So he made his way back to Grape Street. His emissaries were scouring London, and their reports had to be collated—whether for his own use or for the man who might be detached from headquarters, was on the lap of the gods.
He considered as he puffed at his cigarette. These reports now—why should he worry unduly about them if another man was to handle the case? If it was his own work, of course he would have to do it. But why worry until he was certain. He put a call through to Scotland Yard. Winter was more genial than he had been at the early morning interview.
“That you, Labar? How are things making out? You’ll have to hump yourself on this job, my mannie.”
That was all right, then. For the time being at any rate he was not to be superseded on the investigation. That had looked a probability when the heads had left him to it at Streetly House. This, however, made certain. He answered cheerfully.
“I’ll do my best, sir; I’ve got hopes.”
“Hopes won’t carry you far. I’ve seen hopes land a man in a ditch.”
“Oh, I’m not running ahead of myself. As you saw, it’s a slick cleanup, but I’ve got an idea that if Larry’s in it he’s made a break this time.”
“H’m. Other men have thought that,” grunted the telephone, sceptically. “If there’s a hole in this it’s not like friend Larry. So don’t go running away with any hasty impressions, my boy. And listen, I don’t want to know too much—especially over the phone. You and I will have a talk some time. G’bye.”
“The cunning old fox,” murmured Labar, with almost affectionate admiration, as he replaced the receiver. “He doesn’t want to know too much. That means I’m to be the goat if things don’t pan out.”
He ripped open a letter that lay upon his desk.
“Sir—In accordance with your instructions, I made inquiries at the Bank of England, and was informed that the note No. K002947 was one of a series issued to the Midland Bank a week ago. From the Midland Bank I learn that this was one of ten notes numbered consecutively K002946 to K002955, paid to honour a cheque drawn by Mr. S. Gertstein, of Streetly House, W., three days ago. On inquiry at the London County Council Record Department I was informed that the registration number, X20008, is that of a car belonging to the same person.
He laid down the note absently. “I was afraid so. A nice girl, too. Well, nice girls do go wrong. Let’s see what Gertstein has to say about it.”
He reached for the telephone and got put through to Streetly House. A matter of minutes elapsed before he was in touch with the millionaire, and he drummed impatiently on his desk. At last an irritable voice reached him.
Labar spoke silkily. “Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Gertstein. This is Labar speaking—Detective Inspector Labar. In the list of stuff stolen there is no mention of cash. Is there any money missing?”
“If there had been I should have told you, Inspector,” snapped Gertstein.
“This is important. You have not lost any bank notes?”
“I’ve told you, no. I never keep enough cash in the house to bother about.”
A smothered exclamation escaped Labar. “But,” he urged, “you changed a cheque for a thousand pounds a day or two ago.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” snorted Gertstein. “What thing are you dreaming about now? I haven’t had a thousand pounds in cash for my own personal use for years.”
“Ah, well,” said Labar, mildly. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. I’ll hope to see you in the morning and explain. Goodbye.”
Detectives of Scotland Yard have more use for bowler hats than for halos. Whatever the writers may make of them they have few illusions about themselves. They are very much of the same clay as human beings in less glamorous callings. Labar was no conjuror, and an odd sequence of facts bore to him just as great an appearance of mystery as it would to any other professional man. He swore crisply between his teeth, as Mr. Thingumbob, the eminent collar merchant, might have sworn had he found a competitor selling neckwear below the cost of production. For in these cases the problem that confronts the detective and the ordinary business man is in essence the same. They each have to ask themselves why. And if they get the correct answer they have scored a point. If they are wrong the business man is hit in the bank balance, and the newspapers attend to Scotland Yard. The bank believed that it had let Gertstein have ten one hundred pound notes, and one of these had reached Labar through a member of Gertstein’s household. Yet the millionaire denied that he had had that cheque cashed. It was entirely improbable that he could have any motive for lying. On the face of it someone had forged his signature, and so introduced the complication of an additional crime.
It was certainly necessary to have a talk with the bank manager. Labar summoned Malone and gave him a rough outline of the situation. The bank would be closed, of course, but somehow the manager’s private address would have to be found. The big detective sergeant nodded comprehendingly, and set forth on his mission.
That round of golf which Labar had reckoned upon in the morning was far away. But his inclination to relaxation had vanished. An investigation such as he had upon his hands leaves the man in charge with all he can think about. He was fiercely energetic and his men were being driven hard. Every few minutes the telephone bells were whirring, and men were rushing in from various
