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
