Chapter III: Part 3

“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 said. “They are safe enough in the bank. I do not think they will be safe with you.”

“Rubbish,” said his lordship. “I think I know how to deal with Four Square Jane. And besides, I am going to ensure the safety of the securities. Four Square Jane isn’t the kind of person who would steal paper security. It wouldn’t be any good to her, anyway.”

“But suppose these documents disappear?” persisted Remington. “Though it might not assist Four Square Jane, it would considerably embarrass you and Miss Joyce. It would not be a gain, perhaps, to the burglar, but it would be a distinct loss to the young lady.”

“Don’t worry,” said Claythorpe, “neither Four Square Jane nor her confederate, Mr. Jamieson Steele--”

“Jamieson Steele?” repeated Remington. “What has he to do with it?”

Lord Claythorpe chuckled.

“It is my theory--and it is a theory, I think, which is also held by the police--that Jamieson Steele is the gentleman who assists Miss Four Square Jane in her robberies.”

“I’ll never believe it,” said Remington.

Lord Claythorpe had his hand on the door, preparatory to departing, and he turned at these words.

“Perhaps you do not believe that he forged my name to a cheque in this very office?” he said.

“I certainly do not believe that,” said Remington. “In fact I know that that story is a lie.”

Claythorpe’s face went red.

“That is an ugly word to use to me, Remington,” he said, “I think the sooner you go the better.”

“I quite agree with your lordship,” said Remington, and smiled as the door slammed behind his irate master.

When Claythorpe returned he was in a more amicable frame of mind, and greeted the two bank officials with geniality. On the big table was a black japanned box, heavily sealed. The business of transferring the sealed packages which constituted the contents of the box was not a long process. Lord Claythorpe checked them with a list he took from his case, and signed a receipt.

“I suppose your lordship would not like to break the seals of these envelopes?” said the assistant bank manager. “Of course, we are not responsible for their contents, but it would be more satisfactory to us, as I am sure it would be to your lordship, if you were able to verify the contents.”

“It is not necessary,” said Claythorpe, with a wave of his hand. “I’ll just reseal the box and put it in my safe.”

This he did in the presence of the manager, locking away the box in an old-fashioned steel safe--a proceeding which the bankers witnessed without enthusiasm.

“That doesn’t seem very secure,” said one, “I wish your lordship----”

“I wish you would mind your own business,” said Lord Claythorpe, and the bankers left, “blessing” the truculent man under their breath.

At six o’clock that afternoon Claythorpe finished the work on which he had been engaged, closed and locked his desk, tried the safe, and put on his hat. He glanced through the front window and saw that his car was waiting, and that it was pelting with rain.

“Which way are you going, Remington?” he asked. “I can give you a lift as far as Park Lane.”

“No, thank you, my lord,” said Remington, struggling into his mackintosh. “I am going by tube, and I have not far to walk.”

They went out of the office together, double-locking the stout door. Before leaving, Remington attached a burglar alarm which communicated with a large bell outside the building, and he repeated this process before the door was actually closed and double-locked.

“I want you to be here at nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” said Claythorpe to his subordinate. “Good-night.”

The inclemency of the weather increased as the evening advanced. A howling south-west gale swept over London, clearing the streets of idlers and limiting to some extent the activities of the police patrols. The police officer who was on duty within a few yards of the building, and who was relieved at eleven o’clock that night, stated that he saw or heard nothing of a suspicious character. In the course of his tour of duty, he tried the door which led to Lord Claythorpe’s office but found it fastened. His relief, a man named Tomms, made an examination of the door at a quarter past eleven--it was his business to examine every door in the street to see that they were securely fastened--and, in addition, acting upon instructions received from Scotland Yard, “pegged” the door. That is to say, he inserted two small wedges of the size of match sticks, one in each door-post, and tied a piece of black cotton from one to the other.

At one o’clock he tried the door again, and flashed his lamp upon the black thread, and found that it had been broken. This could only mean that someone had passed into the office between eleven and one. He summoned assistance, and roused the caretaker, who lived in adjoining premises, and together they went into the darkened building, and mounted the stairs.

