IX
A couple of days passed, and although the newspapermen still pestered Labar, and other potential sources of information at Scotland Yard, the space allotted to the hue and cry in the news dwindled. Labar was thankful. There are times when an energetic and persevering journalist may stumble on something that will aid the police, but in a case of this kind reporters were an embarrassment. There were no innocuous morsels that one might feed them on, and such facts as Labar had up his sleeve he was anxious to keep to himself. Larry no doubt would be scanning the morning and evening journals with assiduity.
The investigation marked time. Gertstein had been able to throw no light on the forgery, save that a cheque form was missing from his book, and in one or two interviews Labar found him more prickly than at first. He seemed gloomily to revel in giving up hope that any result would be achieved by the matter of fact methods of the police. The strange disappearance of Miss Noelson he put down entirely to the heavy-handed tactlessness of Labar. The latter had not thought it worth while to tell everything.
“She has been terrified,” declared Gertstein. “You made a big blunder in letting her see that you suspected her. That poor girl has been driven away, and you are responsible because you told her she was the thief.”
“She’ll be back, all right,” said Labar with a calmness that the little man felt bordered on callousness. “We’ll find her.”
There Gertstein with a disbelieving grunt left the matter, although he mentally decided that if Penelope was not traced quickly he would enlist the aid of some other machinery than that of Scotland Yard.
The burglarious Gold Dust Teddy was leading an apparently normal, half-drunken existence, with Down and Heath, both ambitious young officers, camping on his trail. So far he had afforded them no chance of getting nearer to proof against Larry. They had devised means—what they were Labar did not inquire, though he might make a close guess—of studying all the correspondence, both inward and outward, of his household. They had even used tests recommended to them by a Government chemist calculated to reveal the most obdurate sympathetic ink. And Heath patronising Teddy’s favourite pub had stood the latter sundry drinks the while he conveyed that he himself was a screwsman much wanted, who was quite ready to take a hand in any exploit that might perchance lead to profit. Beyond this Down had his small coterie of informants on the qui vive. All this had hitherto gone for nothing.
A very effective turn over of Larry’s Hampstead house, under the powers of the search warrant that Malone had obtained, had been futile. It is to be doubted if the most inexperienced of the officers engaged seriously expected that anything incriminating would be found. Amid all the sumptuous equipment of the residence there was nothing that had not been honestly bought and paid for. It was the house of a very wealthy, very tasteful man. There were no dramatic secret doors or hiding places. The few servants about the place had antecedents that placed them beyond suspicion. They only knew that Mr. Hughes was a generous, if somewhat erratic, master, given to sudden comings and goings, in which he was usually attended by his valet, and his chauffeur. About these two men little could be learnt. Letters were found—tradesmen’s bills and other quite innocent missives—that helped not at all.
Yet in a way Labar was enjoying himself. The throwbacks, the lines of inquiry that led nowhere, were in normal sequence for this type of investigation and but stiffened his resolution to see the matter through. He had regained the interest that he had lost in his work. No one knew better than he the value of persistency. Somehow he would get his fingers on that end of the string that would unravel the entire tangle. It might be obtained by dogged perseverance; it might drop unexpectedly from the blue skies as clues have not infrequently been known to do.
He had a theory that he was wont to expand upon in moments of leisure with his colleagues. “With enough men, enough money, enough brains and a little time there is no mystery that cannot be explained.”
Something of this sort he reiterated to Moreland, his Flying Squad intimate, while they discussed the matter in the privacy of the latter’s room at Scotland Yard.
“You’ve been reading a detective novel,” observed Moreland. “What if you have men, money and brains up against you? Can’t they foresee what moves you are likely to make? Isn’t that what Larry Hughes has done up to now?”
“Yes. And don’t we know something about Larry? With all that we know him for a big crook. There’s no mystery there. We can’t prove it under form of law, that’s all.”
