Marlow leaned back with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and studied the inspector. “Out with it, Harry. Is it that you want me to handle this? Losing your nerve?”
The other lifted his shoulders without reply. This, win or lose, was a big and delicate affair. It was such a case as usually fell to the lot of one of the Big Four. Marlow had every right to deal with it himself if he wished.
“Don’t get worried,” went on the superintendent. “I’ve got enough business of my own to attend to.” He got up and laid a hand on Labar’s shoulder. “The old man asked me to stand down to give you a chance. I’m not going to interfere now unless you ask me to. Carry on in your own way—and at your own risk. Only get Larry and you can go as far as you like.”
“I’m grateful—”
“Nothing to be grateful about. I’ve had thirty-three years of the game and next year I hope to be in the country raising chickens.” He chuckled. “Don’t forget you may find yourself in a mess. I’d just as soon be out of it.”
He lied, and Labar knew he lied. If there was trouble the superintendent of the area could not altogether evade responsibility. The inspector was a thoughtful man as he took his leave.
The immediate thing was to see Mrs. Gertstein. His future action depended in some degree on what developed from that interview. He had no desire to arrest her—just now. That would only happen if his hand were forced. But as an instrument to lead him to his greater quarry she was likely to be useful.
Five hours later he and Malone were walking through the lodge gates and up the avenue of chestnuts that led to “Maid’s Retreat.” He had decided against a cab from the station, preferring to take the three mile walk. One never knew what information might be picked up on the way.
The old Elizabethan, half-timbered house nestled sleepily in the sunshine as they plodded up the drive. A figure rose languidly from a veranda and made its way into the house. They found no need to ring as they reached the door. A trim maid awaited them.
Labar presented his card. The girl looked at it doubtfully. “I’m sorry. Mrs. Gertstein is out.”
“That’s all right. We’ll wait,” said Labar serenely.
The maid shuffled her feet uneasily. “I’m afraid that she won’t be back today. She’s gone to town.”
“Well that is unfortunate,” lamented the inspector. “After we’ve come all the way to see her, too. When do you expect her back?”
“I’m—I’m not sure.”
“You’ve carried out your instructions, my girl,” said Labar, with stern suavity. “Now you take that card straight in to your mistress and tell her that we intend to see her. She was on the veranda five minutes ago. You hear me.”
This was utter guess work. Labar, so far as he knew, had never seen Mrs. Gertstein in his life. But the figure that had vanished and the maid waiting for them by the open door had given him an impression. The maid flushed and stepped back. Labar gave a jerk of his head to Malone, who stood his ground while the inspector followed the maid. She halted as she saw his purpose.
“Go on,” he ordered. A little uncertainly she led the way. She tapped at a door and at a summons to enter pushed it open.
“Well, Rena,” said a soft voice. “Have they gone?”
Labar pushed by the maid into the room. “No, Mrs. Gertstein,” he replied. “We are still here.”
The woman lounging in a big divan chair regarded him dumbly. He laid down his hat and stick and nodded to the maid. “You may go,” he said.
With wondering eyes she withdrew. As the door closed the woman on the chair drew herself up stiffly. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”
“It means that your maid is a bad liar,” he said. “Need I introduce myself? I fancy you know me. I am Detective Inspector Labar.”
Her fingers clutched tightly on the elbows of the chair, and her eyes roamed wildly about the room to come to rest at last on his impassive figure. “You have no right—” she began furiously.
He smiled tranquilly down at her. “I suggest that you calm yourself, madam. I shall not bite you.”
She rose. “If you think I will suffer this impertinence you are mistaken.”
Labar soberly adjusted his tall figure to a settee. It was bad manners, but he intended it simply as a gesture to this woman who, half-afraid and half-angry, was wondering as to the purport of his visit. He was confident that her curiosity would for the time hold her.
“I beg your pardon. If I tell you that I have in my possession the letter you wrote to Larry Hughes yesterday, it may afford you some reason for my insistence.”
There were many things that Adèle Gertstein had feared, but this was not one of them. Her jaw dropped. She tried to say something but words would not come. She slumped back into her chair trying vainly to recall what was in the letter beyond the appeal for money. She heard his voice as from far away.
“I want to know who is blackmailing you.”
“I am not being blackmailed.”
She regained some command of herself and sat up so that she could see his face. But Labar was too experienced to allow anything to show there that he did not wish to be seen.
“Then I will tell you,” he said picking his words with some deliberation. “It is the man to whom you appealed for aid. It is Larry Hughes himself who has been bleeding you. I want to know who he has been using as a go between?”
She stared at him with white face. “Larry? How do you know that? I don’t believe you.”
In point of fact Labar did not know. But he was pretty sure that the assumption was right. “You may take