Lord Claythorpe’s office door was apparently closed. It led, as the caretaker explained, directly into the main office. There was no sign of jemmy work, and the officers might have given up their investigations and found a simple explanation for the broken thread in the wildness of the night, when, flashing his lamp on the floor, one of the policemen saw a thin trickle of red coming from beneath. It was blood!

The police did not hesitate, but smashed open the door, and entered with some difficulty, for immediately behind the door was lying the body of a man. Tomms switched on the light and knelt down by the side of the body.

“He’s dead,” he said. “Do you know this man?”

“Yes, sir,” said the white-faced caretaker, “that’s Mr. Remington.”

The police made a perfunctory examination.

“You’d better get the divisional surgeon, Jim,” he said to his comrade. “But I’m afraid it’s no use. This poor fellow has been shot through the heart.”

He looked round the apartment. The safe door was wide open and empty.

Half-an-hour later Peter Dawes arrived on the scene of the murder and made a brief examination. He looked at the body.

“Was he like this?” he asked, “when you found him?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the officer.

“He has a knife in his hand.”

Peter bent down and looked at the thin-bladed weapon, tightly clenched in the dead man’s hand.

“What’s that, sir?” said Tomms, pointing to the other hand. “It looks like a paper there.”

The card in Remington’s half-clenched fist was loosely held, and the detective gently withdrew it. It was a visiting-card, and the name inscribed thereon was, “Mr. Jamieson Steele, Civil Engineer.” Peter Dawes whistled, and then walked across to the safe.

“That’s queer,” he said, and swung the door of the safe closed in the hope of finding something behind it.

He found something, but not what he had expected. In the centre of the green steel door was a small label. It was a label bearing the mark of Four Square Jane.

VI

Four Square Jane had committed a murder! It was incredible. All Peter Dawes’ fine theories went by the board in that discovery. This was not the work of a society crook; it was not the work of a criminal philanthropist; there was evidence here of the most cold-blooded murder that it had been his business to investigate.

Summoned from his bed at three o’clock in the morning, Lord Claythorpe came to his office a greatly distressed man. He was shivering from sheer terror when he told the story of the securities which had been in the safe when he had left the office.

“And I was warned. I was warned!” he cried. “Poor Remington himself begged me not to do it. What a fool I am!”

“What was Remington doing here?” asked Peter.

The body of the murdered man had long since been removed to the mortuary, and only the dark stain on the floor spoke eloquently of tragedy.

“I haven’t any idea,” said his lordship. “I simply dare not let myself think. Poor fellow! It is a tragedy, an appalling tragedy!”

“I know all about that,” said Peter drily. “Murders usually are. But what was Remington doing in this office between eleven at night and one o’clock in the morning?”

Lord Claythorpe shook his head.

“I can only offer you my theory,” he said, “for what it is worth. Poor Remington was greatly worried about the securities being in this office at all, and he begged me to get a caretaker, a commissionaire or somebody, to sit in the office during the night. Very foolishly I rejected this excellent suggestion. I can only surmise that, worried by the knowledge that so many valuable securities were in this inadequate safe, Remington came in the middle of the night, intending to remain on guard himself.”

Peter nodded. It was a theory which had the appearance of being a feasible one.

“Then you think that he was surprised by the burglar?”

“Or burglars,” said Lord Claythorpe. “Yes, I do.”

Peter sat at his lordship’s desk, tapping at the blotting-pad with his fingers.

“There is a lot to support your theory,” he said. “From the appearance of the body and the weapon in his hand, it is a likely suggestion that he was defending himself. On the other hand, look at this.”

He took a crumpled envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. It was stained with blood and the flap was heavily sealed.

“We found this under his body,” said the detective. “You will note that the envelope has been slit open by some sharp instrument--in fact, such an instrument as was found in Remington’s hand when the body was discovered.”

His lordship pondered this.

“Possibly he surprised them in the act of opening the envelope, and snatched it away,” he said, and again the detective nodded.

“I agree with you that that is also a plausible theory,” he said. “Had he a key of the safe?”

Lord Claythorpe hesitated.

“Not that I know,” he said. “Why, yes, of course, he had! I did not realize it. Yes, Remington had a key.”

