Four square Jane
Lord Claythorpe was a great connoisseur of precious stones, and argued
that it was just as absurd to keep your gems all behind one door as it
was to keep all your eggs in one basket.
“Yes, yes,” he said a little testily; “that is the jewel. I wouldn’t
have lost it for anything. If my fool of a--if her ladyship hadn’t
taken it down with her I shouldn’t have had all this bother and worry.
This is one of the rarest ornaments in the kingdom.”
He descanted upon the peculiar artistic value and historical interest
of this precious armlet for the greater part of a quarter of an hour,
during which time Dr. Parsons shifted uneasily from foot to foot, for
no mention of the reward had been made. At last Parsons managed to
murmur a hint.
“Reward--er--reward,” said his lordship uncomfortably, “there was some
talk of a reward. But surely, Dr. Parsons, you do not intend to
benefit your--er--charitable institution at the expense of a
law-abiding citizen? Or, might I say, receive a subscription at the
hands of a malicious and wicked criminal?”
“I am wholly uninterested in the moral character of any person who
donates money to my hospital,” said Parsons boldly. “The only thing
that troubles me is the lack of funds.”
“Perhaps,” said his lordship hopefully, “if I put my name down as an
annual subscriber for----”
The doctor waited.
“Say ten guineas a year,” suggested Lord Claythorpe.
“You offered a £10,000 reward,” said the doctor, his anger rising.
“Either your lordship is going to pay that reward or you are not. If
you refuse to pay I shall go to the Press and tell them.”
“The reward was for the conviction of the thief,” said his lordship in
triumph. “You don’t deny that. Now, you haven’t brought the thief
along to be convicted.”
“It was for any information that would lead to the recovery of the
jewel,” said the angry doctor; “and that is what I have brought
you--not only information, but the jewel itself. There was some talk
of conviction; but that, I am informed, is the usual thing to put into
an advertisement of this character.”
For half an hour they haggled, and the doctor was in despair. He knew
that it might mean ruin to take this curmudgeon into court, and so
after a painful argument he accepted, with a sense of despair, the
£4,000 which Lord Claythorpe most reluctantly paid.
That night his lordship gave a dinner party in honour of his niece,
whose wedding was to take place two days later. Only one person spoke
at that dinner party, and that person was Lord Claythorpe. For not
only had he to tell his guests what were his sensations when he learnt
the jewel was lost, but he had to describe vividly and graphically his
emotions on its restoration. But the choicest morsel he retained to
the last.
“This doctor fellow wanted £10,000--the impertinence of it! I knew
very well I was offering too large a reward, and I told those police
people so. Of course, the armlet is worth three times that amount, but
that is nothing to do with it. But I beat him down! I beat him down!”
“So I saw,” said the easy-going Mr. Lewinstein.
“So you saw?” said Lord Claythorpe suspiciously. “Where did you see
it? I thought nobody knew but myself. Has that infernal doctor been
talking?”
“I expect so,” said Lewinstein. “I read it in the evening papers
to-night. They’ve got quite a story about it. I’m afraid it’s not
going to do you any good, Claythorpe. If Jane hears about it----”
“Jane!” scoffed his lordship. “What the deuce do I care for Jane?”
Lewinstein nodded, and catching his wife’s eye, smiled.
“I didn’t care for Jane--until Jane came and bit me,” he said
philosophically. “Until I saw her four little squares labelled on my
door, and missed the contents of my private safe. I tell you that girl
is no ordinary crook. She returned the armlet to you because she
wanted to benefit the hospital, and if she hasn’t benefited the
hospital as much as she hoped I’d like to bet a thousand pounds to a
penny that she’s going to get the balance from you.”
“Let her try!” Lord Claythorpe snapped his fingers. “For years the
best burglars in Europe have been making a study of my methods, and
three of them have got as far as the safe doors. But you know my
system, Lewinstein,” he chuckled, “ten safes, and seven of them empty.
That baffles ’em! Why, Lew Smith, who is the cleverest
burglar--according to Scotland Yard--who ever went into or came out of
prison, worked all night on two empty safes in my cupboard.”
“Doesn’t anybody know which safes you use?”
“Nobody,” replied the other promptly; “and only one of the three
contains jewellery worth taking. No; it’s nine to one against the
burglar ever finding the safe.”
“What do you do?” asked the interested Lewinstein. “Change the
contents of the safe every night?”
Lord Claythorpe grinned and nodded.
“In the daytime,” he said, “I keep most of my valuables in the big
safe in the corner of my study. That is where I put such things as the
Doges’ armlet. At night, before the servants retire, I take all the
valuable cases out of my big safe and put them on the library table.
My butler and my footman stand outside the door--outside, you
understand--and then I switch out all the lights, open the safe in the
darkness, put in the jewellery, lock the safe, pocket my keys, and
there you are!”
Lewinstein grunted, though the rest of the table had some word of
applause for the genius and prescience of the little man.
“I think that’s rather unnecessary,” said Lewinstein, his practical
mind revolting from anything which had a touch of the theatrical; “but
I suppose you know your own business best.”
“You suppose rightly,” snapped Claythorpe, who was not used to having
his judgment or his wisdom questioned.
“I can only warn you,” said the persistent Lewinstein, “that in Four
Square Jane you are dealing with a person who wouldn’t be stopped if
you had fifty safes, and a policeman sitting on top of every one of
them.”
