XXX
Penelope impulsively gripped more tightly on Labar’s arm, but the detective could afford to take his antagonist’s sneer with a certain amount of equanimity.
“I told you that you couldn’t go on bucking against the machine forever, Larry,” he said. “And talking of fools, what made you mad enough to go to Rye?”
Hughes fidgeted a little to get his bound hands in a more comfortable position. “My dear Sherlock, if you had more brains and less luck, you wouldn’t ask me that question. Where is the last place that you expected to find me today? Where are your people still looking for me now? Not in Rye. Nor would they have looked very hard in London. They’re clustering round the ports interfering with innocent trippers. Where would a hunted man with only ten pounds in his pocket make for in the circumstances? I ask you. If he had any sense he’d go in the direction that would be least obvious. He’d make for a place where he could get funds and lay quiet till he could get snugly out of the country.”
“Sorry to have had to truss you up so tight,” said Labar, as the other writhed a little impatiently. “I wouldn’t trouble to attempt to loosen your hands.” He left his seat and came over by Larry in obvious readiness to deal with any contingency. “This is the finish, Larry. You may as well take it easily.”
Hughes sat quiet for a while. Then a bitter smile flickered about his lips. “Machine or no machine, do you know what’s thrown me down, Labar? You and some of the dolts from Scotland Yard may preen yourselves, but there’s only one thing in it. Do you know Latin? Quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat. In other words I made a fool of myself over a woman.” His glance rested for a moment on Penelope’s face. “I mixed love with my business. If I had left Miss Noelson alone would you have known anything about Mope’s Bottom? You’d have had the devil’s own job to bring anything home to me. Even now I’d have been travelling up to town, and left you and your gang running round in circles, if I hadn’t taken a desperate chance of snatching her at the last moment. Yes, Miss Noelson, if it’s any satisfaction to you it’s you who have finished me and not Scotland Yard.”
“Go as far as you like,” observed Labar. “The big fact is that here you are and here I am. As a matter of curiosity how did you know where Miss Noelson was today?”
“Easy,” said Larry, contemptuously. “By the time I got to the town every soul in it knew that there were happenings on the marsh. The police knew, and the tradesmen knew, that a detective down from London had started the affair. Rye isn’t a big place and I know one or two of the tradesfolk, although, of course, they didn’t know I was the man all the bother was about. I used my wits, Labar. Now let me ask how things went at Mope’s Bottom after I left.”
“We made a cleanup,” explained the detective. “Nobody hurt very seriously, but we’ve got the whole of the gang, and we’ve raided your cache. You’ll have to explain a lot of things.”
Larry lifted his shoulders indifferently. “Oh, I’ll take what’s coming to me. Let the boys down as light as you can. There’s some white men amongst them.”
The detective made no reply and Larry subsided into a moody silence.
At the first stop Labar confided to Penelope a couple of wires to hand from the window. He had no intention of taking his eyes from Larry. One could never tell.
Thus it was that at Charing Cross a couple of men from Grape Street were available as an escort for Larry, leaving Labar free to see the girl safely settled at an hotel till some more permanent arrangement could be made for her. Thence he made his way to Scotland Yard where the omnipotent Commissioner of Police himself, was waiting to receive some account of the affair and to offer his congratulations. By the time Labar reached Grape Street the remainder of the prisoners had been brought up from Lydd and Moreland was there to wring his hand and perform a little war dance.
“So you’ve hooked Larry after all. Good for you, old bean. Let’s go and have a drink, and you can tell me all about it. Gad, I wouldn’t wonder if they made you an Assistant Commissioner after this.”
Labar hooked his fingers in the lapels of his friend’s waistcoat and held him at arm’s length. “Don’t you be so mighty familiar with me, Inspector Moreland. Remember that you are talking to your superior officer.”
“Gosh, they haven’t?” Moreland opened his eyes in a wide stare. “Boy, there’s some live people at the Yard still whatever the papers say. Chief Inspector Labar, if you’ll leave off throttling me for a second, I’ll take off my hat to you. How an idle blighter like you got away with it is beyond me. Now a real industrious, hardworking fellow like myself never gets a chance.”
Arm in arm the two departed for the threatened libation to Labar’s promotion. As they stood in the little snuggery of a bar, known to a select few in one of the alleys off Piccadilly, Moreland paused with his glass in his hand.
“There’s something about you that I can’t account for at the minute, Harry,” he said. “There’s a smug complacency which makes me feel that success isn’t going to agree with you if—if it isn’t due to something else. Tell me has the wedding day been fixed?”
Labar came as near a blush as his tanned countenance would allow. He grinned a little shamefacedly. “One or two things to think of first,” he explained. “For instance there’s the question of a best man. If I could find some fellow who wouldn’t let me down by playing the clown I might be inclined to persuade her—the lady—to settle it as soon as possible.”
“You want a serious-minded, good-looking fellow, a man of distinction and presence. I am flattered by your offer. If I have no more pressing engagement on that day I’ll be at the ringside. Now I’ll pay for one more drink and we must be on our way.”
