about your bonus.”
Remington licked his dry lips.
“I am thinking about the sum of four thousand pounds which your
lordship owes me, and which I have been waiting for very patiently for
the last two years,” he said. “I am tired of this kind of work, and I
am anxious to have a little rest and recreation. I’m getting on in
years, and it’s very nearly time I had a change.”
Lord Claythorpe was scribbling idly on his blotting-pad.
“How much do you think I will owe you, altogether, with the bonus I
promised you for your assistance?”
“Nearer ten thousand pounds than four,” replied the man.
“Oh!” said his lordship carelessly. “That is a large sum, but you may
depend upon receiving it the moment my boy is married. I have been
spending a lot of money lately, Remington. It cost a lot to get back
that pearl necklace.”
“You mean the Venetian Armlet?” said the other quickly. “I didn’t know
that you had the pearl necklace back?”
“Anyway, I advertised for it,” said his lordship evasively.
“Fixing no definite reward,” said Remington, “and for a very good
reason.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lord Claythorpe quickly.
“The pearls were faked,” said the calm Remington. “Your fifty thousand
pound necklace was worth little more than fifty pounds!”
“Hush! for heavens’ sake,” said Claythorpe. “Don’t talk so loud.” He
mopped his brow. “You seem to know a devil of a lot,” he said
suspiciously. “In fact, there are moments, Remington, when I think you
know a damn sight too much for my comfort.”
Remington smiled for the first time--a thin hard smile that gave his
face a sinister appearance.
“All the more reason why your lordship should get rid of me as soon as
possible,” he said. “I have no ambition except to own a little cottage
in Cornwall, where I can fish, ride a horse, and idle away my time.”
His lordship rose hurriedly and took off his coat, preparatory to
washing his hands in a small wash-place leading from the office.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “I had forgotten I have to lunch with
somebody. Your ambition shall be gratified--be sure of that,
Remington,” he said, passing into the smaller room.
“I hope so,” said Remington. His eyes were fixed on the floor. In
throwing down his coat a letter had dropped from Claythorpe’s pocket,
and Remington stooped to pick it up. He saw the postmark and the
handwriting, and recognized it as that of Mrs. Wilberforce. He heard
the splash of the water in the bowl and Lord Claythorpe’s voice
humming a little tune. Without a moment’s hesitation he took it out
and read it. The letter was short.
“My dear Lord Claythorpe,” it ran. “Joyce is adamant on the point of
the marriage, and says she will not go through with it for another
twelve months.”
He replaced the letter in the envelope, and put it back in the inside
pocket of the coat.
Twelve months! Claythorpe had lied when he said a month, and was
obviously lying with a purpose.
When his lordship emerged, wiping his hands on a towel, and still
humming a little tune, Remington was gazing out of the window upon the
chimney tops of Jermyn Street.
“I shall be back at half-past two,” said Lord Claythorpe,
perfunctorily examining a small heap of letters which lay on his desk.
“The bank people will be here by then?”
Remington nodded.
“I am worried about this transfer of Miss Joyce’s securities,” he
said. “They are safe enough in the bank. I do not think they will be
safe with you.”
“Rubbish,” said his lordship. “I think I know how to deal with Four
Square Jane. And besides, I am going to ensure the safety of the
securities. Four Square Jane isn’t the kind of person who would steal
paper security. It wouldn’t be any good to her, anyway.”
“But suppose these documents disappear?” persisted Remington. “Though
it might not assist Four Square Jane, it would considerably embarrass
you and Miss Joyce. It would not be a gain, perhaps, to the burglar,
but it would be a distinct loss to the young lady.”
“Don’t worry,” said Claythorpe, “neither Four Square Jane nor her
confederate, Mr. Jamieson Steele--”
“Jamieson Steele?” repeated Remington. “What has he to do with it?”
Lord Claythorpe chuckled.
“It is my theory--and it is a theory, I think, which is also held by
the police--that Jamieson Steele is the gentleman who assists Miss
Four Square Jane in her robberies.”
“I’ll never believe it,” said Remington.
Lord Claythorpe had his hand on the door, preparatory to departing,
and he turned at these words.
“Perhaps you do not believe that he forged my name to a cheque in this
very office?” he said.
“I certainly do not believe that,” said Remington. “In fact I know
that that story is a lie.”
Claythorpe’s face went red.
“That is an ugly word to use to me, Remington,” he said, “I think the
sooner you go the better.”
“I quite agree with your lordship,” said Remington, and smiled as the
door slammed behind his irate master.
When Claythorpe returned he was in a more amicable frame of mind, and
greeted the two bank officials with geniality. On the big table was a
black japanned box, heavily sealed. The business of transferring the
sealed packages which constituted the contents of the box was not a
long process. Lord Claythorpe checked them with a list he took from
his case, and signed a receipt.
“I suppose your lordship would not like to break the seals of these
envelopes?” said the assistant bank manager. “Of course, we are not
responsible for their contents, but it would be more satisfactory to
us, as I am sure it would be to your lordship, if you were able to
verify the contents.”
“It is not necessary,” said Claythorpe, with a wave of his hand. “I’ll
just reseal the box and put it in my safe.”
This he did in the presence of the manager, locking away the box in an
old-fashioned steel safe--a proceeding which the bankers witnessed
without enthusiasm.
“That doesn’t seem very secure,” said one, “I wish your lordship----”
“I wish you would mind your own business,” said Lord Claythorpe, and
the bankers left, “blessing” the truculent man under their breath.
At six o’clock that afternoon Claythorpe finished the work on which he
had been engaged, closed and locked his desk, tried the safe, and put
on his hat. He glanced through the front window and saw that his car
was waiting, and that it was pelting with rain.
“Which way are you going, Remington?” he asked. “I can give you a lift
as far as Park Lane.”
“No, thank you, my lord,” said Remington, struggling into his
mackintosh. “I am going by tube, and I have not far to walk.”
They went out of the office together, double-locking the stout door.
Before leaving, Remington attached a burglar alarm which communicated
with a large bell outside the building, and he repeated this process
before the door was actually closed and double-locked.
“I want you to be here at nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” said
Claythorpe to his subordinate. “Good-night.”
The inclemency of the weather increased as the evening advanced. A
howling south-west gale swept over London, clearing the streets of
idlers and limiting to some extent the activities of the police
patrols. The police officer who was on duty within a few yards of the
building, and who was relieved at eleven o’clock that night, stated
that he saw or heard nothing of a suspicious character. In the course
of his tour of duty, he tried the door which led to Lord Claythorpe’s
office but found it fastened. His relief, a man named Tomms, made an
examination of the door at a quarter past eleven--it was his business
to examine every door in the street to see that they were securely
fastened--and, in addition, acting upon instructions received from
Scotland Yard, “pegged” the door. That is to say, he inserted two
small wedges of the size of match sticks, one in each door-post, and
tied a piece of black cotton from one to the other.
At one o’clock he tried the door again, and flashed his lamp upon the
black thread, and found that it had been broken. This could only mean
that someone had passed into the office between eleven and one. He
summoned assistance, and roused the caretaker, who lived in adjoining
premises, and together they went into the darkened building, and
mounted the stairs.
Lord Claythorpe’s office door was apparently closed. It led, as the
caretaker explained, directly into the main office. There was no sign
of jemmy work, and the officers might have given up their
investigations and found a simple explanation for the broken thread in
the wildness of the night, when, flashing his lamp on the floor, one
of the policemen saw a thin trickle of red coming from beneath. It was
blood!
The police did not hesitate, but smashed open the door, and entered
with some difficulty, for immediately behind the door was lying the
body of a man. Tomms switched on the light and knelt down by the side
of the body.
“He’s dead,” he said. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes, sir,” said the white-faced caretaker, “that’s Mr. Remington.”
The police made a perfunctory examination.
“You’d better get the divisional surgeon, Jim,” he said to his
comrade. “But I’m afraid it’s no use. This poor fellow has been shot
through the heart.”
He looked round the apartment. The safe door was wide open and empty.
Half-an-hour later Peter Dawes arrived on the scene of the murder and
made a brief examination. He looked at the body.
“Was he like this?” he asked, “when you found him?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the officer.
“He has a knife in his hand.”
Peter bent down and looked at the thin-bladed weapon, tightly clenched
in the dead man’s hand.
“What’s that, sir?” said Tomms, pointing to the other hand. “It looks
like a paper there.”
The card in Remington’s half-clenched fist was loosely held, and the
detective gently withdrew it. It was a visiting-card, and the name
inscribed thereon was, “Mr. Jamieson Steele, Civil Engineer.” Peter
Dawes whistled, and then walked across to the safe.
“That’s queer,” he said, and swung the door of the safe closed in the
hope of finding something behind it.
He found something, but not what he had expected. In the centre of the
green steel door was a small label. It was a label bearing the mark of
Four Square Jane.
VI
Four Square Jane had committed a murder! It was incredible. All
Peter Dawes’ fine theories went by the board in that discovery. This
was not the work of a society crook; it was not the work of a criminal
philanthropist; there was evidence here of the most cold-blooded
murder that it had been his business to investigate.
Summoned from his bed at three o’clock in the morning, Lord Claythorpe
came to his office a greatly distressed man. He was shivering from
sheer terror when he told the story of the securities which had been
in the safe when he had left the office.
“And I was warned. I was warned!” he cried. “Poor Remington himself
begged me not to do it. What a fool I am!”
“What was Remington doing here?” asked Peter.
The body of the murdered man had long since been removed to the
mortuary, and only the dark stain on the floor spoke eloquently of
tragedy.
“I haven’t any idea,” said his lordship. “I simply dare not let myself
think. Poor fellow! It is a tragedy, an appalling tragedy!”
“I know all about that,” said Peter drily. “Murders usually are. But
what was Remington doing in this office between eleven at night and
one o’clock in the morning?”
Lord Claythorpe shook his head.
“I can only offer you my theory,” he said, “for what it is worth. Poor
Remington was greatly worried about the securities being in this
office at all, and he begged me to get a caretaker, a commissionaire
or somebody, to sit in the office during the night. Very foolishly I
rejected this excellent suggestion. I can only surmise that, worried
by the knowledge that so many valuable securities were in this
inadequate safe, Remington came in the middle of the night, intending
to remain on guard himself.”
Peter nodded. It was a theory which had the appearance of being a
feasible one.
“Then you think that he was surprised by the burglar?”
“Or burglars,” said Lord Claythorpe. “Yes, I do.”
