Four square Jane
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?”