Moreland levelled a forefinger. “Go easy with the grey matter, Harry. You bewilder me. Let’s get down to the practical. We know Larry is a crook. We are paid to put crooks in prison—you and I. Yet Larry is a gentleman at large.”
Labar shook his head smilingly. “He can’t beat the game all the time.”
“Meaning that you propose to get your teeth in him. I wish you luck. But where have you got so far? Just the off-chance of a charge of abduction, and the lady may let you down there, after all, by saying she went of her own free will. Don’t kid yourself, Harry. It’s dangerous.”
“A fine little old Job’s comforter you make. I wonder if there is anyone in the Yard who does not think I’m playing a losing hand against Larry.”
Moreland beat a pencil in an erratic tattoo on his blotting pad, and shot an appraising sidelong glance at his friend. “Got to keep you from getting too smug,” he said. “You’ve got a temperament. A day or two ago you had your tail between your legs—and now you talk as if it’s all over bar the shouting. I’m sure you’ve been reading a book. Next thing you know you’ll be reciting your methods to me à la Sherlock Holmes. Or is it”—he straightened himself up—“that you have something up your sleeve?”
“I’ve a hunch—”
“For the love of Mike bury it. Facts are what you want.”
“As I was saying,” went on Labar, placidly, “I have a hunch that something is about to open up. Amid all the free advice and admonitions from some millions of newspaper readers—”
“Only millions?”
“Don’t interrupt. It seems like millions anyway. But among the letters sent to me was one that seems to me to show interesting possibilities. It was anonymous, of course.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “Postmarked EC4. That doesn’t help much. One of the busiest postal districts in the city. Typewritten on cheap paper. ‘If you want to get to the bottom of the job you’re on, ask Mrs. G. if she has managed to pay her bookmaker’s accounts yet.’ What do you think of that, Moreland? ‘Mrs. G.’ is Mrs. Gertstein I suppose. She’s a lady I haven’t seen yet. Been away, country house visiting or something.”
The anonymous letter is not infrequently a factor in detective work, however inconsiderable its value may be in the ordinary commerce of society. Men and women—particularly women—will betray secretly from many motives. What those motives may be it is seldom worth while to inquire.
Moreland fingered the letter. “Somebody willing to knife the lady in the back. May be nothing in it.”
“May be. I’m not saying till I’ve looked into it. But, on the face of it, it fits in. This girl—Penelope Noelson—is holding something back. She’s a friend of the Gertstein woman. If Mrs. Gertstein has outrun the constable, and daren’t let her husband know, why shouldn’t she scrawl a cheque in his name? Then she gets scared and tries first to bribe me through Miss Noelson, and then to lay me out. She’s supposed to be out of London, and naturally I shouldn’t think of her as being in the shemozzle.”
The Flying Squad man shook his head dubiously. “Sounds fair. But she may be up against it with the bookies, and still outside this. Why couldn’t this be a plant on the part of Miss Noelson? That seems more likely to me. Just a ruse to throw you off her track for a while. Don’t get too subtle. Stick to what’s in front of your face.”
“The old safety first plan, eh? That comes well from a man who’s got a bullet wound and a knife mark through interfering too closely with race gangs. No, old chap, if I’m to come out top in this fight with Larry Hughes, I’ve got to do some guessing, right or wrong. I’ve seen Penelope Noelson. You haven’t. If she’s a real crook she’s darned clever. But—”
“ ‘But—’ ” mimicked Moreland. “Oh la-la. No, I’ve not seen her, but she’s too good looking and sweet and innocent to be a crook. Oh, Harry. Here, ease up!” Labar had his strong sinewy fingers round the back of his friend’s neck and was grinding his nose to the blotting pad. “I take it all back. Let go, you long slob. You’re a great man. You’re right. You’ve got us all skinned!” The other released his hold and Moreland explored the nape of his neck gingerly. “You’re a heavy-handed son of a gun,” he complained. “Can’t you take a joke?”
