Four square Jane
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