Four square Jane
pictures--you will remember the stuff that has been written about.”
The Chief nodded.
“There is a wonderful Romney, isn’t there?”
“That’s the picture,” replied Dawes. “Tresser, of course, doesn’t know
a picture from a gas-stove. He knows that the Romney is wonderful, but
only because he has been told so. Moreover, he is the fellow who has
been giving the newspapers his views on charity--told them that he
never spent a penny on public institutions, and never gave away a cent
that he didn’t get a cent’s worth of value for. A thing like that
would excite Jane’s mind; and then, in addition, the actual artistic
and monetary value of the Romney is largely advertised--why, I should
imagine that the attraction is almost irresistible!”
Mr. Tresser was a difficult man to meet. His multitudinous interests
in the City of London kept him busy from breakfast time until late at
night. When at last Peter ran him down in a private dining-room at the
Ritz-Carlton, he found the multi-millionaire a stout, red-haired man
with a long clean-shaven upper lip, and a cold blue eye.
The magic of Peter Dawes’ card secured him an interview.
“Sit down--sit down,” said Mr. Tresser hurriedly, “what’s the trouble,
hey?”
Peter explained his errand, and the other listened with interest, as
to a business proposition.
“I’ve heard all about that Jane,” said Mr. Tresser cheerfully, “but
she’s not going to get anything from me--you can take my word! As to
the Rumney--is that how you pronounce it?--well, as to that picture,
don’t worry!”
“But I understand you are giving permission to the public to inspect
your collection.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Tresser, “but everybody who sees them must
sign a visitor’s book, and the pictures are guarded.”
“Where do you keep the Romney at night--still hanging?” asked Peter,
and Mr. Tresser laughed.
“Do you think I’m a fool,” he said, “no, it goes into my strong room.
The Duke had a wonderful strong room which will take a bit of
opening.”
Peter Dawes did not share the other’s confidence in the efficacy of
bolts and bars. He knew that Four Square Jane was both an artist and a
strategist. Of course, she might not be bothered with pictures, and,
anyway, a painting would be a difficult thing to get away unless it
was stolen by night, which would be hardly likely.
He went to Haslemere House, which was off Berkeley Square, a great
rambling building, with a long, modern picture-gallery, and having
secured admission, signed his name and showed his card to an obvious
detective, he was admitted to the long gallery. There was the
Romney--a beautiful example of the master’s art.
Peter was the only sightseer, but it was not alone to the picture that
he gave his attention. He made a brief survey of the room in case of
accidents. It was long and narrow. There was only one door--that
through which he had come--and the windows at both ends were not only
barred, but a close wire-netting covered the bars, and made entrance
and egress impossible by that way. The windows were likewise long and
narrow, in keeping with the shape of the room, and there were no
curtains behind which an intruder might hide. Simple spring roller
blinds were employed to exclude the sunlight by day.
Peter went out, passed the men, who scrutinized him closely, and was
satisfied that if Four Square Jane made a raid on Mr. Tresser’s
pictures, she would have all her work cut out to get away with it. He
went back to Scotland Yard, busied himself in his office, and
afterwards went out for lunch. He came back to his office at three
o’clock, and had dismissed the matter of Four Square Jane from his
mind, when an urgent call came through. It was a message from the
Assistant Chief Commissioner.
“Will you come down to my office at once, Dawes?” said the voice, and
Peter sprinted down the long corridor to the bureau of the Chief
Commissioner.
“Well, Dawes, you haven’t had to wait long,” he was greeted.
“What do you mean?” said Peter.
“I mean the precious Romney is stolen,” said the Chief, and Peter
could only stare at him.
“When did this happen?”
“Half an hour ago--you’d better get down to Berkeley Square, and make
inquiries on the spot.”
Two minutes later, Peter’s little two-seater was nosing its way
through the traffic, and within ten minutes he was in the hall of the
big house interrogating the agitated attendants. The facts, as he
discovered them, were simple.
At a quarter-past two, an old man wearing a heavy overcoat, and
muffled up to the chin, came to the house, and asked permission to see
the portrait gallery. He gave his name as “Thomas Smith.”
He was an authority on Romney, and was inclined to be garrulous. He
talked to all the attendants, and seemed prepared to give a
long-winded account of his experience, his artistic training, and the
excellence of his quality as an art critic--which meant that he was
the type of bore that most attendants have to deal with, and they very
gladly cut short his monotonous conversation, and showed him the way
to the picture gallery.
“Was he alone in the room?” asked Peter.
“Yes, sir.”
“And nobody went in with him?”
“No, sir.”
Peter nodded.
“Of course, the garrulity may have been intentional, and it may have
been designed to scare away attendants, but go on.”
“The man went into the room, and was seen standing before the Romney
in rapt contemplation. The attendants who saw him swore that at that
time the Romney was in its frame. It hung on the level with the eyes;
that is to say the top of the frame was about seven feet from the
floor.
