The forty thousand dollars was brought to light.
"Quite a nice haul," a policeman commented, examining the roll of bills.
"You can't arrest a man for having money in his pocket," Lynch said harshly. "You don't find it marked do you?"
"The truth is, you have no case against us," Cron snapped. "It's only this silly girl's word against ours. No doubt she's been reading detective stories!"
"I can furnish an alibi for the entire day," Lynch added.
"Unless this ridiculous charge is dropped I warn you I'll sue for false arrest," Cron went on furiously.
The officers paid no heed to the talk, yet they knew that their case against the four was not water-tight. As Cron had said, it was a matter of Penny Nichols' testimony against the four. True, she had the Rembrandt as evidence, but it might be difficult to prove that the four men had been involved in the theft. They had painful recollections of other cases against Max Lynch which had dissolved like soap bubbles in a wind. The man had no equal at producing unexpected witnesses who for a sum of money would provide him with a complete alibi. His lawyer, employed at a yearly salary, was as clever as he was unscrupulous.
"Search the room," the police captain ordered. "The Dillon pearls must be here."
The men set about their task with system and thoroughness. They examined every inch of the mattress, they went through all of the clothing, even ripping out the linings of coats and jackets. The floor boards were tested to learn if any had been recently loosened.
"You'll not find the necklace here," Cron said harshly.