CHAPTER I

"And remember, Labar, you don't bluff me." The Chief Constable, who had been through the game himself, tapped the string of figures that lay upon his desk with an aggressive forefinger. "You're lazy—damned lazy. If things don't clear up in your division in the next month or so you can count on something happening. That's all. Think it over."

"Thank you, sir," said the other, with the smooth suavity of a man who had received a compliment, and swung on velvet toes from the room.

After all, what was the use of arguing? Divisional Detective Inspector Labar was under no illusions about himself. He was lazy. All Scotland Yard knew it. Particularly did Winter, Chief Constable of the Criminal Investigation Department know it, for in some sort Labar was a protégé of his. Yet that shrewd old veteran reckoned that even the quality of indolence had its uses. It could make a brilliant man concentrate fiercely on his work, in order to save time for his own purposes. The amount of time taken by a detective on an individual job is largely a matter on which his superiors must accept his word. Some men slog laboriously, while others get their results quickly. In minor positions there is always someone around to see that the work is done.

All this, however, does not apply in the same degree to a detective inspector. Such a one gives, more often than he receives, orders. As an executive Labar felt himself a failure. Well, well, a man must have a little time for golf.

A heavy hand fell with mathematical accuracy between his shoulder blades, and he flung round with a delicate shudder.

"One of these days, Moreland, someone's going to slap you hard on the wrist, slog you on the jaw, and kick you where it hurts most. You're too boisterous for the society of gentlemen."

Moreland, of the Flying Squad, grinned cheerfully. "Behold the infant phenomenon of Grape Street, as the apostle of gloom," he said, walking round Labar with mock awe. "Behold his shiny boots and well-creased trousers, and mark his creased forehead and frowning countenance. No, don't speak. Let me apply my well-known powers of deduction." He put his hand to his brow. "He has—yes he has been on the carpet."

A slow rueful smile broke on Labar's face. "You guessed it," he said. "If you want promotion there's the job of divisional inspector at Grape Street liable to be vacant some time. Better write out your application."

Moreland's levity vanished. "The old man's bitten you as bad as that? Cheer up, and pull yourself together. Come and tell papa all about it." He pulled Labar into an adjoining room, adjusted himself on a tall stool and lit a pipe. "Shoot," he ordered.

Harry Labar shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing to it," he declared. "Winter says things are too loose in the division. I've got to tighten them up, or——"

"The shelf, eh?" Moreland eyed his friend whimsically. "That'll be a new record for you. The youngest man to be promoted divisional inspector, and the youngest divisional inspector to retire. Well, why don't you tighten them up?"

"Blah, all blah. Easy talk. Look here, Moreland, my percentages of unsolved crime are up—but you know why. Curse it all, Winter knows as well as I do that Larry Hughes is operating in my district. No one, not even the old man himself, has ever pinned anything to Larry. I'm to be the goat. Why didn't they give me an easy division when they promoted me, instead of the wealthiest in London, infested by all the slickest crooks in the world? What right has the old man to be sore at me?"

Moreland slid from his stool and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Listen to me, Harry. They gave you the job because they thought you could do it. To blazes with your golf handicap. Now you go and take a pill and get on with it." He pushed the other gently from the room.

To few other men than Moreland would Labar have confided his troubles. He passed swiftly out of the little back door from the C.I.D. headquarters, dodging the Assistant Commissioner with some skill, for he felt that that official might be no less emphatic, if more urbane, than the Chief Constable on the state of crime in the West End.

His mind was focussed upon Larry Hughes. Larry was a gentleman who had never been in a criminal court in his life—a sleek, cultivated man about town, with a taste in literature and art, and enough money to run his own steam yacht and a racing stud. His life was apparently open to the world, his character to all seeming flawless, impeccable. Any head-strong police officer who had ventured to put a public slur on Larry's character, by hauling him to a dungeon cell, would have very promptly found himself with a suit for heavy damages on his hands.

Yet to Labar, as to many men in the police circles of the world, it was certain knowledge that Larry Hughes was the most adroit and intelligent crime organiser in London, or for the matter of that anywhere. It was certain but utterly unprovable.