“Almost immediately after the attendants had looked in the old man
came out talking to himself about the beauty of the execution. As he
left the room, and came into the outer lobby, a little girl entered
and also asked permission to go into the gallery. She signed her name
‘Ellen Cole’ in the visitors’ book.”
“What was she like?” said Peter.
“Oh, just a child,” said the attendant vaguely, “a little girl.”
Apparently the little girl walked into the saloon as the old man came
out--he turned and looked at her, and then went on through the lobby,
and out through the door. But before he got to the door, he pulled a
handkerchief out of his pocket, and with it came about half a dozen
silver coins, which were scattered on the marble floor of the
vestibule. The attendants helped him to collect the money--he thanked
them, his mind still with the picture apparently, for he was talking
to himself all the time, and finally disappeared.
He had hardly left the house when the little girl came out and asked:
“Which is the Romney picture?”
“In the centre of the room,” they told her, “immediately facing the
door.”
“But there’s not a picture there,” she said, “there’s only an empty
frame, and a funny kind of little black label with four squares.”
The attendants dashed into the room, and sure enough the picture had
disappeared!
In the space where it had been, or rather on the wall behind the
place, was the sign of Four Square Jane.
The attendants apparently did not lose their heads. One went straight
to the telephone, and called up the nearest police station--the second
went on in search of the old man. But all attempts to discover him
proved futile. The constable on point duty at the corner of Berkeley
Square had seen him get into a taxi-cab and drive away, but had not
troubled to notice the number of the taxi-cab.
“And what happened to the little girl?” asked Peter.
“Oh, she just went away,” said the attendant; “she was here for some
time, and then she went off. Her address was in the visitor’s book.
There was no chance of her carrying the picture away--none whatever,”
said the attendant emphatically. “She was wearing a short little
skirt, and light summery things, and it was impossible to have
concealed a big canvas like that.”
Peter went in to inspect the frame. The picture had been cut flush
with the borders. He looked around, making a careful examination of
the apartment, but discovered nothing, except, immediately in front of
the picture, a long, white pin. It was the sort of pin that bankers
use to fasten notes together. And there was no other clue.
Mr. Tresser took his loss very calmly until the newspapers came out
with details of the theft. It was only then that he seemed impressed
by its value, and offered a reward for its recovery.
The stolen Romney became the principal topic of conversation in clubs
and in society circles. It filled columns of the newspapers, and
exercised the imagination of some of the brightest young men in the
amateur criminal investigation business. All the crime experts were
gathered together at the scene of the happening and their theories,
elaborate and ingenious, provided interesting subject matter for the
speculative reader.
Peter Dawes, armed with the two addresses he had taken from the
visitors’ book, the address of the old man and of the girl, went round
that afternoon to make a personal investigation, only to discover that
neither the learned Mr. Smith nor the innocent child were known at the
addresses they had given.
Peter reported to headquarters with a very definite view as to how the
crime was committed.
“The old man was a blind,” he said, “he was sent in to create
suspicion and keep the eyes of the attendants upon himself. He
purposely bored everybody with his long-winded discourse on art in
order to be left alone. He went into the saloon knowing that his bulky
appearance would induce the attendants to keep their eyes on him. Then
he came out--the thing was timed beautifully--just as the child came
in. That was the lovely plan.
“The money was dropped to direct all attention on the old man, and at
that moment, probably, the picture was cut from its frame, and it was
hidden. Where it was hidden, or how the girl got it out is a mystery.
The attendants are most certain that she could not have had it
concealed about her, and I have made experiments with a thick canvas
cut to the size of the picture, and it certainly does seem that the
picture would have so bulged that they could not have failed to have
noticed it.”
“But who was the girl?”
“Four Square Jane!” said Peter promptly.
“Impossible!”
Peter smiled.
“It is the easiest thing in the world for a young girl to make herself
look younger. Short frocks, and hair in plaits--and there you are!
Four Square Jane is something more than clever.”
“One moment,” said the Chief, “could she have handed it through the
window to somebody else?”
Peter shook his head.
“I have thought of that,” he said, “but the windows were closed and
there was a wire-netting which made that method of disposal
impossible. No, by some means or other she got the picture out under
the noses of the attendants. Then she came out and announced
innocently that she could not find the Romney picture--naturally there
was a wild rush to the saloon. For three minutes no notice was being
taken of the ‘child’.”
“Do you think one of the attendants was in collusion?”
“That is also possible,” said Peter, “but every man has a record of
good, steady service. They’re all married men and none of them has the
slightest thing against him.”
“And what will she do with the picture? She can’t dispose of it,”
protested the Chief.
“She’s after the reward,” said Peter with a smile, “I tell you, Chief,
this thing has put me on my mettle. Somehow, I don’t think I’ve got my
hand on Jane yet, but I’m living on hopes.”
“After the reward,” repeated the Chief; “that’s pretty substantial.
But surely you are going to fix her when she hands the picture over?”
“Not on your life,” replied Peter, and took out of his pocket a
telegram and laid it on the table before the other. It read: