Four square Jane
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.