The two friends parted, for there was much to do on the morrow, and Labar, at least, felt the need of a night’s rest.
He was astir early in the morning, but as he propped the Daily Mail up by his eggs and bacon he forgot a healthy appetite as his eyes scanned the page which was practically all devoted to the roundup and captures of the preceding day. The final column of the “story” was headed:
“A tragic episode was added to this great feat of Scotland Yard on the receipt of the news in London last night. Some account of the affair was published in the last editions of the evening papers, and in the stop press column the name of Mrs. Adèle Gertstein was given in the list of persons who were detained by the police.
“Late last evening Mr. Gertstein was found by one of his servants sitting fully dressed in his room with a copy of an evening paper clutched in his hand. A doctor was summoned but his assistance was of no avail. Mr. Gertstein was dead. …”
There followed a biographical sketch of the dead man’s activities, and some speculation as to what might happen to the fortune he had left.
Labar tossed the paper aside. “Poor old chap,” he murmured. He turned thoughtfully to his breakfast. He was sorry in a way for the fate that had overtaken the little millionaire, but that was no reason why he should go hungry. It was a tragedy, of course, but he did not feel any personal responsibility. In charging Mrs. Gertstein he had acted merely as an agent of the law. He wondered what Penelope would have to say about it.
Nothing could alter what had happened. What was the use of worrying. He finished his breakfast with zest, and pausing on his way out to glance in a mirror in the hall to assure himself that he was scrupulously dressed he set off for Grape Street.
Both Marlow, the detective superintendent, and Moreland were already there, as well as a bunch of the divisional C.I.D. men. The inspector who had taken charge of the division during Labar’s absence, slid out from his seat at the desk.
“Just about your last day as a divisional detective inspector,” smiled Marlow. “Slip into it, my lad. In an hour and a half you’ll have to be in court.”
Labar flung himself on the pile of papers with desperate energy. He perceived that Moreland had taken many matters of detail into his own hands, for there were statements, signed by officers under the control of the latter, among the mass of documents.
Now and then something arose on which he would seek the comment of his two confrères. Then it would happen that one of the waiting divisional staff would be despatched on some inquiry or other mission by which a point might be made clear.
Although so many of the gang had been swept into the meshes of the net with Larry there still remained—as was inevitable in such a wide spread organisation—a number of associates whom it was essential to run down. There was still more work in planning a course of campaign among those merely suspected to be associates. In one or two cases it was decided to make arrests with the reasonable certainty that evidence to justify them would arise at a later stage. Now that Larry’s reign was over the detectives anticipated no difficulty with a class of informant which had been rather shy while he remained at liberty.
Among those who were to be arrested and definitely charged was Gold Dust Teddy. Detective Sergeant Down to whom was entrusted the execution of this mission, received his orders with satisfaction. The absence of Teddy was likely to make a difference in the statistics of crime.
“That’s the lot,” said Labar, at last. “We’ll be able to use Stebbins as King’s evidence if the Public Prosecutor agrees. Not that the evidence isn’t clear enough without him. I suppose that I’ll have to see him now.”
Marlow looked at his watch. “Not till after the court proceedings you won’t. Moreland had a chat with him some time after midnight. All clear cut on the general matter. Everyone will be charged today with stealing and receiving the Gertstein stuff. It’s only formal today and other charges can be added at the next hearing.”
“There’s Mrs. Gertstein. I’m sure she was not in the robbery.”
“No,” said Moreland. “Do you think that I’m an ass. The case against her is attempted murder and forgery.”
“Plain sailing as far as things go at present,” said Marlow. “But Larry won’t go down without a struggle. Take it from me that if there is anything money can do it will be done. If there is any weakness in the case it will be pulled to pieces at the Old Bailey.”
To this proposition neither of the inspectors deemed it worth while to reply. Indeed, it was self-evident. It would be doing Labar an injustice to say that he did not care what happened at the trial. Theoretically, of course, he should be as impartial as the jury. It was his business—theoretically—to apprehend rogues on reasonable suspicion, and to leave the question of their guilt or innocence to the court.
In actual fact though prepared to present his case with fairness he was determined to strain every nerve to ensure a conviction. He had covered every possible point where evidence might be gathered according to his own abilities, but he was certain that the distinguished counsel who occupied the post of Public Prosecutor would point out other weaknesses and ask him to follow up certain lines to strengthen the case. Human nature is human nature even in the police force.
As Marlow had foreseen the biggest men at the criminal bar had been retained for the prisoners. But the first hearing at the police court was purely a formal affair, and Labar betook himself to the Home Office to consult with the Public Prosecutor, whose cold trained legal brain had already got a plan of campaign mapped out. The Solicitor-General was to lead for the prosecution, and every legal resource at the disposal of the Government was to be put at his disposition.
For only one person did Labar put in a plea for such leniency as could be afforded. That was Sophie Lengholm.
“H’m.” The Public Prosecutor frowned. “She’s in the same class as several of the others. We might tell the judge she saved your life. Is there anything up against her besides the present case?” He rummaged among his papers. “I have nothing here.”
