He gripped Labar’s hand sturdily. “Glad to meet you. Perhaps we’ll be able to twist some sense out of this nightmare now. You don’t know what’s happened to Mrs. Gertstein, I suppose?”
“She’s gone?” exclaimed the inspector. “Well, I might have expected it.”
“Well, you know more about it than we do,” said the local man. “Mr. Malone tells me that you were on some inquiries about the Streetly House robbery when these people butted in. Do you think they have done any harm to Mrs. Gertstein?”
“I don’t think that likely,” said Labar. He pushed his hand through the other’s arm and led him aside. “Look here,” he said. “This woman will be wanted for a crime which has no direct connection with the Streetly House burglary. She’s probably absconded of her own free will. Now this business is bound to be the talk of the countryside, what with the servants and the men you have brought here. I want it to be regarded outside, as merely a daring raid by armed bandits, whose motives are as much a mystery to us as to anyone else. Can you give your men that impression?”
“Easiest thing in the world. Since I do not know anything myself, it ought to be simple to pretend that I’m bewildered.”
“Thank you. I’ll try and handle the servants. There’s some things I am still in the dark about, myself.”
But the flustered group of five or six men and women whom he interviewed later was able to add little to his stock of information. All they could speak of was the sudden apparition of two or three men who, armed with pistols, had rounded them up one by one, and left them under guard in the servants’ hall breathing dire and fearful threats of what might happen if they attempted any resistance. There they had been held, a panic-stricken group, until with a final warning not to move for ten minutes, a thin-faced man who had taken chief control of them, had slipped away. The descriptions they gave of the men, as usual where the ordinary person is called upon for a test of observation, varied in immense degree. That did not so much matter as Labar imagined that he had himself seen most of the principals in the raid.
“We’ll have a look through the house, in case they’ve left anything behind,” observed the detective inspector to Malone. “They may have hurried a little too much.”
But the search, minute and detailed as the circumstances allowed, brought small result. In Mrs. Gertstein’s room there was evidence that she had hurriedly packed a couple of bags, and downstairs in the room where Labar had been received by Mrs. Gertstein and where Hughes had interrupted them, there was a pile of burnt papers in the grate.
“I evidently did not knock all the wits out of Larry,” said Labar. “Mrs. Gertstein would not have thought of that by herself. She has been destroying her correspondence.”
He bent to examine the ashes, and shook his head. There are methods of piecing together and preserving even burnt papers if they are not too far gone. But these had apparently been stirred again and again with a poker till they were little but impalpable ash. The detective again discerned the hand of Larry. It was this kind of forethought that had aided to give that crook immunity for so long.
On a little writing-table was a note heavily sealed with red wax, and addressed to “Harry Labar, Esq.” The inspector tore it open.
“My Dear Labar,” it began, “Your hurried departure prevented me from putting to you an angle of our discussion that you will perhaps have not considered sufficiently. There is a person in whom if I guess aright you have an interest. This person is under my charge and control, and you will understand that some of your activities might result in prejudicing her welfare. No one would regret that more than myself, but if you persist I may be too occupied to protect her as I should like. One of your alert intelligence will appreciate the awkwardness of my position. I tell you this freely and frankly, because I know that your personal feelings are so engaged that you will make no official use of this letter. If you feel inclined to accept the offer I have made just advertise the word ‘Yes’ in the personal column of The Times. The goods I spoke of will then reach you without fail by channels I have thought of. But I strongly advise you not to try any tricks in this matter. We are scarcely likely to meet again.”
The letter was unsigned. Labar smoothed his chin thoughtfully and read it over twice. It was clever, and he appreciated all its unwritten significance as Larry knew he would, yet the construction he put upon it could not have been substantiated if after all he did try to use it as a piece of evidence in a court of law. Penelope was to become a hostage, and she would be in danger unless Labar accepted the bribe to smother the case. While he might go on at any risk to himself, he might well hesitate to expose her to the vengeance of Larry Hughes. The thing was possibly a supreme attempt to bluff, but the inspector felt uneasiness. Larry had the reputation of using any instrument ruthlessly to serve his ends.
Labar thrust the letter with a sudden and abrupt movement into his pocket vouchsafing no hint or comment on its contents to Malone or the superintendent. On that point at least Larry had guessed right. He would not drag Penelope’s name into the case any more than could be avoided.
“When’s the next train?” he demanded. “I don’t think we can do any more here for now.”
Malone found him a morose and silent companion on the way to town.
