Labar thrust a card into the man’s hand. “Tell him I shall be glad if he will spare me a few minutes of his time. It is of importance.”
A little doubtfully the servant took the card. So the detective found himself in a big leather chair in a spacious and well-lighted library. All the surroundings spoke of money lavished recklessly, but with scrupulous taste. The lines of books were broken by etchings and occasional paintings that Labar recognised as the finest of their kind. But as he slowly and methodically studied the room, his attention became rivetted on a small photograph that stood obscurely on a mantelpiece. He moved towards it and picked it up for closer scrutiny. Then he did a thing which a C.I.D. man should have realised was pure and simple theft. He placed it carefully in an inside pocket.
Hughes found him in the big leather chair, idly nursing his hat and stick, and came forward with outstretched hand.
“It’s Mr. Labar, isn’t it. Pleased to meet you. I’m not often honoured by visits from detective inspectors. What can I do for you?”
He drew up another divan chair and faced Labar idly attentive. He was Mr. Larry Hughes, gentleman of means, and Labar was a mere policeman in plain clothes. The suggestion was subtle but plain.
Both men knew how artificial the situation was. It was clear to Larry that the other had come to look him over, but whatever the detective inspector suspected he dare not yet shatter the pose. Labar knew that he was a crook, and Hughes knew that he knew. Yet the latter was supremely confident that no one dare breathe the word. What proof could there be?
Labar for the time was quite willing to play the part the other had allotted to him. “I’m not quite sure, Mr. Hughes,” he said with a hint of deference in his tone. “I’ve come to see you because I believe you have some acquaintance with Mr. Gertstein. You will have seen in the papers that there has been a robbery at his place.”
Larry raised his eyebrows and struggled with well-manicured fingers to affix a cigarette in a long amber holder. “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong shop, Mr. Labar. I know the old boy by sight but I’ve scarcely spoken to him. True, I believe I was introduced to Mrs. Gertstein once—I think it was at Ascot—but that’s the limit of my knowledge of the family.”
“I’m looking up everyone who might by some remote chance throw some light on the affair,” explained Labar.
“Quite.” Hughes was listlessly polite.
“You are not acquainted with anyone associated with the Gertsteins? A Miss Noelson, for instance?”
However a man may use himself to mask his emotions, there is usually some point, as experienced poker players know, at which he betrays himself. Not infrequently, though his face may be immobile, some nervous twitch of the hands, some apparently small mannerism, will reveal itself to the one competent to read.
Larry showed nothing in his face, but his right toe tapped nervously on the soft carpet. Labar marked that movement.
“I’ve never heard of the lady,” said Larry easily, and rising, strolled to the mantel, and placed one arm upon it. His equanimity was to all seeming undisturbed.
Labar smiled, grimly. “Don’t waste your time standing. It was an oversight to leave the photograph there, if you meant to deny that you knew this lady. I have the portrait in my pocket.”
The right toe tapped a quick tattoo, and Larry eyed the other whimsically. He thrust up his hands. “Kamerad,” he cried. “I have heard of the efficiency of Scotland Yard. Now I see it. The merest little white lie, and you pounce, Mr. Labar. I do know Miss Noelson—slightly. I hope to know her better. There’s an admission for you. Can you build something on that? Do you think that she stole the jewels, or did I?”
He smiled superciliously down on the detective, with an indescribable air of polite contempt. Labar, spite of his resolution to hold himself with restraint, was a little stung by the other man’s audacity. Larry had the impudence to play with him.
“If you want it point blank,” he said, quite gently, but with jaw jutting out a trifle, “I’ll tell you that you ran the show. This is quite unofficial, of course, but you know that I know, so what’s the use of keeping up this farce? How deep the girl is in it I am not sure, yet. But I’ll have enough on you in a week to put you where you belong.”
Larry Hughes flung back his head and laughed till exhaustion caused him to desist. “That’s real funny. You don’t look it I’ll admit, but you must be one of those comic sleuths. Shall I do some thought reading, Mr. Labar? You come across a big jewel robbery and your well-known grey matter gets to work. ‘Ah, ah,’ you say. ‘Here is the obvious handiwork of that famous gentleman crook, Mr. Hughes. Let’s go on a fishing expedition, and see what we can bluff out of Mr. Hughes.’ Am I right, sir?” He leaned forward with hand outstretched in burlesque imitation of a vaudeville lightning calculator.
Beneath his ironic tone there was something more serious. His alert mind had hit upon the very reason of Labar’s visit. The inspector had taken a chance, partly because he wished to see what Larry was like in person, partly to try and scare the man into some hasty and incautious step. The bigger men at the Yard would scarcely have approved of the attempt, but Labar had not consulted them. He had acted upon an impulse, and he had realised that he was
