Four square Jane
The detective nodded.
“Where does your interest come in, Lord Claythorpe?” he asked.
“I am her legal guardian,” said his lordship, “although of course, she
has a mother. That is to say, I am the trustee and sole executor of
her estate, and there were one or two provisions especially made by my
dear friend which gave me authority usually denied to trustees----”
“Such as the right of choosing her husband,” said the detective
quietly, and it was Lord Claythorpe’s turn to frown.
“So you know something about this, do you?” he asked. “Yes, I have
that right. It so happened that I chose my own son Francis as the best
man for that position, and the lady was quite agreeable.”
“Indeed!” said the polite Peter. He consulted his notes. “As far as I
understand, this mysterious person, whom Mrs. Wilberforce believes to
be a discharged employee named Jane Briglow, after making several
raids upon your property, reached the culmination of her audacity by
robbing your son of his wedding-ring and then burgling the house of
the parson who was to marry them and stealing the license, which had
been granted by the Bishop of London.”
“That’s it exactly,” said Lord Claythorpe.
“And what of the wedding?” asked Peter. “There will be no difficulty
of getting another license.”
Lord Claythorpe sniffed.
“The only difficulty is,” he said, “that the young lady is naturally
prostrated by the humiliation which this villainous woman has thrust
upon her. She was in such a state of collapse the following morning
that her mother was compelled to take her--or rather, to send her--to
a friend in the country. The wedding is postponed for, let us say, a
month.”
“One other question,” asked the detective. “You say you suspect, in
addition to Jane Briglow, a young man named Jamieson Steele, who was
in a way engaged to Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”
“A fugitive from justice,” said his lordship emphatically. “And why
you police fellows cannot catch him is beyond my understanding. The
man forged my name----”
“I know all about that,” said the detective. “I had the records of the
case looked out, and the particulars of the case were ’phoned to me
here whilst you had gone upstairs to collect data concerning the
previous robbery. As a matter of fact, although he is, as you may say,
a fugitive from justice, having very foolishly run away, there is no
evidence which would secure a conviction before a judge and jury. I
suppose your lordship knows that?”
His lordship did not know that, and he expressed his annoyance in the
usual manner--which was to abuse the police.
Peter Dawes went back to Scotland Yard, and consulted the officer who
had been in charge of the forgery case.
“No, sir,” said that individual, “we have not a picture of Mr. Steele.
But he was a quiet enough young fellow--a civil engineer, so far as my
memory serves me, in the employment of one of Lord Claythorpe’s
companies.”
Peter Dawson looked at the other thoughtfully. His informant was Chief
Inspector Passmore, who was a living encyclopædia, not only upon the
aristocratic underworld, but upon crooks who moved in the odour of
respectability.
“Inspector,” said Peter, “what position does Lord Claythorpe occupy in
the world of the idle rich?”
The inspector stroked his stubbly chin.
“He is neither idle nor rich,” he said. “Claythorpe is, in point of
fact, a comparatively poor man, most of whose income is derived from
directors’ fees. He has been a heavy gambler in the past, and only as
recently as the last oil slump he lost a goodish bit of money.”
“Married?” asked Peter, and the other nodded.
“To a perfectly colourless woman whom nobody seems to have met, though
I believe she is seen out at some of the parties Lewinstein gives,” he
said.
“Do you know anything about the fortune of Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” said the other promptly.
“Held absolutely by his lordship as sole trustee. The girl’s uncle
thought an awful lot of him, and my own opinion is that, in entrusting
the girl’s fortune to Claythorpe, he was a trifle mad.”
The men’s eyes met.
“Is Claythorpe crooked?” asked Dawes bluntly, and the detective
shrugged his shoulders.
“Heaven knows,” he said. “The only thing I am satisfied about is his
association with Four Square Jane.”
Peter looked at him with a startled gaze.
“What on earth do you mean?” he asked.
“Well,” said the inspector, “don’t you see how all these crimes which
are committed by Four Square Jane have as their object the
impoverishment of Claythorpe?”
“I have formed my own theory on that,” said Peter slowly. “I thought
Four Square Jane was a society crook doing a Claude Duval stunt,
robbing the rich to keep the poor.”
The inspector smiled.
“You got that idea from the fact that she gives the proceeds of her
jewel robberies to the hospitals. And why shouldn’t she? They’re
difficult to dispose of, and as a rule they’re easily retrievable if
old man Claythorpe will pay the price. But you never heard, when she
took solid money, that that went to hospitals, did you?”
“There have been instances,” said Peter.
“When it wasn’t Claythorpe’s money,” said the other quickly. “When it
was only the money belonging to some pal of Claythorpe’s as shady as
himself. The impression I get of Four Square Jane is that she’s
searching for something all the time. Maybe it’s money--at any rate,
when she gets money she sticks to it; and maybe it’s something else.”
“What is your theory?” asked Dawes.
“My theory,” said the inspector slowly, “is that Four Square Jane and
Claythorpe were working in a crooked game together, and that he
double-crossed her and that she is getting her revenge.”
* * * * *
Lord Claythorpe had his office in the City, but most of his business
was conducted in a much smaller office situated in St. James’ Street.