Peter sat at his lordship’s desk, tapping at the blotting-pad with his
fingers.
“There is a lot to support your theory,” he said. “From the appearance
of the body and the weapon in his hand, it is a likely suggestion that
he was defending himself. On the other hand, look at this.”
He took a crumpled envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table.
It was stained with blood and the flap was heavily sealed.
“We found this under his body,” said the detective. “You will note
that the envelope has been slit open by some sharp instrument--in
fact, such an instrument as was found in Remington’s hand when the
body was discovered.”
His lordship pondered this.
“Possibly he surprised them in the act of opening the envelope, and
snatched it away,” he said, and again the detective nodded.
“I agree with you that that is also a plausible theory,” he said. “Had
he a key of the safe?”
Lord Claythorpe hesitated.
“Not that I know,” he said. “Why, yes, of course, he had! I did not
realize it. Yes, Remington had a key.”
“And is this the key?” Peter Dawes handed his lordship a long steel
key which he had taken from his pocket, and Lord Claythorpe examined
it intently.
“Yes,” he said, “that is undoubtedly one of the keys of the safe.
Where did you find it?”
“Under the table,” said the detective.
“Are there any other clues?” asked his lordship after a pause, and
this time Peter did not immediately answer.
“Yes, there is one,” he said. “We found in the dead man’s hand a small
visiting-card.”
“What was the name?” asked the other quickly.
“The name was Mr. Jamieson Steele, who, I believe, was a former
employee of yours.”
“Steele! By heaven! That fits in with what I have been saying all
along!” cried Claythorpe. “So Steele was in it!”
“It doesn’t follow because this card was found in Remington’s hand
that the card belonged to the burglar,” said Peter quietly. “It is not
customary in criminal circles for murderers to leave their cards upon
their victims, as I daresay your lordship knows.”
Claythorpe looked at him sharply.
“This does not seem to me to be a moment when you can exercise your
sarcasm at my expense,” he growled. “I tell you Steele is a
blackguard, and is the kind of man who would assist this notorious
woman in her undertakings. Of course, if you’re going to shield
him----”
“I shield nobody,” said Peter coldly. “I would not even shield your
lordship if I had the slightest evidence against you. Of that you may
be sure.”
Lord Claythorpe winced.
“This is a heavy loss for you,” said Peter, who was ignorant of the
contents of the safe. Then, noticing the other’s silence, he asked
quickly: “You will, of course, give me the fullest information as to
what the safe contained. And you can’t do better than tell me now. Was
it ready money?”
Lord Claythorpe shook his head.
“Nothing but securities,” he said, “and those not of a negotiable
character.”
“Your securities?” asked Peter. “What was their value?”
“About a quarter of a million,” said his lordship, and Peter gasped.
“Your money?” he asked again.
“No,” hesitated Lord Claythorpe. “Not my money, but a trust fund----”
Peter sprang up from the table.
“You don’t mean to say that this was the fortune of Miss Joyce
Wilberforce about which we were talking this morning?”
His lordship nodded.
“It is,” he said briefly. “It is a great tragedy, and I don’t know how
I shall excuse myself to the poor girl.”
“You, of course, know what the securities were?” said Peter in a dry,
matter-of-fact voice, as he sat down once more at the table.
In that moment he betrayed no more emotion than if he had been
investigating the most commonplace of shop robberies.
“I have a list,” said Claythorpe, and for nearly an hour he was
detailing particulars of the bonds which had been stolen.
Peter finished his inquiry at four in the morning, and went to his
office to send out an all-Britain message.
It was not like Jane, this latest crime. It was certainly not like
Jane or her assistant--if she had an assistant--to leave an
incriminating visiting-card in poor Remington’s hand.
Peter Dawes was wise in the ways of criminals, both habitual and
involuntary. He had seen a great deal of the grim side of his
profession, and had made a careful study of anatomy, particularly in
relation to murdered people. He was satisfied in his own mind that the
card that was held in the lightly clenched fist of the dead man had
been placed there after he had been shot.
He expressed himself frankly to his chief.
“The card is evidently a plant to lead us off the track; and if it was
put there by Four Square Jane it was designed with the object of
switching suspicion from her on to the unfortunate Steele.”
“Do you think you’ll catch Steele?” asked the chief.
Peter nodded.
“Yes, sir, I can catch him just when I want him, I think,” he said.
“It was only because we didn’t want to take this man that we have let
him go loose so long. He was a fool to run away, because the evidence
against him was pretty paltry.”
Dawes had a large number of calls to make the following morning, and
the first of these was on a firm of safemakers in Queen Victoria
Avenue. He had the good fortune to find that the sales manager had
been in control of the store for the past twenty years, and that he
remembered distinctly selling the safe to Lord Claythorpe.
“That’s a relief,” smiled the detective. “I was afraid I should have
to go all over London to find the seller. How many keys did you
supply?”
“Two,” said the man. “One for his lordship, and one for Mr.
Remington.”
“Was there any difference in the two keys?”
“None except the marking. Have you one of the keys here?”
The detective produced it from his pocket, but when the salesman put
out his hand for it he shook his head, with a smile.
“No, I’ll keep it in my own hand, if you don’t mind. I have a special
reason,” he said. “Perhaps you will describe the marking.”
“It’s inside the loop of the handle,” explained the salesman. “You
will find a small number engraved there--No. 1 or No. 2. No. 1 was
intended for his lordship, No. 2 for Mr. Remington. The numbers were
put there at Lord Claythorpe’s suggestion in order to avoid confusion.
It sometimes happens that both keys are in use together, and it is
obviously desirable that they should not be mixed.”
Peter looked at the inside of the loop and saw the number, then placed
the key in his pocket with a little smile.
“Thank you; I think you have told me all that I want to know,” he
said. “You are sure that there are not three keys?”
“Perfectly certain,” said the man emphatically. “And what is more, it
would have been impossible to have got these keys cut, except by our
firm.”
Peter went back to Scotland Yard to find a telegram waiting for him.
It was handed in at Falmouth by the chief of the local constabulary,
and read:--
“Jamieson Steele is here. Shall I arrest? We have undoubted evidence
that he spent last night in Falmouth with his wife.”
“His wife?” said the puzzled detective. “I didn’t know Steele was
married. Well, that lets him out as far as the murder’s concerned. The
question is shall we pinch him for the forgery?”
He consulted his friend the Inspector, and the advice he received with
regard to the arrest on the lesser charge was emphatic.
“Leave him alone,” said the wise man. “It does us no good to arrest a
man unless we are certain of conviction, and the only real offence
that Jamieson Steele has committed was the fool offence of running
away when he ought to have stood his ground. I interviewed the bank
manager immediately after that crime, and the bank manager swore that
the signature was not a forgery, but was Lord Claythorpe’s own; and
with that evidence before the jury you’re not going to get a
conviction, young fellow!”
Peter debated this point, and at last decided to wire to Steele asking
him to come up and meet him.
The papers were filled with the stories of Four Square Jane’s latest
exploit. This, indeed, was the culmination of a succession of
sensational crimes. Her character, her eccentricities, the record of
her several offences, appeared in every newspaper. There were
witnesses who had seen a mysterious woman hurrying up St. James’
Street a quarter of an hour after the crime must have been committed;
there were others who were certain they saw a veiled woman getting
into a car at the bottom of St. James’ Street; in fact, the usual crop
of rumours and evidence was forthcoming, none of which was of the
slightest value to the police.
That afternoon the detective visited Lord Claythorpe. He found that
gentleman in very close consultation with a grave Mr. Lewinstein. To
the credit of that genial Hebrew financier it must be said that,
however optimistic might be the prospectuses he framed from time to
time, he was undoubtedly straight. And Mr. Lewinstein’s gravity of
demeanour was due to a doubt which had arisen in his mind for the
first time as to the trustworthy character of his lordly business
associate. They greeted the detective--his lordship suspiciously and a
little nervously, Lewinstein with evident relief.
“Well,” asked Claythorpe, “have you made any discovery?”
“Several,” said Peter. “We have been able to reconstruct the crime up
to a point, and we have also proved that Mr. Steele was in Falmouth
when the murder was committed.”
A little shade passed over the sallow face of Lord Claythorpe.
“How could you prove that when you don’t know where he is?” he asked.
“We found where he was, all right,” said Peter with satisfaction.
“And you have arrested him, of course?” demanded his lordship. “I mean
for the forgery.”
The other smiled.
“Honestly, Lord Claythorpe, do you seriously wish us to arrest
Jamieson Steele, in view of the overwhelming evidence in support of
his contention that the cheque was given to him by you, and signed by
you?”
“It’s a lie!” roared Lord Claythorpe, bringing his fist down on the
table.
“It may be a lie,” said Peter Dawes quietly, “but it is a lie the jury
will believe, and I can’t believe that the outcome of such a
prosecution will be very profitable to your lordship.”
Claythorpe was silent. Presently he looked up and caught Lewinstein’s
eye, and Lewinstein nodded.
“I quite agree,” said that gentleman seriously. “I never thought there
was much of a case against young Steele. He was a good boy. Why he got
rattled and ran away heaven only knows.”
Claythorpe changed the subject, which was wholly disagreeable to him.
“Have you found anything else?”
“Nothing except this,” said Peter, taking a key from his pocket and
laying it on the table before Lord Claythorpe. “Will you be kind
enough to show me your key?”
Claythorpe looked at the other for fully a minute.
“Certainly,” he said. He disappeared from the room and returned with a
bunch of keys, on the end of which lay the facsimile of that which lay
on the table.
Peter took the key and examined it. He looked at the inside of the
loop, and as he did so an involuntary cry broke from Claythorpe’s
lips.
“A jumping tooth,” he mumbled in apology. “Well, what have you found?”
“I’ve found that your keys have got slightly mixed,” said Peter. “You
have Remington’s, and the key found in the office after the murder is
yours!”
“Impossible!” said Lord Claythorpe.
“It is one of the impossible things that has happened,” said Peter.
“Well, there’s an explanation for that,” Claythorpe began, but Peter
stopped him.
“Of course there is,” he said. “There are a hundred explanations, all
of which are quite satisfactory. I suppose you had the keys out
together on the table, and they got mixed at some time or other, and
you did not notice. I’m not suggesting that you can’t explain. I
merely point out this fact, which at present has no bearing, or very
little, on any aspect of the case.”
