“I really beg your pardon,” she said.
“Not at all,” he replied with mechanical politeness. “I hope that you haven’t been hard hit.”
“Oh, it’s nothing—nothing at all,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “The money doesn’t matter, but I hate to feel I’ve been a fool.”
She rose to go and refusing an offer of escort, made her way back to her car. There were two more races, but she felt no longer in the mood to tempt fortune. With one of those quick revulsions to which she was prone she had given way to a blackness of spirit, in which she saw herself the stricken plaything of an unjust fate. It was hopeless, she told herself, to hope that her luck would change. Still there was Larry Hughes. She would wire to him to emphasise her letter. And if that failed she would go to see him.
XII
It was a blow to Labar that Malone’s journey to Goodwood in company with the bank cashier should have been wasted. He had fully made up his mind that Mrs. Gertstein was the author of the forgery, and her identification would have been an important link in the evidence.
His view was based upon something more solid than the lady’s misadventures with the bookmakers. The bogus cheque had been under much examination. A negative enlarged in the big magic lantern at Scotland Yard showed by the marks of the pen that the signature had most certainly been traced. That betrayed the amateur. No expert would have committed an imitation by such a method. The inspector had made diligent search for an original signature that would fit exactly over the forgery, which would have demonstrated the crime beyond all doubt, for no one ever writes his signature twice in precisely the same manner. He had failed in that, but he had managed to procure one or two letters of Mrs. Gertstein’s written from “Maid’s Retreat,” and these, with the cheque, he had submitted to the scrutiny of a distinguished analyst who held a retainer from the Home Office.
“No question about it being a forgery,” that gentleman told him. “You’ve seen that for yourself. But to suppose that from a mere examination of the writing one can pin it down to a particular person is asking too much. This sort of thing is not an exact science. But I can tell you this. The person who wrote these letters used the same kind of ink as the person who wrote the forged cheque. That ink is chemically different from that used in the genuine cheques. It is a fountain pen ink and I should say that it was used on a broad nib.”
Which view, taken in conjunction with other matters, carried conviction to Labar, although he knew that he could not formulate a case that would be satisfactory in a court of law. By and by, no doubt, some of the other notes for which the cheque had been changed would come back to the Bank of England, and the chances were that it would be possible to trace them back through the various hands in which they had been. That, however, was likely to be a matter of weeks.
What Gertstein’s attitude would be in the event of this crime being brought home to his wife had been a matter of speculation with Labar. The little man had insisted on the matter being probed to the bottom, though, of course, he had no suspicion where it would end. The inspector thought it probable that he would refuse to prosecute—perhaps, if his hand was forced, he would declare that there had been no forgery, and that the signature on the cheque was genuine. As matters stood there was no purpose in giving a hint to the millionaire. Labar felt that he would be quite content to ignore the forgery if he could lay Larry Hughes by the heels. He had an idea, not very clearly defined, that he might induce Mrs. Gertstein to clear up many points that troubled him if he could use some weapon to hold over her.
Luck favoured him. For the letter that Mrs. Gertstein had written to Larry went to the latter’s Hampstead home. Now the Post Office is jealous of the sanctity of the mail—even that of a crook—and there could be no tampering with correspondence under official cognizance. There are more ways of killing a cat than one, however. Some of Labar’s men engaged on the task of watching the house had made themselves on good terms with the postmen. And so it was that a delivery bag was left unguarded for two minutes at a certain garden gate. Mrs. Gertstein’s letter was included in the next delivery at Larry’s house, but meanwhile Labar had become possessed of a copy of it.
He whistled a little jig air as he read. Here was a flood of light. Here also—to vary the simile—were muddy waters which it behoved him to stir carefully. Before he made any move it would be well to guard himself.
He went to see Marlow, the detective superintendent, who was his immediate chief. Marlow read the letter with impassive face.
“Well, Harry? What do you want me to do?”
He looked over his steel spectacles inquiringly at the inspector and Labar fancied that he could detect the glimmer of a smile.
“This affects Gertstein, sir.”
“Well, he’s not the only man whose wife has been blackmailed.”
“No. But he might make it difficult, when he sees how a big scandal may come home to him.”
“Ah.” The superintendent polished his spectacles, and readjusted them. “You think Gertstein might deliberately try to gum up things to hush up the scandal.”
Labar nodded. Both these men understood something which neither of them
