of the supreme culprit—but much doubt as to the possibility of acquiring evidence to run him down. The men who could plan or carry out such an undertaking were few.
Malone put it into words. “This has got the hallmark of Larry, guv’nor.”
Labar crinkled his brows, and nodded absently. The man who tackled this job would have in front of him a spasm of tough work, that in all probability would end in defeat by running his head against a brick wall. “Yes,” he agreed. “It’s got all that. Our friend Larry is certainly indicated, but we must not let ourselves be hypnotised about him. There’s a bet you’ve overlooked, Bill.”
“An inside job.”
“It might be either—or both,” said Labar, and turned with imperturbable face, that masked more than slight worry, to confront the shrewd beady eyes of Mr. Gertstein.
“What do you think now?” demanded the millionaire.
The inspector smoothed his chin. “I hate to make up my mind right away, Mr. Gertstein, but I’d be willing to make one guess at the man who knows all about this.”
“So!” Gertstein rubbed his hands. “Then you have found out something. You have a clue. I’m a generous man, Inspector. If you get back those things I will treat you well. It will be worth—what—a thousand pounds to you.”
“That’s handsome of you, sir. But even if I was allowed to take a reward—which I couldn’t do without the consent of the Yard—I wouldn’t be too sure of getting it. As I say, I could give a guess about this business, but guesses don’t carry us far. There isn’t a shred of proof yet, and I tell you frankly I wouldn’t gamble a halfpenny on getting the men or getting the stuff.”
“But you—you’re a detective.” Gertstein tugged impatiently at his little beard. “If you know what you say it should be easy.”
“Easy, sir. Yes, it should be easy.” Labar permitted a sardonic note to creep into his voice. “About as easy as taking treacle from a bear’s mouth. I’m a detective, not a miracle worker.”
Detectives after all, are very like other human beings. Labar was concerned at the back of his mind with the reaction this robbery might have upon his own personal affairs. He was not in good odour with his chiefs. True, he was the divisional inspector, and the burglary had taken place on his ground, but it was odds that some of the mandarins at the Yard would take the investigation out of his hands and place it in those of a chief inspector from headquarters. That, in the ordinary course of events would not be any slight, and Labar, with his constitutional indolence would have been glad to be relieved of any responsibility.
But in present circumstances it would wear an ominous air. He was young for the post he had reached, and there were many years in front of him before he would be eligible for a pension. He had attained a stage where all violent ambition had vanished, but still it would be galling to be put on the shelf.
His agitation of mind was disclosed by the fact that he had betrayed his hopelessness to Gertstein—a breach of professional etiquette as rank as that of a doctor who tells a patient that he is dying. He tried to efface the impression he had created by a laugh.
“We find it best to be a little pessimistic in our business, Mr. Gertstein. Then if things come off we get a bit more credit. Don’t you worry. We’ll do our best if only for our own sakes.”
“You’d better,” said Gertstein, grimly. “Don’t forget that I can use a pull if I like, that would make the entire Metropolitan Police sit up.”
Labar smiled serenely as though the threat had no meaning for him. Yet he did not believe it altogether an empty one. Gertstein, with his money and his affiliations, could probably do wicked damage to an obscure detective inspector if he chose to pull strings. That momentary tactlessness looked as if it might bring retribution.
The arrival of the Assistant Commissioner and the Chief Constable of the C.I.D., accompanied by Labar’s immediate superior, Detective Superintendent Marlow—one of that select company the newspapers loved to refer to as the “Big Four”—broke into the conversation.
Gertstein shook hands with the three. “I hope you won’t agree with your inspector that the case is hopeless—that I shall never see any of my beautiful things back,” he said sourly.
Winter shot a swift glance at Labar, who straightened his back with a brave attempt at nonchalance. It was the Assistant Commissioner who answered.
“Nothing is ever hopeless, Mr. Gertstein. I am sure that you have misapprehended Mr. Labar’s views.”
The millionaire made a gesture of dissent. “I am not so big a fool as that,” he retorted.
Now the head of the Criminal Investigation Department could see as far through a brick wall as most people. He would always assert that he was not a detective—that he had men on his staff who knew the game, and he was content to leave detective work to them. But he did know men. It was said that he could charm a bird from a tree.
He linked his arm through Gertstein’s and drew him aside. “I would like to have a little talk with you alone. Perhaps I can straighten out things. You people go and have a look round.”
As Labar led the other two away Winter turned fiercely upon him. “What have you said to the old boy?” he demanded.
“He got it pretty nearly straight, sir,” admitted the inspector. “I told him that it was long odds against getting the stuff back.”
“You ought to be in the infant class,” snorted Winter. “Now what about—”
The conference usual in such circumstances began. Presently the Assistant Commissioner rejoined them. As they moved about the house the inspector imparted to them such facts as he knew, and, though his face showed nothing, he waited with the eagerness of a boy for some hint as to whether he was to be left to deal with the affair. But his superiors did not commit themselves, and he was relieved when they took their departure.
He got down to the work in hand. There was plenty to occupy him, for every person in the house had to be interviewed. As Winter dryly observed to his companions on his way back to the Yard, Labar could work like a fiend when he had some incentive.