There are half a dozen men in London, another half a dozen in New York, three in Paris, a couple in Amsterdam, and a few more knocking about other capitals of the world, who run crime on the principles of big business. Through many intermediaries there filters to them much knowledge which they have the means to turn to profit. These are eclectic in their enterprises, but in general they are receivers. They will organise and finance a burglary, a forgery, or a hold-up, but they keep well in the background. The casual thief has never heard of them; even the big professional crook frequently has only a dim conception of their identity. The loot never reaches them in any tangible and identifiable shape. They have their agents, and their tools, and many of them die in an atmosphere of eminent respectability.

Among this class the most audacious, the most ingenious, was Larry Hughes. Labar had little doubt that, if one really got to the bottom of things in his division, half the professional crime would have shown Larry's finger in the pie. Either Larry must lay off of his own volition—an unlikely event—or some method must be found of putting a spoke in his wheel. Harry Labar did not avoid the feeling that the task was likely to prove a man's size job.

He had reached Cockspur Street when the thing happened. Even if his mind had been less preoccupied, it is likely that he would have failed to notice the big touring car that edged itself through the traffic towards him. Not until it had swept close to the kerb, and he saw the girl leaning from the near side, did he realise that it held any significance for him. A wisp of fair hair had fallen over her forehead, and she brushed it back with a slim gloved hand. Harry Labar, although his colleagues held him doomed to bachelordom, had an eye for a pretty girl and he noticed her with subconscious approval as the car drew near.

Almost mechanically it dawned on him that her hand was stretched to him from the now slowly moving car.

"For you," said the girl, and a letter waved on a level with his eyes. As he reached to take it, the car leapt away like a living thing, with a rapidity that told of perfect acceleration and steel nerves at the wheel.

"Hey!"

The detective was aroused from his reverie on the instant. He sprang forward with a command to stop, that, even as he uttered it, he knew to be futile. The car was well away. It was vain to hope to stop it, and the speed at which it was moving showed it improbable that any taxi could overtake it, even had there been one near.

With a habit ingrained by years of training he took a pencil from his pocket and made a note of the number. Then, with a philosophic shrug of his shoulders, he slit the blank envelope that he held, and glanced at its contents. A Bank of England note for a hundred pounds lay in his hand. He inspected the envelope again, and threw an eye around to make sure that nothing had been dropped. There was nothing. Just a hundred pound note in a blank envelope.

"Well I'm damned," determined Detective Inspector Labar.

The method rather than the event had startled him. Although one hundred pound notes do not descend on detective inspectors every day of the week, there are philanthropists who attempt at times to impose money on police officers. It was a bribe of course. But the touch of melodrama was amateurish and clumsy. The most illiterate crook in London should have known that a hundred pound note was ridiculously easy to trace. The whole thing was raw. It was just possible that the car had a false number, but leaving that aside he would remember the girl. Yes, decidedly he would remember the girl.

He felt reasonably certain that in the normal course of events he would know more about it during the day. Without undue speculation, therefore, he betook himself to Grape Street, where, in the stiffly furnished room that formed the headquarters of the divisional detective force, he summoned one of his satellites and passed the note on.

"Find out what hands that note has been in," he ordered. "And while you're about it, m'lad, slip down and discover who owns a car numbered X20008. Take a note of that number. If I'm not here when you're through, leave a message for me."

With that off his mind, he shed his coat, and was about to immerse himself in the official routine correspondence that was the bane of his life, when there was a jangle of telephone bells, and a hearty-looking, ruddy-cheeked man engaged in converse that brought a fresher purple sheen to his face. He put down the receiver with an oath.

"Wish you wouldn't swear, Bill," said Labar, petulantly. "It jars on me."

It was at such a time that Detective Sergeant Malone, presuming on many years association, was wont to observe that he was no kid glove John. But at the moment he was too moved for remonstrance.

"We've struck it, guv'nor," he declared huskily. "This has put the tin hat on it this has."

Labar lit a cigarette wearily. "Tell me the worst," he said.

