The woman’s mind was clouded by a haze of emotions. She was thunderstruck at the accusation that her sometime lover was the real blackmailer, but beyond that she wondered if this point alone was the real object of the cool nonchalant man who was watching her with serious eyes. She must guard herself. Suppose he was seeking to entrap her.
“I shan’t tell you,” she exclaimed between clenched teeth.
“Oh, yes you will,” he retorted. “Perhaps you don’t understand. Shall I tell you a little story, Mrs. Gertstein? It deals with a woman like you who had the misfortune to be in a similar position. This lady was married to a rich husband. She committed an indiscretion—we will call it that—which gave a blackmailer a hold upon her. His demands grew more and more insatiable, and although she had a comfortable allowance from her husband she felt the strain upon her income. She became involved in other directions, particularly with bookmakers, and it may be that on one pretext and another she got still more money from her husband, until it became difficult to find plausible explanations. But the blackmailer continued to bleed her, and she continued to run into debt in various directions. Certain bills cropped up that had to be paid almost at once. Do you know what that lady did, Mrs. Gertstein?”
An incoherent word came from the woman. Labar went on:
“She forged her husband’s name to a cheque—a silly thing to do because the forgery was bound to become known. I can understand a distracted woman in a moment of folly giving way to an impulse. But she did an even more foolish thing. She found out who was the divisional detective inspector and tried to bribe him with one of the hundred pound notes that were part of the proceeds of her fraud. On that same day an even more serious crime took place at her husband’s house. I don’t believe that she had any direct concern in that, but as soon as the news reached her by telephone, and she learned that the man she had tried to bribe was there, in charge of the investigation, she lost her head completely. That night she drove secretly to London and tried to murder the detective. Forgery is nasty, madam, but attempted murder is an even uglier thing.”
The detective flattered himself that he had filled in the gaps in his recital neatly. He had watched every change in the weak pretty face of the woman from anger and astonishment to fear.
She got unsteadily to her feet, tottered to a writing-desk and buried her face in her hands. “Does Solly—does my husband—have you told him?” she asked.
“He knows nothing—yet.”
Labar felt some urge of sympathy for her. She was a broken creature. But his resolve to extract from her the uttermost that might help clear his path did not weaken. He felt that he had got her entirely under his sway, ready to answer tamely any questions with which he might ply her. He had cause to realise that no man could safely diagnose the reactions of Mrs. Gertstein a second later.
Like a tiger-cat she sprang at him, and there was the glitter of steel in her hand. On the desk upon which she had feigned to give way there had lain an ornamental dagger kept as a paperknife. This was the weapon with which she now thrust fiercely and silently at him. He was taken almost entirely off his guard, and had but half-risen to meet the assault, when he felt the bite of the steel in his side.
He clutched at her wrist but she avoided him, and he swung a half-arm blow at her face as she swung away. This was no time for any chivalrous methods of fighting. She meant murder.
She held off for a second, her face flushed, her hair dishevelled, her breath coming in quick, sharp gusts. She watched him warily and as he cautiously swayed towards her she leapt at him again. This time, however, he was ready. He parried the vicious blow that she aimed at his heart with his arm, and catching her by the waist flung her with all his force backwards to the floor.
Almost simultaneously he hurled himself at her, and this time he succeeded in seizing the wrist that held the dagger. Harry Labar was reckoned a strong man, but the woman fought with dynamic, maniacal strength. He felt her body writhe and twist beneath him, and a little ornamental table crashed as she tried to pull herself away. Once she snapped at him with her teeth like some maddened animal. He found a grip for his other hand and pinned her down till her hysterical strength should have waned. Her fingers relaxed and the dagger dropped to the soft carpet. He felt the tension of her resistance dwindle till at length she was a limp figure in his hold. Slowly and cautiously he got to his feet and picked up the dagger.
Not a word had come from either of them during the struggle. Indeed the whole affair had been but a matter of seconds.
She continued prostrate on the floor, but her wide open and alert eyes belied any idea that she had fainted. Watching her warily meanwhile he removed his coat and waistcoat and examined his wound. There was a deal of blood but as far as he could see the hurt itself was superficial. He wedged a handkerchief in his clothing as a temporary expedient, and resumed his garments. The woman had not moved.
“Get up,” he ordered, grimly.
Slowly she rose.
XIII
“What are you going to do now?” she asked in a strained unnatural voice.
The inspector pressed his hand to his side, and his stern gaze dwelt upon her thoughtfully. “That depends,” he answered. “My plain duty is to arrest you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said wearily. “Nothing can matter now. Give me