Lewinstein and the detective went from the house together. His
lordship, left alone, paced the study restlessly. Then he sat down at
his desk and began to write. He produced two large canvas envelopes
from the drawer of his desk, and into one of these he inserted a
square certificate. He examined it casually before he put it into the
cover. It was a debenture certificate issued by the North American
Smelter Corporation for five hundred thousand dollars, and there was a
particular reason why he should not have this valuable and important
document in his house. He addressed the envelope containing the cover
to himself in London. This he crossed with blue pencil, and from a
drawer took out a small box containing a number of unused stamps. They
were not British stamps, but Colonial, including Australian, African,
Indian, and British Chinese. He fixed two Australian stamps, and
placed the envelope within another, a little bigger. This he addressed
to the manager of a Tasmanian bank, with whom he had done some
business. To this gentleman he wrote a letter, saying that he expected
to be in Australia by the time this letter reached it’s destination.
“But,” the letter went on, “if by any chance I am not able to get to
Australia, and I do not call for this packet within a week after its
arrival, or notify you by cable, asking you to keep it for me, will
you please send it back to me by registered post.”
That was a job well done, he thought, as he sealed the envelope. This
incriminating document would at any rate be out of the country for
three months. Should he register it? He scratched his chin dubiously.
Registration literally meant registration. If people inquired as to
whether he had made any important transfer by mail, there would be no
difficulty in discovering, not only the fact that he had posted such a
letter, but the address to which it had been posted. No, on the whole
he thought it would be better if he sent the letter by ordinary post.
He put on his hat and coat, and took the letter himself to the nearest
post office. On his return his butler announced a visitor.
“Miss Wilberforce!” said his lordship in surprise, “I thought she was
in the country.”
“She arrived a few minutes after you left, m’lord.”
“Excellent!” said Claythorpe. It was the last person he had expected
to see, and he fetched a sigh of relief. It might have been awkward if
she had arrived earlier--at any rate, it was a remarkable coincidence
that she had come at all that evening.
He found her standing by his table, and went towards her with
outstretched hands.
“My dear Joyce,” he said, “whatever brings you here?”
“I had a telegram about the robbery,” she said; and then for the first
time he realized that he had not troubled to notify the only person
who was really affected by the burglary.
“Who wired you?”
“The police.”
Still he was puzzled.
“But you couldn’t have had the wire till eleven,” he said, “how on
earth did you get here?”
She smiled rather quietly.
“I did rather an adventurous thing,” she replied. “There is an
aeroplane service between Falmouth and London.”
He could only stare at her.
“That was very enterprising of you, Joyce.”
“Tell me,” she said, “did you also wire about this robbery?”
“I’ve been waiting till I got the fullest details before I notified
you,” said Lord Claythorpe easily. “You see, my dear girl, I have no
wish to worry or frighten you, and possibly there was some chance that
this wretched woman would return the securities, or at any rate give
me a chance of redeeming them.”
She nodded.
“I see,” she said. “Then I can do nothing?”
He shook his head.
“Absolutely nothing.”
She pursed her lips irresolutely.
“Can I write a letter?” she asked.
“Sit down, sit down, my dear child,” he fussed. “You’ll find paper and
envelopes in this case.”
* * * * *
At eleven o’clock that night, South Western District Post Office No. 2
was a scene of animation. Postal vans, horse vans and motors were
pulled up level with the big platform which led from the sorting room,
and a dozen porters were engaged in handling mail bags for various
destinations. The vans conveying local London mails had been
despatched to the various district offices, the last to leave being a
small one-horse van carrying the foreign mails to the G.P.O. It was
driven by a middle-aged attendant named Carter, and pulled out of the
yard at a quarter to twelve.
The weather was a repetition of that which had been experienced on the
previous night. The south-wester was still blowing, the rain was
coming down in gusty squalls, and the driver, muffled up to the chin,
whipped up his horse to face the blast. His way led through the most
deserted part of London’s West End--more deserted than usual on this
stormy night. One of the main streets through which he had to pass was
“up,” being in the hands of the road repairers, and he turned into a
side street to make a detour which would bring him clear of the
obstruction. He observed, as he again turned his horse into the narrow
thoroughfare running parallel with the main road, that the street
lamps were extinguished, and put this down to the storm. He was in the
blackest patch of the road, when a red lamp flashed right ahead of
him, and he pulled his horse back on its haunches.
“What’s the trouble?” he said leaning down and addressing the figure
that held the lamp.
For answer, a blinding ray of light, directed by a powerful pocket
lamp, struck him full in the face, and before he realised what had
happened, someone had leapt on to the wheel and was by his side,
clutching at the rails on top of the van. Something cold and hard was
pressed against his neck.
“Utter a sound and you’re a dead man,” said a man’s voice.
A quarter of an hour later, all that stood for authority in London was
searching for a dark low motor car, and Peter Dawes, sitting on the
edge of his bed in his pyjamas, was eagerly questioning one of his
junior officers over the ’phone.
“Robbed the mail? Impossible! How did it happen? Were they arrested?
I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”
He slipped into a suit, buttoned his mackintosh, and stepped out into
the wild night. His flat was opposite a cab rank, and in less than ten
minutes he was at Scotland Yard.
“… the man said the thing was over so quickly he hadn’t a chance of
shouting, besides which, the fellow who stood by his side threatened
to shoot him.”
“What have they taken?”
“Only one bag, so far as can be ascertained. They knew just what they
were after, and when they had got it they disappeared. The constable
at the other end of the street heard the man shout, and came running
down just in time to see a motor car turn the corner.”
Later, Peter interviewed the driver, a badly scared man, in the
stable-yard of the contractor who supplied the horses for the post
office vans. The driver was a man who had been in the Government
service for ten years, and had covered the route he was following that
night--except that he had never previously taken the side street
rendered necessary by the condition of the road--for the greater part
of that time.
“Did you see anybody else except the man who sat by your side and
threatened you?” asked Peter.
“Yes, sir,” replied the man. “I saw what I thought was a girl in a
black oilskin; she passed round to the back of the van.”
“Where is the van? Is it here?” asked the detective, and they showed
him a small, four-wheeled vehicle, covered in at the top and with two
doors which were fastened behind by a steel bar and padlocked. The
padlock had been wrenched open, and the doors now stood ajar.
“They had taken out the mail bags, sir, in order to sort them out to
see what was gone.”
Peter flashed his lamp in the interior, examining the floor and sides
carefully. There was no clue of any kind until he began his inspection
of the inside of the doors, and there, on the very centre, was the
familiar label.
“Four Square Jane, eh?” said Peter, and whistled.
VII
“I deeply regret that I found it necessary to interfere with His
Majesty’s mails. In a certain bag was a letter which was very
compromising to me, and it was necessary that I should recover it. I
beg to enclose the remainder of the letters which are, as you will
see, intact and untampered with!”
This document, bearing the seal manual of Four Square Jane, was
delivered to the Central Post Office accompanied by a large mail bag.
The person who delivered it was a small boy of the District Messenger
Service, who brought the package in a taxi-cab. He could give no
information as to the person who had sent him except to say that it
was a lady wearing a heavy veil, who had summoned him to a popular
hotel, and had met him in the vestibule. They had taken a cab
together, and at the corner of Clarges Street the cab had pulled up on
the instructions of the lady; a man had appeared bearing a bundle that
he had put into a cab which then drove on. A little later the lady had
stopped the cab, given the boy a pound note, and herself descended.
The boy could only say that in his opinion she was young, and
undoubtedly in mourning.
Here was new fuel to the flames of excitement which the murder of
Remington had aroused. A murder one day, accompanied by a robbery
which, if rumour had any foundation, involved nearly a quarter of a
million pounds, and this tragedy followed on the next day by the
robbery of the King’s mail; and all at the hands of a mysterious woman
whose name was already a household word--these happenings apart from
the earlier crimes were sufficient to furnish not only London but the
whole of Britain with a subject for discussion.
Lord Claythorpe heard the news of the robbery with some uneasiness.
Inquiries made at the local district office however, relieved him of
his anxiety. The mail bag which had been taken, he was informed, was
part of the Indian mail. The Australian mail had been delivered at the
General Post Office earlier in the evening by the service which left
the district office at nine o’clock. It was as well for his peace of
mind that he did not know how erroneous was the information he had
been given. He had asked Joyce to breakfast with him, and had kept her
waiting whilst he pursued these inquiries; for he had read of the
robbery in bed, and had hurried round to the district office without
delay.
“This is the most amazing exploit of all,” he said to the girl, as he
handed her the paper. “Take this,” he said. “I have read it.”
“Poor Jane Briglow!”
“Why Jane Briglow?”
The girl smiled.
“Mother insists that it is she who has committed all these acts. As a
matter of fact, I happen to know that Jane is in good service in the
North of England.”
Claythorpe looked at her in surprise.
“Is that so?” he said incredulously. “Do you know, I’d begun to form a
theory about that girl.”
“Well, don’t,” said Joyce, helping herself to jam.
“I wonder whether they’ll get the bag back,” speculated his lordship.
“There’s nothing about it in the papers.”
“It is very unlikely, I should think,” said Joyce. She rolled up her
table-napkin. “You wanted to see me about something this morning,” she
said.
He nodded.
“Yes, Joyce,” he said. “I’ve been thinking matters over. I’m afraid I
was rather prejudiced against young Steele.” The girl made no reply.
“I’m not even certain that he was guilty of the offence with which I
charged him,” Claythorpe went on. “You see, I was very worried at the
time, and it is possible that I may have signed a cheque and
overlooked the fact. You were very fond of Steele?”
She nodded.
“Well,” said Lord Claythorpe heartily, “I will no longer stand in your
way.”
She looked at him steadily.
“You mean you will consent to my marriage?”
He nodded.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Why not, indeed?” she said, a little bitterly. “I understand that my
fortune no longer depends upon whether I marry according to your
wishes or not--since I have no fortune.”
“It is very deplorable,” said his lordship gravely. “Really, I feel
morally responsible. It is a most stupendous tragedy, but I will do
whatever I can to make it up to you, Joyce. I am not a rich man by any
means, but I have decided, if you still feel you cannot marry my son,
and would prefer to marry Mr. Steele, to give you a wedding gift of
twenty thousand pounds.”
“That is very good of you,” said the girl politely, “but, of course, I
cannot take your verbal permission. You will not mind putting that
into writing?”
“With all the pleasure in life,” said Lord Claythorpe, getting up and
walking to a writing-table, “really Joyce, you’re becoming quite
shrewd in your old age,” he chuckled.
