“And,” demanded Labar, “you never saw anyone except Billy Bungey, and this fellow who talked to you about the keys?”
The prisoner made a jerky gesture of assent. “That’s all I know.”
The inspector took the statement from Malone and slowly read it aloud, now and again pressing home a fresh question to elucidate a point. Stebbins listened stolidly, and answered with ready frankness. Labar’s face was inscrutable as he finished.
“This is a voluntary statement you understand,” he said. “You are willing to sign it?”
“Absolutely,” agreed Stebbins. “It’s all true.”
He affixed his signature and was taken below for the formality of the charge. He listened apathetically to the set official words in which he was accused. Then he was hurried away to Marlborough Street Police Court while Labar spent a few minutes on the telephone with Winter at Scotland Yard.
The Chief Constable was affable. “Yes, I heard that you had had a busy day. Not seriously hurt, I hope. That’s all right. I’ll be away down and see you in court. I suppose this man has got to be charged today. You know what that means? You’ll have a horde of newspaper men on your tail. There’s the usual gang here now playing solo whist, I believe, and waiting for something to turn up. Cheerio. See you some time in the next half hour.”
Labar had hoped, but scarcely expected, more than he had got from Stebbins. There was certainly nothing in what Stebbins had said that could implicate Larry Hughes directly. Larry as usual had been remote, aloof from his lesser helpers. It was characteristic of his methods that he should have used this drug-sodden crook as a blind tool. He must have foreseen the possibility of Stebbins being traced, although he had taken every precaution against it. True, Stebbins knew that Billy Bungey was in the business, but Billy had not been known as an associate of the master criminal. If it had not been for the episode at “Maid’s Retreat,” Labar would never have considered the two together. There was no likelihood that inquiries which would have to be undertaken about the “Mr. Blake” of the Bruges poste restante would lead anywhere. No, the trail that might have led from Stebbins to Larry Hughes had been cleverly smothered. But for the coincidence of the intervention of Penelope Noelson and Mrs. Gertstein, the C.I.D. men might well have come to the conclusion that there was no hope of linking Hughes with the crime.
However, from that angle of the case the hunt was up with a vengeance. Labar bit his lips as he reflected that it was necessary to act swiftly if he was to lay Larry Hughes by the heels. The other would be moving. If there was any precaution that he had failed to take beforehand to neutralise evidence against him, he would of a surety be looking into it now. The trouble was that there was nothing which could lead to immediate action.
It is conceivable that this would have been a matter of less concern to the inspector had it not been for Penelope Noelson. Spite of himself, spite of his attempts at strict concentration on the immediate aspects of the case, he was alarmed for her. It should have been no concern of his to view her other than as an item in the sum of the case. His business lay in bringing home a crime to those responsible. The possible peril of one or another of the people involved in the matter should not be allowed to affect the main issue. Human nature, however, being much the same at Scotland Yard as at other places, his judgment was swayed to some extent.
He betook himself to Marlborough Street where he had to give formal evidence of the arrest of Stebbins and asked for a remand. The thing was over in five minutes and he returned to the police station with Winter to have what the latter described as a heart to heart talk over the situation.
XIX
The days moved with leaden feet for Penelope Noelson. She had come to know every inch of space in the walled garden, and although she gazed wistfully through the iron bars of the gate again and again, no one ever came in sight. Always she felt that certain, if unobtrusive, surveillance over her every movement. The care with which she was watched was brought home to her when she took to dropping notes over the wall in the hope that they would be picked up by some stray wayfarer. Within half an hour they had been returned to her by Sophie Lengholm, with a veiled hint that she might be kept locked in her room if she persisted in trying to communicate with the outside world.
At night the great Alsatian wolfhound, of which she had caught a glimpse on the day of her arrival, patrolled the grounds. Not that that made any difference, for she knew that a key was turned in her lock every evening, although she did not know that Sophie Lengholm for reasons of her own, held the key.
Apart from these restrictions she had little to complain of but her loss of liberty. She saw strange men about the place on occasion and knew they had long interviews with
