THE GIRL DETECTIVE
Druze had come in noiselessly at the door and stood, hand clasping
hand. His face was strangely pale; as he spoke, his right cheek
twitched spasmodically.
“Yes?”
“Will your ladyship see Miss Leslie Maughan?”
“Miss!” exclaimed Anita, as Jane Raytham rose.
“Miss Leslie Maughan of the Criminal Investigation Department,
Scotland Yard?”
Lady Raytham put out her hand and gripped the back of the chair; her
face was bloodless; she opened her mouth to speak, but no word came.
Greta was staring at the big woman, but Princess Anita Bellini had no
eyes but for the pale butler.
“I will see her--in the small drawing room, Druze. Excuse me.”
She swept out of the room and pulled the door behind her until Druze
had disappeared round the lower landing. By her right hand was the
door of her own room, and she entered swiftly and noiselessly,
switching on the lights as she closed the door. She stared into the
mirror. Ghastly! That white, drawn face of hers carried confession.
Had she been betrayed? Had they fulfilled their threat?
Pulling out a drawer of her dressing table, she fumbled for and found
a little pot of rouge and with a quick, deft hand brought an
unaccustomed bloom to her cheeks.
Another glance at her face in the glass and she went out and sailed
down the stairs, a smile on her lips, and in her heart despair.
All the lights were lit in the little drawing room, and her first
emotion was one of surprise and relief. She had not known there were
women detectives at Scotland Yard, but she could imagine them as
hard-faced, sour creatures in ready-made clothes.
The girl who stood by the table looking down at the illustrated
newspaper that Druze had supplied looked to be about twenty-two. She
wore a straight nutria coat, a big bunch of violets pinned to one of
the revers. She was as tall as Jane Raytham and as straight; trim
silken ankles, neatly shod. The face under the upturned brim of a
little felt hat was more surprising yet. A pair of dark eyes rose to
meet Jane Raytham’s. The lips red as Greta’s, yet owing nothing to
artifice, were finely moulded. She had a firm, round chin, and the
hint of a white throat somewhere behind the protective fur. In some
confusion Lady Raytham catalogued the visible qualities of her
unexpected caller.
“You are not Miss Maughan?” she asked.
When Leslie Maughan smiled, she smiled with eyes and lips, and the
dimpled hollows that came to her cheeks made her seem absurdly young.
“Yes, that is my name, Lady Raytham. I am awfully sorry to bother you,
but my chief is rather a martinet.”
“You are a detective? I didn’t know----”
“That there were women detectives?” asked the girl. “And you’re right!
My position is unique. I am an assistant to Chief Inspector Coldwell.
The commissioners, who are rather conservative people, do not object
to that. But I suppose I really am a detective. I make inquiries.”
She stood by the table, one hand on her hip, one playing with the
leaves of the picture paper, her unwavering gaze fixed on Jane
Raytham.
“I’m making inquiries now, Lady Raytham,” she said quietly. “I want to
know why you drew twenty thousand pounds from your bank last Monday.”
For a second the woman was panic-stricken; so far lost control that
she all but stammered the truth. The will that held her silent,
apparently unmoved, was the supreme effort of her life. Then her
training came to her rescue.
The control of her voice was perfect.
“Since when have the police had authority to supervise the banking
accounts of private citizens?” she asked in cold, measured tones.
“That is an extraordinary request! Is it then an offence for me to
withdraw twenty thousand pounds from my own account? How did you
know?”
“One gets to know things, Lady Raytham.” She was cool, unruffled by
the indignation, real or simulated. “Lady Raytham, you think we are
being very impertinent and abominable. And it is certain that, if you
report this matter to Scotland Yard, I shall be reprimanded. But we
expect that----”
Jane Raytham had so far recovered toward the normal that she could
open her gray eyes in astonishment.
“Then why on earth have you come?” she asked.
She saw Leslie Maughan draw a deep breath; the ghost of a smile
trembled at the corner of her mouth and vanished.
“Twenty thousand pounds is a lot of money,” she said softly. There was
a note of pleading in her voice, and suddenly, with a cry she could
not suppress, the significance of the visit flashed upon the woman.
They knew. The police knew the destination or purpose of that money.
Her breath came faster; she could only look into those dark eyes in
fear and try as best she could to order her thoughts. Dark
eyes--violet, not the burned brown of Greta’s, but a violet that was
almost black. A detective--this slip of a girl! She was well dressed,
too; the femininity in Jane Raytham took stock of it unconsciously.
The gloves were from Renaud’s; only Renaud cut that quaint,
half-gauntlet wrist.
“Won’t you tell me? It might save you so much unhappiness. We try to
do that at the Yard--save people unhappiness. You’d never dream that,
would you? But the police are more like big brothers than ogres. Won’t
you?”
Jane Raytham shook her head; it was a mistake, the only one she made,
to attempt speech.
“No, I won’t!” she said breathlessly. “There is nothing to tell. Your
interference is unwarrantable. I shall write. I shall write.”
She swayed, and instantly Leslie Maughan was by her side; and the
strength of her grip was the second surprise that Jane Raytham had.
With an effort, she wrenched her arm free.
“Now you can go, please! And if I do not report you, it is because I
think you have acted in ignorance--overzeal.”
She nodded toward the door, and Leslie slowly gathered up her bag and
her umbrella.
“If you ever want me, you will find my telephone number on my card.”
Lady Raytham still held the crumpled card in her hand. Now she looked
at it and very deliberately walked to the fire and dropped it into the
flames.
“Or the telephone book,” said Leslie, as she went out.
Druze was in the hall, dry-washing his hands with nervous rapidity. He
hastened to the street door and opened it.
“Good-night, miss,” he said huskily, and she looked at him and
shivered. Why Leslie Maughan shivered she did not know, but she had at
that moment a vivid and terrifying illusion.
It was as though she were looking into the blank eyes of one who was
already dead.