He drew a sheet of paper from a writing-case and poised a pen.
“What is the date?” he asked.
“It is the nineteenth,” said the girl. “But date it as from the first
of the month.”
“Why?” he asked in surprise.
“Well, there are many reasons,” said the girl slowly. “I shouldn’t
like people to think, for example, that your liking for Mr. Steele
dated from the loss of my property.”
He looked at her sharply, but not a muscle of her face moved.
“That is very considerate of you,” he said with a shrug, “and it
doesn’t really matter whether I make it the first or the twenty-first,
does it?”
He wrote quickly, blotted the sheet, handed it to the girl, and she
read it and folded the paper away in her handbag.
“Was that really the reason you asked me to date the permission back?”
he asked curiously.
She shook her head.
“No,” she said coolly. “I was married to Jamieson last week.”
“Married!” he gasped. “Without my permission!”
“With your permission,” she said, tapping her little bag.
For a second he frowned, and then he burst into a roar of laughter.
“Well, well,” he said. “That’s rather rich. You’re a very naughty
girl, Joyce. Does your mother know?”
“Mother knows nothing about it,” said the girl. “There is one more
thing I want to speak to you about, Lord Claythorpe, and that is in
connection with the robbery of the mail last night.”
It was at that moment that Peter Dawes was announced.
“It’s the detective,” said Lord Claythorpe with a little frown. “You
don’t want to see him?”
“On the contrary, let him come in, because what I am going to say will
interest him,” she said.
Claythorpe nodded to the butler, and a few seconds later Peter Dawes
came into the room. He bowed to the girl and shook hands with Lord
Claythorpe.
“This is my niece--well, not exactly my niece,” smiled Claythorpe,
“but the niece of a very dear friend of mine, and, in fact, the lady
who is the principal loser in that terrible tragedy of St. James’
Street.”
“Indeed?” said Peter with a smile. “I think I know the young lady by
sight.”
“And she was going to make an interesting communication to me just as
you came in,” said Claythorpe. “Perhaps, Joyce, dear, you will tell
Mr. Dawes?”
“I was only going to say that this morning I received this.” She did
not go to her bag, but produced a folded paper from the inside of her
blouse. This she opened and spread on the table and Claythorpe’s face
went white, for it was the five hundred thousand dollar bond which he
had despatched the day before to Australia. “I seem to remember,” said
the girl, “that this was part of my inheritance--you remember I was
given a list of the securities you held for me?”
Lord Claythorpe licked his dry lips.
“Yes,” he said huskily. “That is part of your inheritance.”
“How did it come to you?” asked Peter Dawes.
“It was found in my letter-box this morning,” said the girl.
“Accompanied by a letter?”
“No, nothing,” said Joyce. “For some reason I connected it with the
mail robbery, and thought that perhaps you had entrusted this
certificate to the post--and that in your letter you mentioned the
fact that it was mine.”
“That also is impossible,” said Peter Dawes quietly, “because, if your
statement is correct, this document would have been amongst those
which were stolen on the night that Remington was murdered. Isn’t that
so, Lord Claythorpe?”
Claythorpe nodded.
“It is very providential for you, Joyce,” he said huskily. “I haven’t
the slightest idea how it came to you. Probably the thief who murdered
Remington knew it was yours and restored it.”
The girl nodded.
“The thief being Four Square Jane, eh?” said Peter Dawes, eyeing his
lordship narrowly.
“Naturally, who else?” said Claythorpe, meeting the other’s eyes
steadily. “It was undoubtedly her work, her label was on the inside of
the safe.”
“That is true,” agreed Peter. “But there was one remarkable fact about
that label which seems to have been overlooked.”
“What was that?”
“It had been used before,” said Peter slowly. “It was an old label
which had previously been attached to something or somewhere, for the
marks of the old adhesion were still on it when I took it off. In
fact, there were only a few places where the gum on the label remained
useful.”
Neither the eyes of the girl or Lord Claythorpe left the other’s face.
“That is curious,” said Lord Claythorpe slowly. “What do you deduce
from that?”
Dawes shrugged.
“Nothing, except that it is possible someone is using Four Square
Jane’s name in vain,” he said, “someone who was in a position to get
one of the old labels she had used on her previous felonies. May I sit
down?” he asked, for he had not been invited to take a seat.
Claythorpe nodded curtly, and Dawes pulled a chair from the table and
seated himself.
“I have been reconstructing that crime,” he said, “and there are one
or two things that puzzle me. In the first place, I am perfectly
certain that no woman was in your office on the night the murder was
committed.”
Lord Claythorpe raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed!” he said. “And yet the constable who was first in the room
told me that he distinctly smelt a very powerful scent--the sort a
woman would use. I also noticed it when I went into the room.”
“So did I,” said Peter, “and that quite decided me that Four Square
Jane had nothing to do with the business. A cool, calculating woman
like Four Square Jane is certain to be a lady of more than ordinary
intelligence and regular habits. She is not the kind who would
suddenly take up a powerful scent, because it is possible to trace a
woman criminal by this means, and it is certain that in no other case
which is associated with her name was there the slightest trace or
hint of perfume. That makes me more certain that the crime was
committed by a man and that he sprinkled the scent on the floor in
order to leave the impression that Four Square Jane had been the
operator.”
“What do you think happened?” asked Lord Claythorpe after a pause.
“I think that Remington went to the office with the intention of
examining the contents of the safe,” said Peter deliberately. “I
believe he had the whole of the envelopes on the table, and had opened
several, when he was surprised by somebody who came into the office.
There was an argument, in the course of which he was shot dead.”
“You suggest that the intruder was a burglar?” said Lord Claythorpe
with a set face, but Peter shook his head.
“No,” he said. “This man admitted himself to the office by means of a
key. The door was not forced, and there was no sign of a skeleton key
having been used. Moreover, the newcomer must have been well
acquainted with the office, because, after the murder was committed he
switched out the light and pulled up the blinds which Remington had
lowered, so that the light should not attract attention from the
street. We know they were lowered, because the constable on beat duty
on the other side of the street saw no sign of a light. The blinds
were heavy and practically light-proof. Now, the man who committed the
murder knew his way about the office well enough to turn out the
light, move in the dark, and manipulate the three blinds which covered
the windows. I’ve been experimenting with those blinds, and I’ve found
that they’re fairly complicated in their mechanism.”
Again there was a pause.
“A very fantastic theory, if you will allow me to say so,” said Lord
Claythorpe, “and not at all like the sensible, commonsense point of
view that I should have expected from Scotland Yard.”
“That may be so,” said Peter quietly. “But we get romantic theories
even at Scotland Yard.”
He looked down at the bond, still spread out on the table.
“I suppose your lordship will put this in the bank after your unhappy
experience?” he said.
“Yes, yes,” said Lord Claythorpe briefly, and Peter turned to the
girl.
“I congratulate you upon recovering a part of your property,” he said.
“I understand this is held in trust for you until you’re married.”
Lord Claythorpe started violently.
“Until you’re married!” he said. “Why, why!” He caught the girl’s
smiling eyes. “That means now, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Until your marriage is approved by me,” said Lord Claythorpe.
“I think it is approved by you,” said Joyce, and dived her hand into
her bag.
“It will be delivered to you formally to-morrow,” said his lordship
stiffly.
Peter Dawes and the girl went out of the house together and walked in
silence a little way.
“I’d give a lot to know what you’re thinking,” said the girl.
“And I’d give a lot to know what you know,” smiled Peter, and at that
cryptic exchange they parted.
That night Mr. Lewinstein was giving a big dinner party at the Ritz
Carlton. Joyce had been invited months before, but had no thought of
accepting the invitation until she returned to the hotel where she was
staying.
A good-looking man rose as she entered the vestibule, and came towards
her with a smile. He took her arm, and slowly they paced the long
corridor leading to the elevator.
“So that’s Mr. Jamieson Steele, eh?” said Peter Dawes, who had
followed her to the hotel, and he looked very thoughtfully in the
direction the two had taken.
He went from the hotel and called on Mr. Lewinstein by appointment,
and that great financier welcomed him with a large cigar.
“I heard you were engaged upon the Four Square Jane case, Mr. Dawes,”
he said, “and I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I invited you to
dinner to-night.”
“Is this a professional or a friendly engagement?” smiled Peter.
“It’s both,” said Mr. Lewinstein frankly. “The fact is, Mr. Dawes, and
I’m not going to make any bones about the truth, it is necessary in my
business that I should keep in touch with the best people in London.
From time to time I give a dinner-party, and I bring together all that
is bright and beautiful and brainy. Usually these dinners are given in
my own house, but I’ve had a rather painful experience,” he said
grimly, and Peter, who knew the history of Four Square Jane’s robbery,
nodded in sympathy.
“Now, I want to say a few words about Miss Four Square Jane,” said
Lewinstein. “Do you mind seeing if the door is closed?”
Peter looked outside, and closed the door carefully.
“I’d hate what I’m saying to be repeated in certain quarters,”
Lewinstein went on. “But in that robbery there were several remarkable
coincidences. Do you know that Four Square Jane stole nothing, in most
cases, except the presents that had been given by Claythorpe?
Claythorpe is rather a gay old bird and has gone the pace. He has been
spending money like water for years. Of course, he may have a big
income, or he may not. I know just what he gets out of the City. On
the night of the burglary at my house this girl went through every
room and took articles which in many cases had been given to the
various people by Claythorpe. For example, something he had presented
to my wife disappeared; some shirt-studs, which he gave to me, were
also gone. That’s rather funny, don’t you think?”
“It fits in with my theory,” said Peter nodding, “that Four Square
Jane has only one enemy in the world, and that is Lord Claythorpe.”
“That’s my opinion, too,” said Lewinstein. “Now to-night I am giving a
big dinner-party, as I told you, and there will be a lot of women
there, and the women are scared of my parties since the last one.
There will be jewels to burn, but what makes me specially nervous is
that Claythorpe has insisted on Lola Lane being invited.”
“The dancer?” asked Peter in surprise, and the other nodded.
“She’s a great friend of Claythorpe’s--I suppose you know that? He put
up the money for her last production, and, not to put too fine a point
upon it, the old man is infatuated by the girl.”
Mr. Lewinstein sucked contemplatively at one of his large cigars.
“I am not a prude, you understand, Mr. Dawes,” he said, “and the way
men amuse themselves does not concern me. Claythorpe is much too big a
man for me to refuse any request he makes. In the present state of
society, people like Lola are accepted, and it is not for me to reform
the Smart Set. The only thing I’m scared about is that she will be
covered from head to foot in jewels.”