"They've made a clean sweep of Streetly House. Old Gertstein's foaming at the mouth. Quarter of a million of pounds worth of jewels and curios melted away as clean as a conjuring trick. I could smell Larry Hughes a thousand miles off in this." His tone was gloomy, for he knew something of Labar's troubles. "Nice look-out for us, an' the Yard not throwing any flowers our way as it is."

"You said it, Bill," agreed Labar, rising, and pulling down his shirt sleeves. "It's get on or get out, for me at any rate, this time. Get your hat on and tell 'em to ring through to the Chief. We're liable to have some work to do."

CHAPTER II

Anyone who could afford to live in Streetly House, that imposing and historic residence just off Park Lane, must by that fact alone, be known in some degree to the public. Mr. Solly Gertstein had added claims to a certain amount of limelight. He had been—was still to some extent—a financial power. He had interests in gold, in diamonds, in oil, but of late years he had relinquished the reins of his enterprises to brothers and cousins, while he concentrated on his ambition to get together a unique, and fabulously costly, collection of gems, and what the dealers call objets d'art.

He was not an artistic object in himself. A rotund little man, with a gait that somehow suggested a milk can rolled by a railway porter, and with a tendency to pomposity in his speech and manner, he yet contrived to hold some poise of dignity. He was unquestionably excited when Labar introduced himself.

"So you 'ave come." In moments of stress he was apt to lose his usual meticulous command of the English language. "You 'ave come at last."

"It is less than ten minutes since I got your message," observed the inspector.

"Ach!" Mr. Gertstein flung his hands wide in an expressive gesture, as of one who accepts an excuse in which there is no body. He rotated round the room, buzzing like an agitated wasp. "An hour. Dis is what I pay for," he proclaimed. "For dis I pay my thousands a year to the rates for police salaries. What protection do I get for it? None." He waved a podgy hand. "All the work of the finest craftsmen in the world stripped from me. You will get it back, eh?"

Labar felt that it was only the vulgarity of the expression that prevented Gertstein from adding, "I don't think." He lifted his eyebrows.

"You are insured?"

The other gave an impatient snort. "Insured! What is insurance to me? Do you think that I—Gertstein—want the money? That—poof—a fleabite. The insurance companies will pay, but will that help me to get back all my beautiful things? Years and years of work gone like dat." He snapped his fingers viciously.

"We'll do our best," said Labar, mildly. "Perhaps you will walk round with me and tell me all you know."

In his mind he felt small hope. The very magnitude of the crime showed it to be the work of men who thoroughly understood their business. Jewels would be dismounted and cut up, gold melted down, and other things rendered unrecognisable in the swiftest and most efficient fashion.

Other of the C.I.D. men from Labar's division were in the house by this time, and under his supervision a systematic and thorough search of the premises proceeded. It was a big rambling place, and it was obvious that the thieves, once they had obtained entrance, would have had no difficulty in secreting themselves till such time as they could work unobserved. As Labar expected, every burglar alarm in the place had been cut or put out of action in some way. The thieves must have gained precise information beforehand.

On the first floor two magnificent rooms had been given up to the display of Gertstein's treasures. The chastely-designed glass cases still stood in their imposing splendour, but alas, they were mere cenotaphs with their treasures vanished. At a superficial glance, indeed, it was difficult to realise that they had been tampered with, so delicate had been the skill with which they had been opened.

As Gertstein pointed out with some bitterness, the marauders had selected their spoil with the most consummate judgment. It was obvious that the raid had been carried through to clean-cut specifications. There were many dainty bits of artistry left, but they were such things as enamels, ivory carvings and the like, which had value only for their craftsmanship, and would be difficult to dispose of intact.

Nor was there evident any indication of the manner in which entry to the house had been gained, or the method by which the thieves had left. The windows and doors were unmarked. Not a bolt or lock had been forced. Throughout the night no suspicious noises had been heard, and it was only when in the course of ordinary routine that a maid had entered one of the exhibition rooms, at eleven o'clock in the morning, that the robbery had been discovered.

"Not so much as a blighting finger-print," Bill Malone observed, and at the finish of a meticulous examination of the windows, added that it was the smoothest bust that he had ever run across in the course of his carmined career.