“And is this the key?” Peter Dawes handed his lordship a long steel key which he had taken from his pocket, and Lord Claythorpe examined it intently.

“Yes,” he said, “that is undoubtedly one of the keys of the safe. Where did you find it?”

“Under the table,” said the detective.

“Are there any other clues?” asked his lordship after a pause, and this time Peter did not immediately answer.

“Yes, there is one,” he said. “We found in the dead man’s hand a small visiting-card.”

“What was the name?” asked the other quickly.

“The name was Mr. Jamieson Steele, who, I believe, was a former employee of yours.”

“Steele! By heaven! That fits in with what I have been saying all along!” cried Claythorpe. “So Steele was in it!”

“It doesn’t follow because this card was found in Remington’s hand that the card belonged to the burglar,” said Peter quietly. “It is not customary in criminal circles for murderers to leave their cards upon their victims, as I daresay your lordship knows.”

Claythorpe looked at him sharply.

“This does not seem to me to be a moment when you can exercise your sarcasm at my expense,” he growled. “I tell you Steele is a blackguard, and is the kind of man who would assist this notorious woman in her undertakings. Of course, if you’re going to shield him----”

“I shield nobody,” said Peter coldly. “I would not even shield your lordship if I had the slightest evidence against you. Of that you may be sure.”

Lord Claythorpe winced.

“This is a heavy loss for you,” said Peter, who was ignorant of the contents of the safe. Then, noticing the other’s silence, he asked quickly: “You will, of course, give me the fullest information as to what the safe contained. And you can’t do better than tell me now. Was it ready money?”

Lord Claythorpe shook his head.

“Nothing but securities,” he said, “and those not of a negotiable character.”

“Your securities?” asked Peter. “What was their value?”

“About a quarter of a million,” said his lordship, and Peter gasped.

“Your money?” he asked again.

“No,” hesitated Lord Claythorpe. “Not my money, but a trust fund----”

Peter sprang up from the table.

“You don’t mean to say that this was the fortune of Miss Joyce Wilberforce about which we were talking this morning?”

His lordship nodded.

“It is,” he said briefly. “It is a great tragedy, and I don’t know how I shall excuse myself to the poor girl.”

“You, of course, know what the securities were?” said Peter in a dry, matter-of-fact voice, as he sat down once more at the table.

In that moment he betrayed no more emotion than if he had been investigating the most commonplace of shop robberies.

“I have a list,” said Claythorpe, and for nearly an hour he was detailing particulars of the bonds which had been stolen.

Peter finished his inquiry at four in the morning, and went to his office to send out an all-Britain message.

It was not like Jane, this latest crime. It was certainly not like Jane or her assistant--if she had an assistant--to leave an incriminating visiting-card in poor Remington’s hand.

Peter Dawes was wise in the ways of criminals, both habitual and involuntary. He had seen a great deal of the grim side of his profession, and had made a careful study of anatomy, particularly in relation to murdered people. He was satisfied in his own mind that the card that was held in the lightly clenched fist of the dead man had been placed there after he had been shot.

He expressed himself frankly to his chief.

“The card is evidently a plant to lead us off the track; and if it was put there by Four Square Jane it was designed with the object of switching suspicion from her on to the unfortunate Steele.”

“Do you think you’ll catch Steele?” asked the chief.

Peter nodded.

“Yes, sir, I can catch him just when I want him, I think,” he said. “It was only because we didn’t want to take this man that we have let him go loose so long. He was a fool to run away, because the evidence against him was pretty paltry.”

Dawes had a large number of calls to make the following morning, and the first of these was on a firm of safemakers in Queen Victoria Avenue. He had the good fortune to find that the sales manager had been in control of the store for the past twenty years, and that he remembered distinctly selling the safe to Lord Claythorpe.

“That’s a relief,” smiled the detective. “I was afraid I should have to go all over London to find the seller. How many keys did you supply?”

“Two,” said the man. “One for his lordship, and one for Mr. Remington.”

“Was there any difference in the two keys?”

“None except the marking. Have you one of the keys here?”

The detective produced it from his pocket, but when the salesman put out his hand for it he shook his head, with a smile.