He pulled again at his cigar, and looked at it before he went on:
“Which Lord Claythorpe has given her.”
“This is news to me,” said Peter.
“It would be news to a lot of people,” said Lewinstein, “for
Claythorpe is supposed to be one of the big moral forces in the City.”
He chuckled, as though at a good joke. “Now, there’s another point I
want to make to you. This girl Lola has been telling her friends--at
least, she told a friend of mine--that she was going to the Argentine
to live in about six months’ time. My friend asked her if Lord
Claythorpe agreed to that arrangement. You know, these theatrical
people are very frank, and she said ‘Yes.’” He looked at the
detective.
“Which means that Claythorpe is going, too,” said Peter, and
Lewinstein nodded.
“That is also news,” said Peter Dawes. “Thank you, I will accept your
invitation to dinner to-night.”
“Good!” said Lewinstein, brightening. “You don’t mind, but I may have
to put you next to Lola.”
That evening when Peter strolled into the big reception hall which Mr.
Lewinstein had engaged with his private dining-room, his eyes wandered
in search of the lady. He knew her by sight--had seen her picture in
the illustrated newspapers. He had no difficulty in distinguishing her
rather bold features; and, even if he had not, he would have known,
from the daring dress she wore, that this was the redoubtable lady
whose name had been hinted in connection with one or two unpleasant
scandals.
But chiefly his eyes were for the great collar of emeralds about her
shapely throat. They were big green stones which scintillated in the
shaded lights, and were by far the most remarkable jewels in the room.
Evidently Lewinstein had explained to Lord Claythorpe the reason of
the invitation, because his lordship received him quite graciously and
made no demur at a common detective occupying the place by the side of
the lady who had so completely enthralled him.
It was after the introduction that Peter had a surprise, for he saw
Joyce Wilberforce.
“I didn’t expect to see you again to-day, Miss Wilberforce,” he said.
“I did not expect to come myself,” replied the girl, “but my
husband--you knew I was married?”
Mr. Dawes nodded.
“That is one of the things I did know,” he laughed.
“My husband had an engagement, and he suggested that I should amuse
myself by coming here. What do you think of the emeralds?” she asked
mischievously. “I suppose you’re here to keep a friendly eye on them?”
Peter smiled.
“They are rather gorgeous, aren’t they? Though I cannot say I admire
their wearer.”
Peter was discreetly silent. He took the dancer in to dinner, and
found her a singularly dull person, except on the question of dress
and the weakness of her sister artistes. The dinner was in full swing
when Joyce Wilberforce, who was sitting almost opposite the detective,
screamed and hunched herself up in the chair.
“Look, look!” she cried, pointing to the floor. “A rat!”
Peter, leaning over the table, saw a small brown shape run along the
wainscot. The woman at his side shrieked and drew her feet up to the
rail of her chair. This was the last thing he saw, for at that second
all the lights in the room went out. He heard a scream from the
dancer.
“My necklace, my necklace!”
There was a babble of voices, a discordant shouting of instructions
and advice. Then Peter struck a match. The only thing he saw in the
flickering light was the figure of Lola, with her hands clasped round
her neck.
The collar of emeralds had disappeared!
It was five minutes before somebody fixed the fuse and brought the
lights on again.
“Let nobody leave the room!” shouted Peter authoritatively. “Everybody
here must be searched. And----”
Then his eyes fell upon a little card which had been placed on the
table before him, and which had not been there when the lights went
out. There was no need to turn it. He knew what to expect on the other
side. The four squares and the little J looked up at him mockingly.
VIII
Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, had to do some mighty quick thinking
and, by an effort of will, concentrate his mind upon all the events
which had immediately preceded the robbery of the dancer’s necklace.
First there was Joyce Wilberforce, who had undoubtedly seen a rat
running along by the wainscot, and had drawn up her feet in a
characteristically feminine fashion. Then he had seen the dancer draw
up her feet, and put down her hands to pull her skirts tight--also a
characteristically feminine action.
What else had he seen? He had seen a hand, the hand of a waiter,
between himself and the woman on his left. He remembered now that
there was something peculiar about that hand which had attracted his
attention, and that he had been on the point of turning his head in
order to see it better when Joyce’s scream had distracted his
attention.
What was there about that hand? He concentrated all his mind upon this
trivial matter, realising instinctively that behind that momentary
omen was a possible solution of the mystery. He remembered that it was
a well-manicured hand. That in itself was remarkable in a waiter.
There had been no jewels or rings upon it, which was not remarkable.
This he had observed idly. Then, in a flash, the detail which had
interested him came back to his mind. The little finger was remarkably
short. He puzzled his head to connect this malformation with something
he had heard before. Leaving the room in the charge of the police who
had been summoned, he took a taxi and drove straight to the hotel
where Joyce Steele was staying with her husband.
“Mrs. Steele is out, but Mr. Steele has just come in,” said the hotel
clerk. “Shall I send your name up?”
“It is unnecessary,” said the detective, showing his card. “I will go
up to his room. What is the number?”
He was told, and a page piloted him to the door. Without troubling to
knock, he turned the handle and walked in. Jamieson Steele was sitting
before a little fire, smoking a cigarette, and looked up at the
intruder.
“Hullo, Mr. Dawes,” he said calmly.
“You know me, eh?” said Peter. “May I have a few words with you?”
“You can have as many as you like,” said Steele. “Take a chair, won’t
you? This is not a bad little sitting-room, but it is rather draughty.
To what am I indebted for this visit? Is our wicked uncle pressing his
charge of forgery?”
Peter Dawes smiled.
“I don’t think that is likely,” he said. “I have made a call upon you
for the purpose of seeing your hands.”
“My hands?” said the other in a tone of surprise. “Are you going in
for a manicure?”
“Hardly,” said Peter drily, as the other spread out his hands before
him. “What is the matter with your little finger?” he asked, after a
scrutiny.
Jamieson Steele examined the finger and laughed.
“He is not very big, is he?” he laughed. “Arrested development, I
suppose. It is the one blemish on an otherwise perfect body.”
“Where have you been to-night?” asked Peter quietly.
“I have been to various places, including Scotland Yard?” was the
staggering reply.
“To Scotland Yard?” asked Peter incredulously, and Jamieson Steele
nodded.
“The fact is, I wanted to see you about the curious charge which Lord
Claythorpe brings forward from time to time; and also I felt that some
explanation was due to you as you are in charge of a case which nearly
affects my wife, as to the reason I did a bolt when Claythorpe brought
this charge of forgery against me.”
“What time did you leave the Yard?”
“About half an hour ago,” said Steele.
Peter looked at him closely. He was wearing an ordinary lounge suit,
and a soft shirt. The hand which had come upon the table had
undoubtedly been encased in a stiff cuff and a black sleeve.
“Why, what is the matter?” asked Steele.
“There has been a robbery at the Ritz Carlton to-night,” Peter
explained. “A man dressed as a waiter has stolen an emerald necklace.”
“And naturally you suspect me,” he said ironically. “Well, you’re at
liberty to search this apartment.”
“May I see your dress clothes?” said Peter.
For answer, the other led him to his bedroom, and his dress suit was
discovered at the bottom of a trunk, carefully folded and brushed.
“Now,” said Peter, “if you don’t mind, I’ll conduct the search you
suggest. You understand that I have no authority to do so, and I can
only make the search with your permission.”
“You have my permission,” said the other. “I realise that I am a
suspected person, so go ahead, and don’t mind hurting my feelings.”
Peter’s search was thorough, but revealed nothing of importance.
“This is my wife’s room,” said Steele. “Perhaps you would like to
search that?”
“I should,” said Peter Dawes, without hesitation, but again his
investigations drew blank.
He opened all the windows of the room, feeling along the window-sills
for a tape, cord or thread, from which an emerald necklace might be
suspended. It was an old trick to fasten a stolen article to a black
thread, and the black thread to some stout gummed paper fastened to
the window-sill; but here again he discovered nothing.
“Now,” said the cheerful young man, “you had better search me.”
“I might as well do the job thoroughly,” agreed Peter, and ran his
hands scientifically over the other’s body.
“Not guilty, eh?” said Steele, when he had finished. “Now perhaps
you’ll sit down, and I’ll tell you something about Lord Claythorpe
that will interest you. You know, of course, that Claythorpe has been
living on the verge of bankruptcy. Won’t you sit down?” he said again,
and Peter obeyed. “Here is a cigar which will steady your nerves.”
“I can’t stay very long,” said Peter, “but I should like your end of
the serial very much indeed.”
He took the proffered cigar, and bit off the end.
“As I was saying,” Steele went on, “Claythorpe has been living for
years on the verge of bankruptcy. He is a man who, from his youth up,
has been dependent on his wits. His early life was passed in what the
good books called dissolute living. I believe there was a time when he
was so broke he slept on the Embankment.”
Peter nodded. He also had heard something to this effect.
“This, of course, was before he came into the title. He is a clever
and unscrupulous man with a good address. And knowing that he was up
against it, he set himself to gain powerful friends. One of these
friends was my wife’s uncle--a good-natured innocent kind of man, who
had amassed a considerable fortune in South Africa. I believe
Claythorpe bled him pretty considerably, and might have bled him to
death, only the old fellow died naturally, leaving a handsome legacy
to his friends and the residue of his property to my wife. Claythorpe
was made the executor, and given pretty wide powers. Amongst the
property which my wife inherited--or rather, would inherit on her
wedding day, was a small coal-mine in the North of England, which at
the time of the old man’s death was being managed by a very brilliant
young engineer, whose name modesty alone prevents my revealing.”
“Go on,” said Peter, with a smile.
“Claythorpe, finding himself in control of such unlimited wealth, set
himself out to improve the property. And the first thing he did was to
project the flotation of my coal mine--I call it mine, and I always
regarded it as such in a spiritual sense--for about six times its
value.”
Peter nodded.