The sole staff of this bureau was his confidential clerk, Donald
Remington, a sour-faced man of fifty, reticent and taciturn, who knew
a great deal more about his lordship’s business than possibly even
Lord Claythorpe gave him credit for.
After his interview with the detective, Lord Claythorpe drove away
from the city to the West End, and went up the one flight of stairs
which led to the little suite--it was more like a flat than an office
and occupied the first floor of a shop building, being approached by
the side door--in an absent and abstracted frame of mind.
The silent Remington rose as his master entered, and Lord Claythorpe
took the seat which his subordinate had occupied. For fully three
minutes neither man spoke, and then Remington asked:
“What did the detective want your lordship for?”
“To ask about that infernal woman,” replied the other shortly.
“Four Square Jane, eh? But did he ask you anything else?” His tone was
one of respectful familiarity, if the paradox may be allowed.
Claythorpe nodded.
“He wanted to know about Miss Wilberforce’s fortune,” he said.
Another silence, and then Remington asked:
“I suppose you’ll be glad when that wedding is through, now?”
There was a significant note in his voice, and Claythorpe looked up.
“Of course, I shall,” he said sharply. “By the way, have you made
arrangements about----”
Remington nodded.
“Do you think you’re wise?” he asked. “The securities had better stay
in the vaults at the bank don’t you think, especially in view of this
girl’s activities?”
“Nothing of the sort,” replied Claythorpe violently. “Carry out my
instructions, Remington, to the letter. What the devil do you mean by
questioning any act of mine?”
Remington raised his eyebrows the fraction of an inch.
“Far be it from me to question your lordship’s actions; I am merely
suggesting that----”
“Well, suggest nothing,” said Lord Claythorpe. “You have given notice
to the bank that I intend putting the bonds in a place of security?”
“I have,” replied the other, “the manager has arranged for the box to
be delivered here this afternoon. The assistant manager and the
accountant are bringing it.”
“Good!” said Claythorpe, “to-morrow I will take it down to my country
place.”
Remington was silent.
“You don’t think it wise, eh?” the small eyes of Lord Claythorpe
twinkled with malicious humour. “I see you’re scared of Four Square
Jane, too.”
“Not I,” said Remington quickly. “When is this marriage to occur?”
“In a month,” said his lordship airily. “I suppose you’re thinking
about your bonus.”
Remington licked his dry lips.
“I am thinking about the sum of four thousand pounds which your
lordship owes me, and which I have been waiting for very patiently for
the last two years,” he said. “I am tired of this kind of work, and I
am anxious to have a little rest and recreation. I’m getting on in
years, and it’s very nearly time I had a change.”
Lord Claythorpe was scribbling idly on his blotting-pad.
“How much do you think I will owe you, altogether, with the bonus I
promised you for your assistance?”
“Nearer ten thousand pounds than four,” replied the man.
“Oh!” said his lordship carelessly. “That is a large sum, but you may
depend upon receiving it the moment my boy is married. I have been
spending a lot of money lately, Remington. It cost a lot to get back
that pearl necklace.”
“You mean the Venetian Armlet?” said the other quickly. “I didn’t know
that you had the pearl necklace back?”
“Anyway, I advertised for it,” said his lordship evasively.
“Fixing no definite reward,” said Remington, “and for a very good
reason.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lord Claythorpe quickly.
“The pearls were faked,” said the calm Remington. “Your fifty thousand
pound necklace was worth little more than fifty pounds!”
“Hush! for heavens’ sake,” said Claythorpe. “Don’t talk so loud.” He
mopped his brow. “You seem to know a devil of a lot,” he said
suspiciously. “In fact, there are moments, Remington, when I think you
know a damn sight too much for my comfort.”
Remington smiled for the first time--a thin hard smile that gave his
face a sinister appearance.
“All the more reason why your lordship should get rid of me as soon as
possible,” he said. “I have no ambition except to own a little cottage
in Cornwall, where I can fish, ride a horse, and idle away my time.”
His lordship rose hurriedly and took off his coat, preparatory to
washing his hands in a small wash-place leading from the office.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “I had forgotten I have to lunch with
somebody. Your ambition shall be gratified--be sure of that,
Remington,” he said, passing into the smaller room.
“I hope so,” said Remington. His eyes were fixed on the floor. In
throwing down his coat a letter had dropped from Claythorpe’s pocket,
and Remington stooped to pick it up. He saw the postmark and the
handwriting, and recognized it as that of Mrs. Wilberforce. He heard
the splash of the water in the bowl and Lord Claythorpe’s voice
humming a little tune. Without a moment’s hesitation he took it out
and read it. The letter was short.
“My dear Lord Claythorpe,” it ran. “Joyce is adamant on the point of
the marriage, and says she will not go through with it for another
twelve months.”
He replaced the letter in the envelope, and put it back in the inside
pocket of the coat.
Twelve months! Claythorpe had lied when he said a month, and was
obviously lying with a purpose.
When his lordship emerged, wiping his hands on a towel, and still
humming a little tune, Remington was gazing out of the window upon the
chimney tops of Jermyn Street.
“I shall be back at half-past two,” said Lord Claythorpe,
perfunctorily examining a small heap of letters which lay on his desk.
“The bank people will be here by then?”
Remington nodded.
“I am worried about this transfer of Miss Joyce’s securities,” he