“No, I’ll keep it in my own hand, if you don’t mind. I have a special reason,” he said. “Perhaps you will describe the marking.”

“It’s inside the loop of the handle,” explained the salesman. “You will find a small number engraved there--No. 1 or No. 2. No. 1 was intended for his lordship, No. 2 for Mr. Remington. The numbers were put there at Lord Claythorpe’s suggestion in order to avoid confusion. It sometimes happens that both keys are in use together, and it is obviously desirable that they should not be mixed.”

Peter looked at the inside of the loop and saw the number, then placed the key in his pocket with a little smile.

“Thank you; I think you have told me all that I want to know,” he said. “You are sure that there are not three keys?”

“Perfectly certain,” said the man emphatically. “And what is more, it would have been impossible to have got these keys cut, except by our firm.”

Peter went back to Scotland Yard to find a telegram waiting for him. It was handed in at Falmouth by the chief of the local constabulary, and read:--

“Jamieson Steele is here. Shall I arrest? We have undoubted evidence that he spent last night in Falmouth with his wife.”

“His wife?” said the puzzled detective. “I didn’t know Steele was married. Well, that lets him out as far as the murder’s concerned. The question is shall we pinch him for the forgery?”

He consulted his friend the Inspector, and the advice he received with regard to the arrest on the lesser charge was emphatic.

“Leave him alone,” said the wise man. “It does us no good to arrest a man unless we are certain of conviction, and the only real offence that Jamieson Steele has committed was the fool offence of running away when he ought to have stood his ground. I interviewed the bank manager immediately after that crime, and the bank manager swore that the signature was not a forgery, but was Lord Claythorpe’s own; and with that evidence before the jury you’re not going to get a conviction, young fellow!”

Peter debated this point, and at last decided to wire to Steele asking him to come up and meet him.

The papers were filled with the stories of Four Square Jane’s latest exploit. This, indeed, was the culmination of a succession of sensational crimes. Her character, her eccentricities, the record of her several offences, appeared in every newspaper. There were witnesses who had seen a mysterious woman hurrying up St. James’ Street a quarter of an hour after the crime must have been committed; there were others who were certain they saw a veiled woman getting into a car at the bottom of St. James’ Street; in fact, the usual crop of rumours and evidence was forthcoming, none of which was of the slightest value to the police.

That afternoon the detective visited Lord Claythorpe. He found that gentleman in very close consultation with a grave Mr. Lewinstein. To the credit of that genial Hebrew financier it must be said that, however optimistic might be the prospectuses he framed from time to time, he was undoubtedly straight. And Mr. Lewinstein’s gravity of demeanour was due to a doubt which had arisen in his mind for the first time as to the trustworthy character of his lordly business associate. They greeted the detective--his lordship suspiciously and a little nervously, Lewinstein with evident relief.

“Well,” asked Claythorpe, “have you made any discovery?”

“Several,” said Peter. “We have been able to reconstruct the crime up to a point, and we have also proved that Mr. Steele was in Falmouth when the murder was committed.”

A little shade passed over the sallow face of Lord Claythorpe.

“How could you prove that when you don’t know where he is?” he asked.

“We found where he was, all right,” said Peter with satisfaction.

“And you have arrested him, of course?” demanded his lordship. “I mean for the forgery.”

The other smiled.

“Honestly, Lord Claythorpe, do you seriously wish us to arrest Jamieson Steele, in view of the overwhelming evidence in support of his contention that the cheque was given to him by you, and signed by you?”

“It’s a lie!” roared Lord Claythorpe, bringing his fist down on the table.

“It may be a lie,” said Peter Dawes quietly, “but it is a lie the jury will believe, and I can’t believe that the outcome of such a prosecution will be very profitable to your lordship.”

Claythorpe was silent. Presently he looked up and caught Lewinstein’s eye, and Lewinstein nodded.

“I quite agree,” said that gentleman seriously. “I never thought there was much of a case against young Steele. He was a good boy. Why he got rattled and ran away heaven only knows.”

Claythorpe changed the subject, which was wholly disagreeable to him.

“Have you found anything else?”