“In order to bring in the public, it was necessary that a statement
should be made with regard to the quantity of coal in the mine, the
extent of the seams, etc., and it was my duty to prepare a most
glowing statement, which would loosen the purse-strings of the
investing public. Claythorpe put the scheme up to me, and I said,
‘No.’ I also told him,” the young man went on, choosing his words
carefully, “that, if he floated this company, I should have something
to say in the columns of the financial Press. So the thing was
dropped, but Claythorpe never forgave me. There was a certain work
which I had done for him outside my ordinary duties and, summoning me
to his St. James’ Street office, he gave me a cheque. I noticed at the
time that the cheque was for a much larger amount than I had expected,
and thought his lordship was trying to get into my good books. I also
noticed that the amount inscribed on the cheque had the appearance of
being altered, and that even his lordship’s signature looked rather
unusual. I took the cheque and presented it to my bank a few days
later, and was summoned to the office, where I was denounced as a
forger,” said the young man, puffing a ring of smoke into the air
reflectively, “but it gives you a very funny feeling in the pit of the
stomach. The heroic and proper and sensible thing to do was to stand
on my ground, go up to the Old Bailey, make a great speech which would
call forth the applause and approbation of judge and jury, and stalk
out of the court in triumph. Under these circumstances, however, one
seldom does the proper thing. Remington it was--the man who is now
dead--who suggested that I should bolt; and, like a fool, I bolted.
The only person who knew where I was was Joyce. I won’t tell you
anything about my wife, because you probably know everything that is
worth knowing. I’ll only say that I’ve loved her for years, and that
my affection has been returned. It was she who urged me to come back
to London and stand my trial, but I put this down to her child-like
innocence--a man is always inclined to think that he’s the cleverer of
the two when he’s exchanging advice with women. That’s the whole of
the story.”
Peter waited.
“Now, Mr. Steele,” he said, “perhaps you will explain why you were at
the Ritz-Carlton Hotel to-night disguised as a waiter.”
Steele looked at him with a quizzical smile.
“I think I could explain it if I’d been there,” he said. “Do you want
me to invent an explanation as well as to invent my presence?”
“I am as confident that you were there,” said Peter, “as I am that you
are sitting here. I am also certain that it will be next to impossible
to prove that you were in the room.” He rose from his seat. “I am
going back to the hotel,” he said, “though I do not expect that any of
our bloodhounds have discovered the necklace.”
“Have another cigar,” said Steele, offering the open box.
Peter shook his head.
“No thank you,” he said.
“They won’t hurt you, take a handful.”
Peter laughingly refused.
“I think I am nearly through with this Four Square Jane business,” he
said, “and I am pretty certain that it is not going to bring kudos or
promotion to me.”
“I have a feeling that it will not, either,” said Steele. “It’s a rum
case.”
Peter shook his head.
“Rum, because I’ve solved the mystery of Four Square Jane. I know who
she is, and why she has robbed Claythorpe and his friends.”
“You know her, do you?” said Steele thoughtfully, and the other
nodded.
Jamieson Steele waited till the door closed upon the detective, and
then waited another five minutes before he rose and shot the bolt. He
then locked the two doors leading from the sitting-room, took up the
box of cigars and placed it on the table. He dipped into the box, and
pulled out handful after handful of cigars, and then he took out
something which glittered and scintillated in the light--a great
collar of big emeralds--and laid it on the table. He looked at it
thoughtfully, then wrapped it in a silk handkerchief and thrust it
into his pocket, replacing the cigars in the box. He passed into his
bedroom, and came out wearing a soft felt hat, and a long dark-blue
trench coat.
He hesitated before he unbolted the door, unbuttoned the coat, and
took out the handkerchief containing the emerald collar, and put it
into his overcoat pocket. If he had turned his head at that moment,
and looked at the half-opened door of his bedroom, he might have
caught a glimpse of a figure that was watching his every movement.
Peter Dawes had not come alone, and there were three entrances to the
private suite which Mr. and Mrs. Steele occupied.
Then Jamieson Steele stepped out so quickly that by the time the
watcher was in the corridor, he had disappeared down the lift, which
happened to be going down at that moment. The man raced down the
stairs three at a time. The last landing was a broad marble balcony
which overlooked the hall, and, glancing down, he saw Peter waiting.
He waved his hand significantly, and at that moment the elevator
reached the ground floor, and Jamieson Steele stepped out of it.
He was half way across the vestibule when Peter confronted him.
“Wait a moment, Mr. Steele. I want you,” said Peter.
It was at that second that the swing doors turned and Joyce Steele
came in.
“Want me?” said Steele. “Why?”
“I am going to take you into custody on the charge of being concerned
in the robbery to-night,” said the detective.
“You’re mad,” said Steele, with an immovable face.
“Arrest him? Oh no, no!” It was the gasping voice of the girl. In a
second she had flung herself upon the man, her two arms about him. “It
isn’t true, it isn’t true!” she sobbed.
Very gently Steele pushed her back.
“Go away, my dear. This is no place for you,” he said. “Mr. Dawes has
made a great mistake, as he will discover.”
The watcher had joined the group now.
“He’s got the goods, sir,” he said triumphantly. “I watched him. The
necklace was in a cigar box. He has got it in his pocket.”
“Hold out your hands,” said Peter, and in a second Jamieson Steele was
handcuffed.
“May I come?” said the girl.
“It is better you did not,” said Peter. “Perhaps your husband will be
able to prove his innocence. Anyway, you can do nothing.”
They left her, a disconsolate figure, standing in the hall, and
carried their prisoner to Cannon Row.
“Now we’ll search you, if you don’t mind?” asked Peter.
“Not at all,” said the other coolly.
“Where did you say he put it?”
“In his pocket, sir,” said the spy.
Peter searched the overcoat pockets.
“There’s nothing here,” he said.
“Nothing there?” gasped the man in astonishment. “But I saw him put it
there. He took it out of his hip pocket and----”
“Well, let’s try his hip pocket. Take off your coat, Steele.”
The young man obeyed, and again Peter’s deft fingers went over him,
but with no better result. The two detectives looked at one another in
consternation.
“A slight mistake on your part, my friend,” said Peter, “I’m sorry
we’ve given you all this trouble.”
“Look in the bottom of the cab,” the second detective pleaded, and
Peter laughed.
“I don’t see what he could do. He had the bracelets on his hands, and
I never took my eyes off them once. You can search the cab if you
like--it’s waiting at the door.”
But the search of the cab produced no better result.
And then an inspiration dawned upon Peter, and he laughed, softly and
long.
“I’m going to give up this business,” he said. “I really am, Steele.
I’m too childishly trustful.”
Their eyes met, and both eyes were creased with laughter.
“All right,” said Peter. “Let him go.”
“Let him go?” said the other detective in dismay.
“Yes. We’ve no evidence against this gentleman, and we’re very
unlikely to secure it.”
For in that short space of time, Peter had realized exactly the kind
he was up against; saw as clearly as daylight what had happened to the
emeralds, and knew that any attempt to find them now would merely lead
to another disappointment.
“If you don’t mind, Steele, I think I’ll go back with you to your
hotel. I hope you’re not bearing malice.”
“Not at all,” replied Steele. “It’s your job to catch me, and my job
to----” he paused.
“Yes?” said Peter curiously.
“My job to get caught, obviously,” said Steele with a laugh.
They did not speak again until they were in the cab on the way back to
the hotel.
“I’m afraid my poor wife is very much upset.”
“I’m not worrying about that,” said Peter drily. “Steele, I think you
are a wise man; and, being wise, you will not be averse to receiving
advice from one who knows this game from A to Z.”
Steele did not reply.
“My advice to you is, get out of the country just as soon as you can,
and take your wife with you,” said Peter. “There is an old adage that
the pitcher goes often to the well--I need not remind you of that.”
“Suppose I tell you I do not understand you,” said Steele.
“You, will do nothing so banal,” replied Peter. “I tell you I know
your game, and the thing that is going to stand against you is the
robbery of the mail. That is your only bad offence in my eyes, and it
is the one for which I would work night and day to bring you to
justice.”
Again a silence.
“Nothing was stolen from the mail, that I know,” said Peter. “It was
all returned. Your principal offence is that you scared a respectable
servant of his Majesty into fits. Anyway, it is a felony of a most
serious kind, and would get you twenty years if we could secure
evidence against you. You held up his Majesty’s mail with a loaded
revolver----”
“Even that you couldn’t prove,” laughed Steele. “It might not have
been any more than a piece of gaspipe. After all, a hardened criminal,
such as you believe I am, possessed of a brain which you must know by
this time I have, would have sufficient knowledge of the law to
prevent his carrying lethal weapons.”
“We are talking here without witnesses,” said Peter.
“I’m not so sure,” said Steele quickly. “I thought I was talking to
you in my little sitting-room without witnesses.”
“Anyway, you can be sure there are no witnesses here,” smiled Peter,
as the cab turned into the street where the hotel was situated. “And I
am asking you confidentially, and man to man, if you can give me any
information at all regarding the murder in St. James’ Street.”
Steele thought awhile.
“I can’t,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I was in Falmouth at the
time, as you know. Obviously, it was not the work of the lady who
calls herself Four Square Jane, because my impression of that charming
creature is that she would be scared to death at the sight of a
revolver. The card which was found in the dead man’s hand----”
“How did you know that?” asked Peter quickly.
“These things get about,” replied the other unabashed. “Has it
occurred to you that it was a moist night, that the murderer may have
been hot, and that on the card may be his fingerprints?”
“That did occur to me,” said Peter. “In fact, it was the first thing I
thought about. And, if it is any interest to you, I will tell you that
there was a finger print upon that card, which I have been trying for
the past few days to----” He stopped. “Here we are at your hotel,” he
said. “There’s a good detective lost in you, Steele.”
“Not lost, but gone before,” said the other flippantly. “Good-night.
You won’t come up and have a cigar?”
“No thanks,” said a grim Peter.
He went back to Scotland Yard. It was curious, amazingly curious, that
Steele should have mentioned the card that night. It was not into an
empty office that he went, despite the lateness of the hour. There was
an important police conference, and all the heads of departments were
crowded into the room, the air of which was blue with tobacco smoke. A
stout, genial man nodded to Peter as he came in.
“We’ve had a devil of a job getting it, Peter, but we’ve succeeded.”
Before him was a small visiting-card, bearing the name of Jamieson
Steele. In the very centre was a violet finger print. The finger print
had not been visible to the naked eye until it had been treated with
chemicals, and its present appearance was the result of the patient
work of three of Scotland Yard’s greatest scientists.
“Did you get the other?” said Peter.
“There it is,” said the stout man, and pointed to a strip of cardboard
bearing two black finger prints.
Peter compared the two impressions.
“Well,” he said, “at any rate, one of the mysteries is cleared up. How
did you get this?” he asked pointing to the strip of cardboard bearing
the two prints.