But a mystery may be too mysterious, too faultily faultless. Any defect, any lapse on the part of the thieves might have left the police even more in the air. As it was, there remained little doubt in the minds of the detectives that their first surmise was right—that they could breathe in a word the name of the supreme culprit—but much doubt as to the possibility of acquiring evidence to run him down. The men who could plan or carry out such an undertaking were few.

Malone put it into words. "This has got the hall-mark of Larry, guv'nor."

Labar crinkled his brows, and nodded absently. The man who tackled this job would have in front of him a spasm of tough work, that in all probability would end in defeat by running his head against a brick wall. "Yes," he agreed. "It's got all that. Our friend Larry is certainly indicated, but we must not let ourselves be hypnotised about him. There's a bet you've overlooked, Bill."

"An inside job."

"It might be either—or both," said Labar, and turned with imperturbable face, that masked more than slight worry, to confront the shrewd beady eyes of Mr. Gertstein.

"What do you think now?" demanded the millionaire.

The inspector smoothed his chin. "I hate to make up my mind right away, Mr. Gertstein, but I'd be willing to make one guess at the man who knows all about this."

"So!" Gertstein rubbed his hands. "Then you have found out something. You have a clue. I'm a generous man, Inspector. If you get back those things I will treat you well. It will be worth—what—a thousand pounds to you."

"That's handsome of you, sir. But even if I was allowed to take a reward—which I couldn't do without the consent of the Yard—I wouldn't be too sure of getting it. As I say, I could give a guess about this business, but guesses don't carry us far. There isn't a shred of proof yet, and I tell you frankly I wouldn't gamble a half-penny on getting the men or getting the stuff."

"But you—you're a detective." Gertstein tugged impatiently at his little beard. "If you know what you say it should be easy."

"Easy, sir. Yes, it should be easy." Labar permitted a sardonic note to creep into his voice. "About as easy as taking treacle from a bear's mouth. I'm a detective, not a miracle worker."

Detectives after all, are very like other human beings. Labar was concerned at the back of his mind with the reaction this robbery might have upon his own personal affairs. He was not in good odour with his chiefs. True, he was the divisional inspector, and the burglary had taken place on his ground, but it was odds that some of the mandarins at the Yard would take the investigation out of his hands and place it in those of a chief inspector from headquarters. That, in the ordinary course of events would not be any slight, and Labar, with his constitutional indolence would have been glad to be relieved of any responsibility.

But in present circumstances it would wear an ominous air. He was young for the post he had reached, and there were many years in front of him before he would be eligible for a pension. He had attained a stage where all violent ambition had vanished, but still it would be galling to be put on the shelf.

His agitation of mind was disclosed by the fact that he had betrayed his hopelessness to Gertstein—a breach of professional etiquette as rank as that of a doctor who tells a patient that he is dying. He tried to efface the impression he had created by a laugh.

"We find it best to be a little pessimistic in our business, Mr. Gertstein. Then if things come off we get a bit more credit. Don't you worry. We'll do our best if only for our own sakes."

"You'd better," said Gertstein, grimly. "Don't forget that I can use a pull if I like, that would make the entire Metropolitan Police sit up."

Labar smiled serenely as though the threat had no meaning for him. Yet he did not believe it altogether an empty one. Gertstein, with his money and his affiliations, could probably do wicked damage to an obscure detective inspector if he chose to pull strings. That momentary tactlessness looked as if it might bring retribution.

The arrival of the Assistant Commissioner and the Chief Constable of the C.I.D., accompanied by Labar's immediate superior, Detective Superintendent Marlow—one of that select company the newspapers loved to refer to as the "Big Four"—broke into the conversation.

Gertstein shook hands with the three. "I hope you won't agree with your inspector that the case is hopeless—that I shall never see any of my beautiful things back," he said sourly.

Winter shot a swift glance at Labar, who straightened his back with a brave attempt at nonchalance. It was the Assistant Commissioner who answered.

"Nothing is ever hopeless, Mr. Gertstein. I am sure that you have misapprehended Mr. Labar's views."

The millionaire made a gesture of dissent. "I am not so big a fool as that," he retorted.