“You’re like all the rest of them,” he said. “You know it all.” He levelled a forefinger. “You’ve got away with it so far, Larry Hughes. I’ll not deny that you’ve got brains. But you’ve got vanity, and that’s where you’ll come a cropper. You may swizzle me, as you have others, but in the end it isn’t me you’re up against. It’s Scotland Yard, it’s Mulberry Street, it’s the Sûreté. It’s every police officer you may pass from here to Timbuktu. You can’t fight men, money and organisation all the time. Think a bit.”

There lurked a humorous twitch at the corner of Larry Hughes’ lips, and there was less cynicism there. “Tell me, did you ever hear of a foxhunter giving up because he might break his neck? If I were a criminal, it’s just conceivable that I might like the game for its own sake.”

“Then I hope you break your neck,” retorted Labar with asperity. “I’ll give you a case in point. When you let amateurs into this bust you slipped a cog. I’ve had Penelope Noelson under observation for the last eighteen hours, and today, she’ll be placed under detention. And I rather fancy she’ll talk.”