“I called on him, and shook hands with him,” said the stout man with a
smile. “He was horribly surprised and offended that I should take such
a liberty. Then I handed him the strip of card. It was a little while
later, when he put his hand on the blotting pad, that he discovered
that his palm and finger-tips were black, and I think that he was the
most astonished man I ever saw.”
Peter smiled.
“He didn’t guess that your hand would be carefully covered with
lamp-black, I gather?”
“Hardly,” said the fat man.
Again Peter compared the two impressions.
“There is no doubt at all about it,” he said. He looked at his watch.
“Half-past twelve. Not a bad time, either. I’ll take Wilkins and
Browne,” he said, “and get the thing over. It’s going to be a lot of
trouble. Have you got the warrant?”
The stout man opened the drawer of his desk and passed a sheet of
paper across. Peter examined it.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Lord Claythorpe was in his study taking a stiff whisky and soda when
the detective was announced.
“Well?” he said. “Have you found the person who stole the emerald
necklace?”
“No, my lord,” said Peter. “But I have found the man who shot
Remington.”
Lord Claythorpe’s face went ashen.
“What do you mean?” he said hoarsely “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Peter, “that I am going to take you into custody on a
charge of wilful murder, and I caution you that what you now say will
be used in evidence against you.”
IX
At three o’clock in the morning, Lord Claythorpe, an inmate of a
cell at Cannon Row, sent for Peter Dawes. Peter was ushered into the
cell, and found that Claythorpe had recovered from the crushed and
hopeless man he had left: he was now calm and normal.
“I want to see you, Dawes,” he said, “to clear up a few matters which
are on my conscience.”
“Of course, you know,” said Peter, “that any statement you make----”
“I know, I know,” said the other impatiently. “But I have this to
say.” He paced the short cell, his hands gripped behind him. Presently
he sat down at Peter’s side. “In the first place,” he said, “let me
tell you that I killed Donald Remington. There’s a long story leading
up to that killing, but I swear I had no intention of hurting him.”
Peter had taken a notebook from one pocket and a pencil from another,
and was jotting down in his queer shorthand the story the other told.
Usually such a proceeding had the effect of silencing the man whose
words were being inscribed, but Claythorpe did not seem to notice.
“When Joyce Wilberforce’s uncle left me executor of his estate, I had
every intention of going straight,” he went on. “But I made bad losses
in the Kaffir market, and gradually I began to nibble at her fortune.
The securities, which were kept in sealed envelopes at the bank, were
taken out one by one, and disposed of; blank sheets of paper were
placed in the envelopes, which were resealed. And when the burglary
occurred, there was only one hundred-thousand pound bond left. That
bond you will find in a secret drawer of my desk. I think Remington,
who was in my confidence except for this matter, suspected it all
along. When I took the securities from the bank, it was with the
intention of raiding my own office that night and leaving the sign of
Four Square Jane to throw suspicion elsewhere. I came back to the
office at eleven o’clock that night, but found Remington was before
me. He had opened the safe with his key, and was satisfying his
curiosity as to the contents of the envelopes. He threatened to expose
me, for he had already discovered that the envelopes contained nothing
of importance.
“I was a desperate man. I have taken a revolver with me in case I was
detected, intending to end my life then and there. Remington made
certain demands on me, to which I refused to agree. He rose and walked
to the door, telling me he intended to call the police; it was then
that I shot him.”
Peter Dawes looked up from his notes.
“What about Steele’s card?” he said.
Lord Claythorpe nodded.
“I had taken that with me to throw suspicion upon Steele, because I
believed, and still believe, that he is associated with Four Square
Jane.”
“Tell me one thing,” said Peter. “Do you know or suspect Four Square
Jane?”
Lord Claythorpe shook his head.
“I’ve always suspected that she was Joyce Wilberforce herself,” he
said, “but I’ve never been able to confirm that suspicion. In the old
days, when the Wilberforces were living in Manchester Square, I used
to see the girl, and suspected she was carrying notes to young Steele,
who had a top-floor office at the corner of Cavendish Square.”
“Where were you living at the time?” asked Peter quickly.
“I had a flat in Grosvenor Square,” said Lord Claythorpe.
Peter jumped up.
“Was the girl’s uncle alive at this time?”
Lord Claythorpe nodded.
“He was still alive,” he said.
“Where was he living?”
“In Berkeley----”
“I’ve got it!” said Peter excitedly. “This was when all the trouble
was occurring, when you were planning to rob the girl, and using your
influence against her. Don’t you see? ‘Four Square Jane.’ She has
named the four squares where the four characters in your story lived.”
Lord Claythorpe frowned.
“That solution never occurred to me,” he said.
He did not seem greatly interested in a matter which excited Peter
Dawes to an unusual extent. He had little else to say, and when Peter
Dawes left him, he lay wearily down on the plank bed.
Peter was talking for some time with the inspector in charge of the
station, when the gaoler called him.
“I don’t know what was the matter with that prisoner, sir,” he said,
“but, looking through the peephole about two minutes ago, I saw him
pulling the buttons off his coat.”
Peter frowned.
“You’d better change that coat of his,” he said, “and place him under
observation.”
They all went back to the cell together. Lord Claythorpe was lying in
the attitude in which Peter had left him, and they entered the cell
together. Peter bent down and touched the face, then, with a cry,
turned the figure over on its back.
“He’s dead!” he cried.
He looked at the coat. One of the buttons had been wrenched off. Then
he bent down and smelt the dead man’s lips, and began a search of the
floor. Presently he found what he was looking for--a section of a
button. He picked it up, smelt it, and handed it to the inspector.
“So that’s how he did it,” he said gravely. “Claythorpe was prepared
for this.”
“What is it?” asked the inspector.
“The second button of his coat has evidently been made specially for
him. It is a compressed tablet of cyanide of potassium, coloured to
match the other buttons, and he had only to tear it off to end his
life.”
So passed Lord Claythorpe, a great scoundrel, leaving his title to a
weakling of a son, and very few happy memories to that obscure and
hysterical woman who bore his name. Peter’s work was done, save for
the mystery of Four Square Jane, and even that mystery was exposed.
The task he had set himself now was a difficult one, and one in which
he had very little heart. He obtained a fresh set of warrants, and
accompanied by a small army of detectives who watched every exit, made
his call at the hotel at which Steele and his wife were staying.
He went straight up to the room, and found Joyce and her husband at
breakfast. They were both dressed; the fact that several trunks were
packed suggested that they were contemplating an early move.
Peter closed the door behind him and came slowly to the breakfast
table, and the girl greeted him with a smile.
“You’re just in time for breakfast,” she said. “Won’t you have some
coffee?”
Peter shook his head. Steele was eyeing him narrowly, and presently
the young man laughed.
“Joyce,” he said, “I do believe that friend Dawes has come to arrest
us all.”
“You might guess again, and guess wrong,” said Peter, sitting himself
down and leaning one elbow on the table. “Mr. Steele, the game is up.
I want you!”
“And me, too?” asked the girl, raising her eyebrows.
She looked immensely pretty, he thought, and he had a sore heart for
her.
“Yes, you, too, Mrs. Steele,” he said quietly.
“What have I done?” she asked.
“There are several things you’ve done, the latest being to embrace
your husband in the vestibule of the hotel when we had arrested him
for being in possession of an emerald necklace, and in your emotion
relieving him of the incriminating evidence.”
She laughed, throwing back her head.
“It was prettily done, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Very prettily,” said Peter.
“Have you any other charge?”
“None, except that you are Four Square Jane,” said Peter Dawes.
“So you’ve found that out, too, have you?” asked the girl. She raised
her cup to her lips without a tremor, and her eyes were dancing with
mischief.
Peter Dawes felt that had this woman been engaged on a criminal
character instead of devoting her life to relieving the man who had
robbed her of his easy gains, she would have lived in history as the
greatest of all those perverted creatures who set the law at defiance.
Steele took a cigarette from his pocket, and offered his case to the
detective.
“As you say, the jig is up,” said he, “and since we desire most
earnestly that there should be no unpleasant scene, and this is a more
comfortable place to make a confession than a cold, cold prison cell,
I will tell you that the whole scheme of Four Square Jane was mine.”
“That’s not true,” said the girl quietly. “You mustn’t take either the
responsibility or the credit, dear.”
Steele laughed as he held a light to the detective’s cigarette.
“Anyway, I planned some of our cleverest exploits,” he said, and she
nodded.
“As you rightly say, Dawes, my wife is Four Square Jane. Perhaps you
would like to know why she took that name?”
“I know--or, rather, I guess,” said Peter. “It has to do with four
squares in London.”
Steele looked surprised.
“You’re cleverer than I thought,” he said. “But that is the truth.
Joyce and I had been engaged in robbing Claythorpe for a number of
years. When we got some actual, good money from him, we held tight to
it. Jewels we used either to send in to the hospitals----”
“That I know, too,” said Peter, and suddenly flung away his cigarette.
He looked at the two suspiciously, but neither pair of eyes fell. “Now
then,” said Peter thickly. “Come along. I’ve waited too long.”
He rose to his feet and staggered, then took a halting step across the
room to reach the door, but Steele was behind him, and had pinioned
him before he went two paces. Peter Dawes felt curiously weak and
helpless. Moreover, he could not raise his voice very much above a
whisper.
“That--cigarette--was--drugged,” he said drowsily.
“Quite right,” said Steele. “It was one of my Never Fails.”
Peter’s head dropped on his breast, and Steele lowered him to the
ground.
The girl looked down pityingly.
“I’m awfully sorry we had to do this, dear,” she said.
“It won’t harm him,” said Steele cheerfully. “I think we had better
keep some of our sorrow for ourselves, because this hotel is certain
to be surrounded. The big danger is that he’s got one of his gentleman
friends in the corridor outside.”
He opened the door quietly and looked out. The corridor was empty. He
beckoned the girl.
“Bring only the jewel-case,” he said. “I have the money and the
necklace in my pocket.”
After closing and locking the door behind them, they passed down the
corridor, not in the direction of the lift or the stairs, but towards
a smaller pair of stairs, which was used as an emergency exit, in case
of fire. They did not attempt to descend, but went up three flights,
till they emerged on a flat roof, which commanded an excellent view of
the West End of London.
Steele led the way. He had evidently reconnoitred the way, and did not
once hesitate. The low roof ended abruptly in a wall on to which he
climbed, assisting the girl after him. They had to cross a little neck
of sloping ledge, before they came to a much more difficult foothold,
a slate roof, protected only by a low parapet. They stepped gingerly
along this, until they came to a skylight, which Steele lifted.