“I know of no other charge which we have any chance of substantiating,” declared Labar.
“Then leave it as it is. We’ll do what we can.”
The weeks passed with long, drawn-out hearings at the police court, and the preliminary skirmishes of counsel. Almost every other day Labar found the tangle which he was unravelling lead to the arrest of someone or the other of the criminals who formed the aristocracy of crookdom in the metropolis. Even he was surprised at the ramifications of Larry’s interests.
As a receiver on a wholesale scale Larry seemed to have dealt directly or indirectly with half the rogues in London. As is the way in these matters one thing led to another. The unearthing of a small receiver who was in the habit of passing on his biggest loot to Larry Hughes, would bring about the discovery of a nest of smaller crooks who had scarcely heard of Larry.
“There’ll be no work left for the C.I.D. if things go on like this,” lamented Winter.
Labar had forgotten about golf although his handicap would be seriously in danger. There were other things for him, which circumstances would not allow him to neglect. He was no longer driving a machine; he was part of a machine and willy-nilly he had to go forward.
It must not be supposed that he did not have his occasional hours of leisure. Penelope, however, had a mortgage upon these, and she did not play golf, although she promised at a later stage to take it up.
“You see you’re constitutionally a lazy man, Harry,” she explained. “I can’t allow you to have any other interests but your work—and myself. You’ll soon have a wife to support.”
“That’s a point,” he agreed. “But I’m not so sure that I want to marry you after all. You see—”
She looked at him with perturbed eyes and pouting lips. “If—” she began.
“I saw poor old Gertstein’s solicitors today,” he interrupted. “They know how things stand between you and me, and they confided something to me. It may make a difference.”
“How?”
“It’s his will. He’s left the bulk of his fortune to nephews and other distant relatives. Mrs. Gertstein is to get two thousand pounds a year, and a similar sum has been left to you. The will was made a few days before his death. So in a way you’re an heiress, you see. And I’m only a chief detective inspector getting a few hundreds a year.”
She smiled and put her arms round his neck. “That all. Then I’ll tell you what we’ll do. As soon as this case is over we’ll get married—ever so quietly—and you shall retire and play golf all day long if you want to.”
“I won’t deny the first part of that proposition,” he said. “On the other I’m afraid I can’t agree. I’m going on with my job. I’m not going to live on my wife.”
She kissed him. “Do you know that in some ways you’re delightfully early Victorian? But I love you for it. Go on being a policeman until you are a thousand if you like.”
“I’m afraid that they won’t stand me that long,” he reflected, with half-whimsical seriousness. “They were finding me out before this case began. I suppose I am an indolent man. It’s a notorious fact. I hate to be bored. When I joined the service I had funny ideas about detectives, I thought of the excitement and not of the monotony. Now action stirs me up. There’s not a deal of fun in finding out a man who has pilfered a hundredweight of coals out of a station yard, nor in sifting and making out dry official papers day after day. That sends me into a kind of stupor and my brain will not act. They’ll certainly find out that I’m a four-flusher one of these days.”
“I think Mr. Winter knows more about you than you do yourself,” she protested.
“Yes. Winter’s a downy bird. He knows that I’ve got a conscience. It really used to hurt me to play golf sometimes,” he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and his face turned a bright scarlet. “Say, dear—”
“Well?”
“Do you know I’ve forgotten—that is I haven’t had time—I mean I meant to—perhaps you’ve been wondering—well it comes to this—” He made a desperate plunge. “The long and short of it is that I’ve been meaning to get you a ring and—and—”
Her clear laughter rang through the room. “You’ve been too lazy to get it.”
“Not exactly that,” he protested.
She shook her head reprovingly. “Don’t stumble any more. You’ll only get in deeper. Have you any money on you?”
He displayed a well-filled wallet.
“That’s all right. Stay right where you are. I’m going to put on my things, and we’re going out now, immediately. You’re not going to escape me, Harry Labar. I’m taking no risks. You buy me an engagement ring in this next half hour and I’m going to stand over you and see that you do it.”
Thus Labar’s betrothal was ratified. In spite of his gibes at himself he settled down to his new job at Scotland Yard with some prospect of success, partly because Winter had his eye on him, partly because the work that came his way was of a congenial type.
The day came when Larry and his friends were brought up for trial at the Old Bailey. Labar took his stand in the witness box for examination at the hands of Treasury Counsel. His evidence began with that master piece of condensation evolved by some long dead and gone police official, “From evidence received—”
The reader of these pages will know more closely than most of those who heard the trial how the information was acquired that led to the imposition of a sentence of twenty years penal servitude upon Larry Hughes, and terms varying from ten years downwards upon the rest of his gang. Mrs. Gertstein, a broken woman, was sent to prison for five years, while Sophie Lengholm, on the plea of counsel for the Crown was given eighteen months hard labour.
Larry, self-possessed as ever, bowed to the judge with courtesy, and waved his hand gaily to Labar in the well of the court.
“It’s a long time, Labar,” he cried. “But one of these times we shall meet again. Give my love to—”
The warders hustled him out of the dock.