The divisional detective inspector listened with grave face, as Moreland recited some of the evening’s happenings.
The Flying Squad man, with a couple of his subordinates, had happened, in the course of another case on which he was engaged, to be in the dining-room of a little Soho restaurant, when the sergeant who had been sent out to find Stebbins, entered with a man who was unknown to Moreland. They had sat down at a table where a third man was already eating, and Moreland saw the sergeant introduced. Without hesitation the hand of the diner immediately sought a water carafe and aimed a terrific blow at Labar’s sergeant. The blow had missed, but in a second the place was in an uproar and the two were rolling across an overturned table grappling with each other.
Moreland had dashed across the room in time to knock up a pistol, which exploded. To add to the confusion, an agitated Italian waiter had switched the light off. Only such light as could penetrate through the windows from the street illuminations reached the room. There was a chaos of struggling men for a while, and ultimately one wriggled free. Revolver in hand he gained the doorway with the detective in close pursuit. Firing wildly, he fled through a small by-street and through the open door of a house which let cheap rooms. At the top of the narrow stairs he paused, and defied the detectives, who by this time were reinforced by many uniformed police, to come nearer. Moreland had taken charge of affairs and, deciding that it was inadvisable to risk lives by a frontal attack, had left the house with a cordon drawn around it, and after a word with Labar’s man had decided to fetch the divisional inspector himself.
Most of this he related hurriedly while they were racing towards the scene of the affray as fast as a taxicab could take them. Labar had no difficulty in surmising with fair accuracy the blanks in the story.
Their cab was halted at the entrance to a narrow street where a belt of uniformed men held back a thin crowd. They descended and pushed their way through, and the detective sergeant who had brought about the episode joined them.
“Well, Marr?” said Labar. “I suppose that’s Stebbins up there?” He jerked his head to the dismal three-storeyed house where most of the eyes were focused.
“That’s the man, sir.”
“How did you locate him?”
In a few quick succinct sentences Marr told how he had tried to gain some information at Streetly House, and been told in the most polite manner that no questions would be answered. Then he had waylaid the servants’ entrance and made himself friendly with such of the servants as passed in or out. He learned that on the day of the robbery Stebbins had complained of illness and had gone home. Since then he had not resumed his job at Streetly House, but he was known to be occasionally meeting one of the maids. Marr pressed his inquiries until he found one footman who had been on friendly footing with Stebbins, and who on occasion had been with him to eat at a Soho restaurant which the other frequented. Taking a long chance Marr had induced the footman to accompany him to the restaurant, where as luck would have it they found their man.
“Lucky for you that Mr. Moreland was there,” commented Labar.
“He was fighting drunk, sir,” explained the sergeant.
“Drunk or sober, we can’t wait here all night,” declared the inspector. “Find out if there’s a skylight to the place. If so, two or three men had better try to get through other houses and take him from the rear. I’m going to see whether he’s in a mood to talk to. We can’t have one man hold us up like this.”
“You’re not going up those stairs, Harry,” said Moreland. “It’s sheer suicide.”
“Oh, I’ll be careful,” said the other. “If he’s drunk and in the dark it’s odds against him touching me. Besides, I may persuade him to see reason.”
“You’re a headstrong fool,” asserted Moreland with emphasis. “I guess I’ll have to come along too, and dry-nurse you.”
“No, you don’t. You stay here and watch points. One man is quite enough. No sense in doubling the target.”
The Flying Squad man grumblingly saw common sense in this. All the same as Labar quietly stole up to the narrow doorway and crept within, he collected two or three men and with them posted himself, so that a swift and sudden rush could be made after his friend if necessary.
It was almost pitch-black within. Labar felt his way along the wall till he came to the foot of the stairs and then paused to listen. He could detect no sound in the house. He dropped to his hands and knees and stealthily ascended the first step, registering a mental oath as it creaked under him. He remembered that he had failed to retrieve the pistol that he had lent to Dr. Ware. Well, that would not matter much. He was not relying on gunplay.
Inch by inch he crawled to the first landing and moved up the second flight. Not till he had reached the third flight, however, could he detect the sound of a man’s hurried, irregular breathing. He flattened himself as closely as he could to the outline of the stair and waited, listening, for a second or two. Then he raised his voice sharply.
“Now then, my man, if you’ve had enough of this tomfoolery we’ll finish the business. You don’t want to be hung for murder, do you?”
He could in imagination visualise the figure at the top craning forward with ready weapon striving to pierce the darkness below. He instinctively braced himself for a shot.
A thick voice answered him. “You go away. Don’t drive me too far. I don’t want to do anybody any harm, but