“Down you go,” he said, and helped the girl to drop into the room
below them.
He waited only long enough to secure the skylight, and then he
followed the girl through the unfurnished room into which they had
dropped, on to a landing.
In the meantime, Peter’s assistant had grown nervous, and had come up
to the room, and knocked. Getting no answer, he had broken in the
door, to find his chief lying still conscious but helpless where he
had been left. The rough-and-ready method of resuscitation to which
the detective resorted, shook the drugged man from his sleep, and a
doctor, hastily summoned, brought him back to normality.
He was still shaky, however, when he recounted the happenings.
“They haven’t passed out of the hotel, that I’ll swear,” said the
detective. “We’re watching every entrance, including the staff
entrance. How did it occur?”
Peter shook his head.
“I went like a lamb to the slaughter,” he said, smiling grimly. “It
was the promise of a confession, and my infernal curiosity which made
me stay--to smoke a doped cigarette, too!” He thought a moment. “I
don’t suppose they depended entirely on the cigarette, though,” he
said. “And maybe it would have been a little more unpleasant for me,
if I hadn’t smoked.”
An hour after he was well enough to conduct personally a search of the
hotel premises. From cellar to roof he went, followed by two
assistants, and it was not until he was actually on the roof that he
discovered any clue. It was a small piece of beadwork against the wall
which the girl had climbed, and which had been torn off in her
exertions. They passed along the neck, and along the sloping roof till
they came to the skylight, and this Peter forced.
He found, upon descending, that he was in the premises of Messrs.
Backham and Boyd, ladies’ outfitters. The floor below was a large
sewing-room, filled with girls who were working at their machines,
until the unexpected apparition of a pale and grimy man brought an end
to their labours. Neither the foreman nor the forewoman had seen
anybody come in, and as it was necessary to pass through the room to
reach a floor lower down, this seemed to prove conclusively to Dawes
that the fugitives had not made use of this method to escape.
“The only people who have been in the upstairs room,” exclaimed the
foreman, “are two of the warehousemen, who went up about two minutes
ago, to bring down some bales.”
“Two men?” said Peter quickly. “Who were they?”
But, though he pushed his inquiries to the lower and more influential
regions of the shop, he could not discover the two porters. A lot of
new men had been recently engaged, said the manager, and it was
impossible to say who had been upstairs and who had not.
The door porter at the wholesale entrance, however, had seen the two
porters come out, carrying their somewhat awkwardly-shaped bundles on
their shoulders.
“Were they heavy?” asked Peter.
“Very,” said the door-keeper. “They put them on a cart, and didn’t
come back.”
Now if there was one thing more certain than another in Peter’s mind,
it was that Four Square Jane did not depend entirely upon the
assistance she received from her husband. Peter recalled the fact that
there had once been two spurious detectives who had called on Lord
Claythorpe having the girl in custody. They were probably two old
hands at the criminal game, enlisted by the ingenious Mr. Steele. This
proved to be the case, as Peter was to find later. And either Four
Square Jane or he might have planted these two men in an adjoining
warehouse with the object of rendering just that kind of assistance,
which, in fact, they did render.
Peter reached the streets again, baffled and angry. Then he remembered
that in Lord Claythorpe’s desk was a certain bond to bearer for five
hundred thousand dollars. Four Square Jane would not leave England
until she had secured this; and, as the thought occurred to him, he
hailed a taxi, and drove at top speed to the dead man’s house.
Already the news of the tragedy which had overcome the Claythorpe’s
household had reached the domestics: and the gloomy butler who
admitted him greeted him with a scowl as though he were responsible
for the death of his master.
“You can’t go into the study, sir,” he said, with a certain
satisfaction, “it has been locked and sealed.”
“By whom?” asked Peter.
“By an official of the Court, sir,” said the man.
Peter went to the study door, and examined the two big red seals.
There is something about the seal of the Royal Courts of Justice which
impresses even an experienced officer of the law. To break that seal
without authority involves the most uncomfortable consequences, and
Peter hesitated.
“Has anybody else been here?” he asked.
“Only Miss Wilberforce, sir,” said the man.
“Miss Wilberforce?” almost yelled Peter. “When did she come?”
“About the same time as the officer who sealed the door,” said the
butler. “In fact, she was in the study when he arrived. He ordered her
out pretty roughly, too, sir,” said the butler with relish, as though
finding in Miss Wilberforce’s discomfiture some compensation for the
tragedy which had overtaken his employer. “She sent me upstairs to get
an umbrella she had left when she was here last, and when I came down
she was gone. The officer grumbled something terribly.”
Peter went to the telephone and rang up Scotland Yard, but they had
heard nothing of the sealing of the house and suggested that he should
seek out the Chancery officials to discover who had made the order and
under what circumstances. Only those who have attempted to disturb the
routine of the Court of Chancery will appreciate the unhappy hours
which Peter spent that day, wandering from master to master, in a vain
attempt to secure news or information.
He went back to the house at half-past four that evening, determined
to brave whatever terror the Court of Chancery might impose, and again
he was met by the butler on the doorstep, but this time a butler
bursting with news.
“I’m very glad you’ve come, sir. I’ve got such a lot to tell you.
About half-an-hour after you’d gone, sir, I heard a ripping and
tearing in the study, and I went to the door and listened. I couldn’t
understand what was going on, so I shouted out: ‘Who’s there?’ And who
do you think replied?”
Peter’s heart had sunk at the butler’s words.
“I know,” he said. “It was Four Square--it was Miss Joyce
Wilberforce.”
“So it was, sir,” said the butler in surprise. “How did you know?”
“I guessed,” said Peter shortly.
“It appeared she’d been locked in quite by accident by the officer of
the Court,” the butler went on, “and she was having a look through his
lordship’s desk to find some letters she’d left behind.”
“Of course, sir, everybody knows that Lord Claythorpe’s desk is one of
the most wonderful in the world. It’s full of secret drawers, and I
remember Miss Joyce saying once that if his lordship wanted to hide
anything it would take a month to find it.”
Peter groaned.
“They wanted time--of course, they wanted time!”
What a fool he had been all through! There was no need for the butler
to tell him the rest of the story, because he guessed it. But the man
went on.
“After a bit,” he said, “I heard the key turn in the lock, and out
came Miss Joyce, looking as pleased as Punch. But you should have seen
the state of that desk!”
“So she broke the seals, did she?” said Peter, with gentle irony.
“Oh, yes, she broke the seals, and she broke the desk, too,” said the
butler impressively. “And when she came out, she was carrying a big
square sheet of paper in her hand--a printed-on paper, like a bank
note, sir.”
“I know,” said Peter. “It was a bond.”
“Ah. I think it might have been,” said the butler hazily. “At any
rate, that’s what she had. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it took a lot of
finding.’ ‘Miss,’ said I, ‘you oughtn’t to take anything from his
lordship’s study until the law----’ ‘Blow the law,’ said she. Them was
her very words--blow the law, sir.”
“She’s blown it, all right,” said Peter, and left the house. His last
hope was to block all the ports, and in this way prevent their leaving
the country. However, he had no great hopes of succeeding in his
attempts to hold the volatile lady whose escapades had given him so
many sleepless nights.
* * * * *
Two months later, Peter Dawes received a letter bearing a South
American postmark. It was from Joyce Steele.
“You don’t know how sorry I am that we had to give you so much
trouble,” it ran; “and really, the whole thing was ridiculous, because
all the time I was breaking the law to secure that which was my own.
It is true that I am Four Square Jane. It is equally true that I am
Four Square Jane no longer, and that henceforth my life will be
blameless! And really, dear Mr. Dawes, you did much better than any of
the other detectives who were put on my track. I am here with my
husband, and the two friends who very kindly assisted us with our many
exploits are also in South America, but at a long distance from us.
They are very nice people, but I am afraid they have criminal minds,
and nothing appals me more than the criminal mind. No doubt there is
much that has happened that has puzzled you, and made you wonder why
this, or that, or the other happened. Why, for example, did I consent
to go to church with that impossible person, Francis Claythorpe?
Partly, dear friend, because I was already married, and it did not
worry me a bit to add bigamy to my other crimes. And partly because I
made ample preparations for such a contingency, and knew that marriage
was impossible. I had hoped, too, that Lord Claythorpe would give me a
wedding present of some value, which hope was doomed to
disappointment. But I did get a lot of quite valuable presents from
his many friends, and these both Jamieson and I most deeply
appreciate. Jamieson was the doctor who saw me at Lewinstein’s by the
way. He has been my right-hand man, and my dearest confederate.
Perhaps, Mr. Dawes, you will meet us again in London, when we are
tired of South America. And perhaps when you meet us you will not
arrest us, because you will have taken a more charitable view of our
behaviour, and perhaps you will have induced those in authority to
share your view. I am tremendously happy--would you be kind enough to
tell my mother that? I do not think it will cheer her up, because she
is not that kind.
“I first got my idea of playing Four Square Jane from hearing a
servant we once employed--a Jane Briglow--discussing the heroic
adventures of some fictional personage in whom she was interested. But
it was a mistake to call me ‘Jane.’ The ‘J’ stands for Joyce. When you
have time for a holiday, won’t you come over and see us? We should
love to entertain you.”
There was a P.S. to the letter which brought a wry smile to the
detective’s face.
“P.S. Perhaps you had better bring your own cigarettes.”
[The End]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Minor spelling inconsistencies (_e.g._ childlike/child-like,
dinner-party/dinner party, Ritz-Carlton/Ritz Carlton, etc.) have
been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Add ToC.
Punctuation fixes: some missing periods and commas, and adjust
some quotation mark pairings/nestings.
[Chapter I]
Change “She left the room as _noislessly_ as she had entered” to
_noiselessly_.
[Chapter II]
“applause for the genius and _presience_ of the little man” to
_prescience_.
[Chapter III]
“Mr. _Tressler_ took his loss very calmly until the newspapers” to
_Tresser_.
[Chapter V]
“she sticks to it; and maybe _its_ something else” to _it’s_.
“But I’m afraid _its_ no use. This poor fellow has been shot” to
_it’s_.
[Chapter VII]
(“Is that so?” he said _increduously_.) to _incredulously_.
[Chapter VIII]
“he unbolted the door, _unbottoned_ the coat, and took out” to
_unbuttoned_.
[Chapter IX]
“_Its_ full of secret drawers, and I remember Miss Joyce saying” to
_It’s_.
[End of text]