“Four Square Jane!” scoffed his lordship, “don’t worry about her! I
have a detective here----”
Mr. Lewinstein laughed a bitter little laugh.
“So had I,” he said shortly. “A female detective, may I ask?”
“Of course not. I’ve got the best man from Scotland Yard,” said Lord
Claythorpe.
“What I should like to know is this,” said the other lowering his
voice, “have you any kind of suspicious woman in the house?”
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded Lord Claythorpe bridling.
“Can you account for all your lady guests? There are a dozen here
to-night. Do you know them all?”
“Every one of them,” said his lordship promptly. “Of course, I
wouldn’t have strangers in the house at this moment. I have dear
Joyce’s wedding presents----”
“That’s what I’m thinking about,” said Mr. Lewinstein. “Would you mind
if I had a little look round myself?”
There was a sneer on Lord Claythorpe’s thin lips.
“Turning detective, Joe?” he asked.
“Something like that,” said Lewinstein. “I’ve been bitten myself, and
I know just where it hurts.”
Lewinstein was given the run of the big house in Belgrave Square, and
that evening he made one or two important discoveries.
The first was that “the best detective from Scotland Yard” was a
private detective, and although not a Headquarters’ officer, still a
man of unquestionable honesty and experience, who had been employed by
his lordship before.
“It’s not much of a job,” admitted the detective. “I have to sit with
my back to the door of his study all night long. His lordship doesn’t
like anybody in the study itself--what’s that?” he asked suddenly.
They were standing within half a dozen paces of the library door, and
the detective’s sensitive ears had caught a sound.
“I heard nothing,” said Lewinstein.
“I swear I heard a sound inside that room. Do you mind staying here
while I go for his lordship?”
“Why don’t you go in?” asked the other.
“Because his lordship keeps the library door locked,” grinned the
detective. “I won’t keep you waiting long, sir.”
He found Lord Claythorpe playing bridge, and brought that nobleman
along, an agitated and alarmed figure. With shaking hands he inserted
the key in the lock of the heavy door and swung it open.
“You go in first, officer,” he said nervously. “You’ll find the switch
on the right-hand side.”
The room was flooded with light, but it was empty. At one end of the
apartment was a long window, heavily barred. The blind was drawn, and
this the detective pulled up, only to discover that the window was
closed and had apparently not been opened.
“That’s rum,” he said. “It was the noise of a blind I heard.”
“The wind?” suggested Lewinstein.
“It couldn’t have been the wind, sir, the windows are hermetically
closed.”
“Well nobody could get in that window anyway, through the bars,” said
his lordship; but the detective shook his head.
“An ordinary man couldn’t, sir. I’m not so sure that a young girl
couldn’t slip through there as easily as you slip through the door.”
“Bah!” said his lordship, “you’re nervous. Just take a look round, my
good fellow.”
There were no cupboards, and practically no places where anybody could
hide, so the examination of the room was of a perfunctory character.
“Are you satisfied?” asked his lordship.
“Perfectly,” said the detective, and they went out, closing the door
which Lord Claythorpe locked behind them.
By half-past eleven the guests had departed, all except Lewinstein,
who was hoping that he would be admitted to the curious ceremonial
which Claythorpe had described. But in this he was disappointed. His
lordship entered the library alone, locked the door behind him and
switched out the lights, lest any prying eyes should see where he
deposited the jewel cases he took from the great safe in the corner of
the room. Presently they heard the soft thud of closing doors, and he
emerged.
“That’s all right,” he said with satisfaction, as he pocketed the
keys. “Now come along and have a drink before you go. You’ll stay
here, Johnson, won’t you?” he said to the private detective.
“Yes, my lord,” said the man.
On the way to the smoking-room where drinks had been served, Lord
Claythorpe explained that he did not rely entirely upon the detective
agency, that he had indeed notified Scotland Yard.
“The house is being watched, or will be watched, night and day until
after the wedding,” he said.
“I think you’re wise,” responded Mr. Lewinstein.
He tossed down a stiff whisky and soda, and, accompanied by his host,
went into the hall where he was helped on with his coat. He was on the
point of saying “Good night,” when there was a thunderous knock at the
front door, and the butler opened it. Two men stood on the doorstep
gripping between them a frail and slender figure.
“It’s all right, sir,” said one, with a note of exultation, “we’ve got
her! Can we come in?”
“Got her?” gasped his lordship, “who is it?”
And yet there was no need for him to ask.
The prisoner was a girl dressed from head to foot in black. A heavy
veil covered her face, being secured apparently under the
tightly-fitting little felt hat on her head.
“Caught her under your library window,” said one of the men with
satisfaction, and there was a grunt from Johnson the private
detective.
“Who are you?” asked his lordship.
“Sergeant Felton, from Scotland Yard, sir. Are you Lord Claythorpe?”
“Yes,” said his lordship.
“We’ve been watching the house,” said the man, “and we saw her dodging
down the side passage which leads to your stables. Now then, young
woman, let’s have a look at your face.”
“No, no, no,” said the girl struggling, “there are reasons. The Chief
Commissioner knows the reason.”
Her captor hesitated and looked at his companion.
“I think we’d better get the superintendent in charge of the case