“Why, yes. Couldn’t you hear me laugh?” said Labar.
“I half believe—” Moreland stopped as he saw the gleam in Labar’s eye. “Never mind that,” he went on hastily. “What I was going to say was this, old lad. You’re going against a man who hasn’t got to stick to rules and regulations. He’ll fight all in—nothing barred. You can’t do that. But if you ever do corner him—look out. Until then you are reasonably safe. All the same if I were you while you are on this hunt I’d carry a gun. You may not need it, but if you do you’ll want it badly.”
“A gun! Why I’ve never carried one in my life.”
“Well, you pack one at the back of your pocket now. It will be a whole lot healthier. If you can’t use it you can bluff with it. Take my advice.”
“You have gleams of inspiration,” said Labar. “I believe I will.”
He swung off whistling softly. That evening he contrived to find one who was willing to take him as a guest to one of the two great bookmakers’ clubs in London. The racecourse in some degree impinges on the work of all detectives, because it is a sport in which many of their clients are interested. Consequently, there were several of the men present who knew the detective, and he was able to hold unostentatious converse with some of the bigger operators—men he knew who would answer his questions and keep their own counsel.
The inspector’s methods of approach varied with his man. Now he would plunge into a question point blank, and again he would lead up to his point through side issues. But mostly he drew blank.
He slid into a seat fronting a billiard table by a blue jowled, plump man with a frosty eye, who enveloped his hand in a leg of mutton fist.
“How are ye, Mr. Labar? Just looking round or are ye here to do a bit of business? I’ll lay ten to one that you want to know sommat. What are ye takin’?”
“A small tonic will do me, thank you, Mr. Dickinson.”
The big north-countryman (known to every racecourse frequenter in the country from royalty downwards as “Dickie,” and reputed to have acquired a colossal fortune on the turf) protested at the mildness of the drink. Labar, however, was firm and the other gave the order.
“Now I know ye’re after ferreting sommat out of me, lad. Spit it out. What dost want to know?”
He turned his moon of a face to the detective and his cold eyes narrowed. “Dickie” never beat about the bush.
Labar was equally blunt. “Has a Mrs. Gertstein an account with you?”
“That hellcat. She’s in my ribs for a thousand or two.”
“Passing up settling day lately, I suppose?”
“She is and all. There’s been no settling day for her for a month or two. See you, I don’t mind a bit of rope, but, when a skirt plays this ‘heads I win, tails you lose’ game too often, it isn’t good enough for Dickie. That’s the worst of betting with women.”
“Ah. You’ve wanted to see the colour of her money?”
“Aye. Not that I’ve been dunning her. Maybe Tony, my clerk, has dropped a hint. She’s got a rich husband; though they’re not always the best payers. I don’t argue with that sort. ‘Well, mem,’ I says, when she comes up to me at Kempton, all jam and honey. ‘I got seven small children to keep in boot leather. I can’t lay them boots to nothin’. When that hole which you’ve bitten in my pocketbook is filled up, I’ll maybe consider makin’ a bet with you. I don’t want to offend you, mem,’ I says, ‘but this ain’t business. Nowt for nowt is my motto,’ I says, and with that she tosses her head and went off in a huff.”
“So she stung you. Any others?”
“Yes. She got under the guard of one or two of ’em. Howsumever we reckons to get our bit when the time comes. The old ’un has got the dough, and she’ll wheedle it out of him. She ain’t so much crooked as flippity—and she’s a reg’ler little spitfire when she can’t get her own way.”
Refusing another drink, Labar edged away, leaving Dickie to pass caustic comments on the merits of the billiard players. He had learned enough to verify the writer of the anonymous letter. Mrs. Gertstein was certainly in debt to the bookmakers. That fact was, as Moreland had pointed out, in itself of no importance. But it was of significance taken in conjunction with other things. He began mentally to elaborate a theory.