He felt himself a little nearer to probing the relationship between this sleek, gibing crook, and Penelope, but still he was far away from anything definite.
“You’re like all the rest of them,” he said. “You know it all.” He levelled a forefinger. “You’ve got away with it so far, Larry Hughes. I’ll not deny that you’ve got brains. But you’ve got vanity, and that’s where you’ll come a cropper. You may swizzle me, as you have others, but in the end it isn’t me you’re up against. It’s Scotland Yard, it’s Mulberry Street, it’s the Sûreté. It’s every police officer you may pass from here to Timbuktu. You can’t fight men, money and organisation all the time. Think a bit.”
There lurked a humorous twitch at the corner of Larry Hughes’ lips, and there was less cynicism there. “Tell me, did you ever hear of a foxhunter giving up because he might break his neck? If I were a criminal, it’s just conceivable that I might like the game for its own sake.”
“Then I hope you break your neck,” retorted Labar with asperity. “I’ll give you a case in point. When you let amateurs into this bust you slipped a cog. I’ve had Penelope Noelson under observation for the last eighteen hours, and today, she’ll be placed under detention. And I rather fancy she’ll talk.”
The smiling nonchalance of Larry Hughes vanished. He flung cigarette and amber holder with an impatient gesture into the grate, and advanced a step, with clenched hands.
“Don’t be a damned fool, man,” he snarled. “That girl has no more concern with the robbery than the man in the moon. She’s white. The whole thing is pure silliness. What have you got against her?”
“Not a thing. She only tried to bribe me yesterday. She only changed a forged cheque on the Midland Bank. She only tried to sandbag me last night. She only denied that she had ever heard of you, and now I find her photograph in your private room. Oh, I’ve not a thing to hold her on.”
There was a little bead of perspiration on the smooth forehead of the crook. “I don’t believe you are lying to me,” he said earnestly, “but you’re all wrong somehow. That girl has not the faintest strain of crookedness in her. Supposing that all you’ve heard about me is true. Have you known me to do a dirty thing?”
“That’s a large question. They say you keep faith with your confederates.”
“I do more than that. I play the game as I see it. And I give you my word, Mr. Labar, that Penelope Noelson had no hand directly or indirectly in this crime.”
“That won’t help her,” said Labar, grimly.
“Meaning that you want to get at me through her. Well, go ahead and prove something on me, Mr. Inspector. We’re absolutely alone here. Stand very still if you please.”
The blue barrel of an automatic stared at Labar, and Hughes’ finger was tensed on the trigger. “I hate to pull a gun,” he went on, “and I’d hate still more to use it. But you leave me no option. There’s a man of yours out there watching the house, and I don’t want him butting in. So make one single move to your whistle and I’ll blow you full of holes.”
“What’s the game?” demanded Labar, placidly.
“I’ll show you.” Hughes came nearer, and still keeping the detective covered, thrust his left hand into the other’s breast pocket. He withdrew the photograph. “This is my property. See here.” He replaced the automatic in his pocket, and tore the portrait to strips. “That’s that. Just one little bit of evidence against Miss Noelson gone. Now you may go, too.”
Labar took it all gracefully. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” disagreed Hughes. “If you try it I’ll have the servants throw you out. Goodbye, Mr. Labar.”
He accompanied the detective inspector to the front door, and as soon as it had closed behind him, returned and summoned a servant.
“Tom,” he demanded, “did you ever read Bacon?”
“I don’t know that I have, sir.”
“No, I scarcely expected it. He’s not a popular novelist. He says that in preparation it is good to realise dangers, and in action wisest to disregard them. So I shan’t go to Kempton Park today. I’m wanting the car at once, and you’ll come with me. We’re going to disregard a danger.”
VI
It was with the conviction that Penelope Noelson was the key to the mystery that Labar made his way back to town. The hint that she would be detained would scarcely have stirred Larry Hughes as it had, unless she was in the plot. True, Labar was not as certain as he might have wished. He had not been entirely candid with Larry Hughes. She had not been identified as changing the forged cheque, although Malone had that morning reported that so far as the cashier recollected it had been a woman who passed it over the counter. And according to the man he had left to keep observation upon her, she had not gone from Streetly House the previous night. If that was so she could not be the lady of the sandbag. There remained the episode of the hundred pound note—the only definite thing that he could prove against her.
He looked in at Grape Street before proceeding to Streetly House, to pick up such fresh threads as might have been collected during his absence. There was the inevitable string of reports, some entirely valueless, some which might become
