Four square Jane
“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.