The net was being cast wide. The usual routine precautions had, of course, been seen to. Lists of the stolen property had been sent out to jewellers, pawnbrokers and others, and published broadcast in the evening papers. That was a ten million to one chance. The goods in this crime would be got rid of through obscure underground channels.
Labar had thrown two men to shadow Larry Hughes, not hopefully, but as a matter of precaution. Others were trying to discover if Larry had been in touch with any of the greater artists in burglary of late. Then, again on general principles, the movements of every crook who was big enough in his profession to be possibly involved had to be checked. Any one of these possessed of sudden funds, anyone absent from his usual haunts, might be a link in the chain that Labar was trying to establish. Nothing could be taken for granted. Even Gertstein himself—this would have annoyed him—was having some of his private habits pried into, and his associates looked up.
The Yard does not despise scientific methods; but here were no bloodstains, no fingerprints, no trivialities from which a high-domed scientist in an easy chair might deduce the name and address of the main culprit. It was a thief taking enterprise in the good old way of the Bow Street runners, differing only by the use of a more complex and more perfect organisation. For a young detective inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department who was under suspicion of slackness it was decidedly not a day for golf.
Midnight was very near ere Malone returned to Grape Street. After tracking the manager of the bank to his lair in Golder’s Green, he had dragged him back to the bank, and searched out the thousand pound cheque, together with two others unquestionably genuine, for the sake of comparison.
“This fellow knows nothing of the circumstances in which it was changed,” said Malone. “Suppose we’ll have to look up the cashier in the morning on that point.”
Labar thrust his hand into a desk drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass. Placing the suspected cheque and another in front of him he studied them intently for a few minutes.
“Did he hold any views on whether it was a forgery or not, Bill?” he asked without looking up.
The other shook his head. “He’s a cautious Scot. You see if it is a forgery the bank will be liable. Didn’t want me to bring away the cheques at first. Someone had been telephoning him to send back all cancelled cheques to Gertstein early in the morning.”
Labar abruptly laid down his magnifying glass and stared at his aide-de-camp. “Who was that?” he demanded.
A slow grin broke over the usual inexpressive features of Malone. He had an impish delight in sometimes startling his superior. “I thought it would interest you, guv’nor,” he said. “He didn’t know. The voice was that of a woman, and she said that she was telephoning on behalf of Gertstein.”
“A woman’s voice,” repeated the inspector, thoughtfully. He uncoiled his six feet from his chair, and stretched himself. “I’m all in, Bill,” he announced. “Let’s put up the shutters for the night. Nine o’clock sharp in the morning.”
The thing for a man who has spent many hours within four walls, Labar decided, was a good brisk walk. He parted from Malone under the blue lamp at the entrance to the police station, and paused to light a cigarette. He nodded amiably to the constable on reserve duty at the doorway, and setting his face towards Chelsea where his modest bachelor apartments were located, swung off briskly down the little courtyard that leads from Grape Street to Piccadilly.
He had taken not more than a score of strides when some sixth sense impelled him to whirl upon his heels. In that fraction of a second he had an impression of a dark figure hurling itself upon him from a doorway. An instant earlier and he had saved himself. As it was, he flung up an arm, almost by instinct, and broke the impact of a sandbag. Nevertheless, he went down half-stunned and feebly grappling with his opponent.
His bewildered senses were dimly conscious of the dark figure bending over him, and fingers groping about his pockets. Then the assailant was gone, and he staggered uncertainly to his feet, supporting himself against the wall. He felt his head gingerly where the half-broken blow had taken effect. But his mind was not on his injuries.
“A woman again,” he muttered. “What a nerve. Practically on the doorstep of the police station. She certainly wanted something badly.” He stood for a moment to regain his shaken faculties. “I wonder if it could have been a cheque?” he asked aloud.
He walked unsteadily back to the station where the brandy retained for emergencies was called into requisition, and a hasty hue and cry—which he knew to be hopeless—organised. But all trace of his assailant had been lost. Nor, for some reason which he could not have satisfactorily accounted for to himself, did he suggest that the pursuers should take the direction of Streetly House.
V
In silken pyjamas, and propped up on his pillows, Mr. Larry Hughes toyed with coffee and toast, the while he lazily scanned the Daily Mail with its account of the Streetly House robbery. A soft-footed valet was busy in an adjoining dressing-room.
“A light-grey suit, if you please, Tom. And tell Williams to have the Rolls ready not a minute later than twelve.”
“Very good, sir. Will you be in to lunch?”
“I’m doubtful. There’s racing on at Kempton, and I may run down.” Hughes pushed aside the tray and sprang lightly out of bed. “Bath ready?”
“Quite ready, sir.”
“All right. Be back in ten minutes.”
It was at this moment that Detective Inspector Labar rang the bell at the solid Georgian doorway of Mr. Larry Hughes’ Hampstead home. With suave candour the footman who opened the door, informed him of the
