His tone was that of a business man putting a case to another business man. Labar burst into laughter. “More comic stuff?”
The other lit a cigarette, a little awkwardly because of the pistol, of which he retained a wary hold, and viewed the detective through half-closed eyes.
“Don’t rush yourself. What’s the pay of a divisional detective inspector? A few hundreds a year. If you hang on and you’re lucky you may be a superintendent and get a bit more. A man with your ability and some capital could go far in some other line. Or you need not work at all if you don’t wish. I’ll give you fifteen thousand pounds and call it quits.”
It was a tremendous offer, far beyond any sum that a police officer whatever his position might hope to attain by legitimate means. Labar was astonished at its magnitude. It did not tempt him in the least, but he affected to reflect. He believed that if he agreed Larry would sincerely keep his word and pay the money. As to the crook retiring he was sceptical. That type of man was an organiser of criminal enterprise as much for the love of the thing as for what he could make out of it. No, Larry, whatever he said, would never retire of his own accord. It occurred to Labar that the other could not hold him so lightly as he pretended if he was willing to give such an amount to ensure his inactivity.
In any transaction with a crook, Labar, like many detectives, had his own code of ethics. This was a case where stringent honesty would have been foolish. He temporised.
“That’s a lot of money,” he said, slowly, “but where would I be if anything leaked out?” He glanced significantly at Mrs. Gertstein.
“I—” began the woman.
Larry silenced her with a minatory wave of the hand. “She daren’t let anything be known for her own sake. Your common sense should tell you that.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” mused the detective. “But it’s too big a risk. You’ll have to raise the ante, Larry.”
There was a gleam of triumph in Larry Hughes’ face. “I’ll make it twenty thousand,” he said. “That ought to satisfy you.”
Labar still looked doubtful. He shifted the hand which he had been pressing to the hurt in his side, and Larry, if he noticed the motion, paid no attention. He felt that danger was no longer to be anticipated from the detective.
“I’ll think it over,” said the latter.
“No, no.” Larry was smiling confidently. “Make up your mind now.”
Labar held his hand in front of him. The blood had soaked through and stained his fingers. “I’m—a—little—dizzy,” he ejaculated faintly. “Got it worse than I thought.”
Larry lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Mrs. Gertstein. “I—I hurt him,” she said, and her eyes rested on the bloodstained dagger which Labar had placed on the mantel. The crook nodded comprehendingly and advanced towards the detective.
“Let’s see what we can do,” he said.
For the first time during the interview he was off his guard. In that instant the detective acted.
He had followed Moreland’s advice and a pistol reposed in his coat pocket. As he pulled it, a little clumsily maybe, Larry levelled his own weapon. The reports followed hard upon each other and Mrs. Gertstein’s scream rang through the house.
Labar was no marksman even at that distance, and the other’s aim had been hurried. The detective felt a bullet whistle over his shoulder and heard it crash into the wall. He had no doubt that his own shot had missed.
The detective drove forward on the instant and saw the ugly muzzle of Larry’s weapon within a yard of his face. He swerved and swung his own weapon like a club straight at the distorted face of his antagonist. Larry went down like a poleaxed ox.
Above the hysterical screams of Mrs. Gertstein Labar could hear the sound of hurrying feet. They might be those of friends or enemies. He could not afford to risk it.
He slipped through the open French windows and ran, as he had not run since he was a boy, for the shelter of a shrubbery.
XV
From the cover of a group of lilacs the detective inspector glanced swiftly back at the house a hundred yards away. A man was standing by the window scanning the shrubbery. Apparently obeying some summons from within he disappeared, only to return almost at once, accompanied by a couple of other men. Labar thought that he could recognise one of them, even at that distance, as a notorious race-gang tough who was known to be the leader of a group of violent and reckless men which the police had of late broken up. Billy Bungey had only escaped by the narrowest margin from a conviction for murder.
The three separated to approach the shrubbery from different angles. Labar hastily took stock of his position. He could not hope to cope singlehanded with three armed and resolute men. Nor, if he remained where he was, could there be any hope that he would ultimately escape discovery. He took the undignified but sensible course of resuming his flight.
Cautiously he pushed his way at a trot through the shrubbery. It gave way suddenly to a piece of park land. A little to his left but some three hundred yards away, was a belt of coppices. If he could reach them he stood a chance of dodging his pursuers. To do so, however, he must swerve obliquely towards the men and lose ground somewhat. To take any other line meant that it would be a chase in the open, in which he realised the likely possibility of being run down. He determined to take the chance of the trees.
Keeping the pistol, that he had more or less unconsciously retained, poised ready in his hand he made the dash. As he broke cover there was a shout, and the sharp report of an automatic. That for the instant did not worry him.
