Four square Jane
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