“I can do nothing,” he said. “I must do my best to arrest her, and if that happens she must be tried.”
“I suppose so,” said Gertstein, thoughtfully. He muttered something to himself in Yiddish which Labar did not catch. “There is no way out. But if it could be, Mr. Labar, that she should not be tried? She might”—his voice dropped—“she might die. If for instance, she was arrested and the opportunity presented itself, she might prefer to die. I could write her a letter—”
The inspector held up a protesting hand. The millionaire had made his meaning sufficiently obvious, and hardened though he was, Labar was repelled by the suggestion.
“In plain words you wish me to allow her to commit suicide if she should fall into my hands.”
“You are a hard man,” protested Gertstein. “Cannot you see that so justice would be done? You will have done all that is consistent with your duty. You will have saved her and me the degradation of the gaol. You will have made a friend who could do much for you.”
“Again, I am sorry. All this is futile, Mr. Gertstein,” said Labar, and his lips set in a hard line. “I cannot swerve from my duty as I see it. You may rely upon me to save you as much as I can. But while I take my pay I do my job.”
“Very well. You will let me know what happens.”
With relief Labar saw that he had reached the end of the matter for the time. He rose. “Of course. Believe me, I hate this. There is one more thing. I suppose you don’t recall a man in your service named Stebbins?”
Gertstein’s small beady eyes fixed themselves steadily on the detective’s face. “I don’t know the names of half my servants,” he observed.
“Ah, then I must find out from the butler or the housekeeper or someone.”
The millionaire shook his head. “That is not fair, Mr. Labar. You can scarcely expect me to lift a finger to help you now. I cannot permit you to interview any of my servants, or rather I shall forbid them to answer any questions.”
This was an unexpected twist, although at the bottom of his heart Labar saw logic in the other’s attitude. “But this is childish,” he protested.
Gertstein rolled the butt of his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Childish it may be,” he agreed. “For my part I refuse to have anything more to do with your investigations. I am not going to help in dragging my own name in the mud.”
It was clear that he was in no mood to alter his decision, through any argument that might be advanced. Labar took his leave without further pressure. There might be some trifling inconvenience from the ban, but he could not see that it was likely to interfere seriously with his plans. What, however, might prove embarrassing, was the fact that Gertstein himself now had an object in frustrating the work of the Criminal Investigation Department. Labar wondered how far he would go. There was something about the little man’s manner that made the detective sure that he would not content himself with folding his hands and accepting whatever occurred.
This sort of speculation, however, could wait. There were other things that couldn’t. One of these was Mr. Stebbins, the odd-job man who had been engaged at Streetly House on the recommendation of Hughes. Labar was a very weary man, but, if as he suspected, Stebbins was one of the keys to the mystery, it was of importance that he should be looked up before the inspector would be able to call it a day. Larry would no doubt learn of Mrs. Gertstein’s disclosure and he was likely to act fast to get the fellow out of the way.
Malone had gone home when the inspector reached Grape Street. So it was to another sergeant that Labar gave the mission of seeking out Stebbins, while he himself spent half an hour going through the statements that had been collected from the Streetly House servants, to see whether, after all, his memory was at fault, and that he had seen the man. But there was nothing at all in the records. Labar yawned drowsily. This kind of thing had to be done, but its tedium bored him. He could put up with fatigue and hardship while it was a matter of action. But pinned to a desk, poring futilely over papers was silly. He let his hands drop to his arms on the desk and fell sound asleep.
It was after midnight that he was awakened by a discreet plucking at his sleeve. He yawned and brought his feet to the floor with a crash. Moreland, the Flying Squad inspector, was at his elbow.
“What’s the trouble?” grunted Labar. “Hello, Moreland. Why aren’t you tucked up in your little bed like all the other loafers?”
“Cut it out, Harry,” snapped Moreland. “Pull yourself together. There’s