“Nothing except this,” said Peter, taking a key from his pocket and laying it on the table before Lord Claythorpe. “Will you be kind enough to show me your key?”

Claythorpe looked at the other for fully a minute.

“Certainly,” he said. He disappeared from the room and returned with a bunch of keys, on the end of which lay the facsimile of that which lay on the table.

Peter took the key and examined it. He looked at the inside of the loop, and as he did so an involuntary cry broke from Claythorpe’s lips.

“A jumping tooth,” he mumbled in apology. “Well, what have you found?”

“I’ve found that your keys have got slightly mixed,” said Peter. “You have Remington’s, and the key found in the office after the murder is yours!”

“Impossible!” said Lord Claythorpe.

“It is one of the impossible things that has happened,” said Peter.

“Well, there’s an explanation for that,” Claythorpe began, but Peter stopped him.

“Of course there is,” he said. “There are a hundred explanations, all of which are quite satisfactory. I suppose you had the keys out together on the table, and they got mixed at some time or other, and you did not notice. I’m not suggesting that you can’t explain. I merely point out this fact, which at present has no bearing, or very little, on any aspect of the case.”

Lewinstein and the detective went from the house together. His lordship, left alone, paced the study restlessly. Then he sat down at his desk and began to write. He produced two large canvas envelopes from the drawer of his desk, and into one of these he inserted a square certificate. He examined it casually before he put it into the cover. It was a debenture certificate issued by the North American Smelter Corporation for five hundred thousand dollars, and there was a particular reason why he should not have this valuable and important document in his house. He addressed the envelope containing the cover to himself in London. This he crossed with blue pencil, and from a drawer took out a small box containing a number of unused stamps. They were not British stamps, but Colonial, including Australian, African, Indian, and British Chinese. He fixed two Australian stamps, and placed the envelope within another, a little bigger. This he addressed to the manager of a Tasmanian bank, with whom he had done some business. To this gentleman he wrote a letter, saying that he expected to be in Australia by the time this letter reached it’s destination.

“But,” the letter went on, “if by any chance I am not able to get to Australia, and I do not call for this packet within a week after its arrival, or notify you by cable, asking you to keep it for me, will you please send it back to me by registered post.”

That was a job well done, he thought, as he sealed the envelope. This incriminating document would at any rate be out of the country for three months. Should he register it? He scratched his chin dubiously. Registration literally meant registration. If people inquired as to whether he had made any important transfer by mail, there would be no difficulty in discovering, not only the fact that he had posted such a letter, but the address to which it had been posted. No, on the whole he thought it would be better if he sent the letter by ordinary post. He put on his hat and coat, and took the letter himself to the nearest post office. On his return his butler announced a visitor.

“Miss Wilberforce!” said his lordship in surprise, “I thought she was in the country.”

“She arrived a few minutes after you left, m’lord.”

“Excellent!” said Claythorpe. It was the last person he had expected to see, and he fetched a sigh of relief. It might have been awkward if she had arrived earlier--at any rate, it was a remarkable coincidence that she had come at all that evening.

He found her standing by his table, and went towards her with outstretched hands.

“My dear Joyce,” he said, “whatever brings you here?”

“I had a telegram about the robbery,” she said; and then for the first time he realized that he had not troubled to notify the only person who was really affected by the burglary.

“Who wired you?”

“The police.”

Still he was puzzled.

“But you couldn’t have had the wire till eleven,” he said, “how on earth did you get here?”

She smiled rather quietly.

“I did rather an adventurous thing,” she replied. “There is an aeroplane service between Falmouth and London.”

He could only stare at her.

“That was very enterprising of you, Joyce.”

“Tell me,” she said, “did you also wire about this robbery?”

“I’ve been waiting till I got the fullest details before I notified you,” said Lord Claythorpe easily. “You see, my dear girl, I have no wish to worry or frighten you, and possibly there was some chance that this wretched woman would return the securities, or at any rate give me a chance of redeeming them.”

She nodded.

“I see,” she said. “Then I can do nothing?”

He shook his head.

“Absolutely nothing.”

She pursed her lips irresolutely.

“Can I write a letter?” she asked.

“Sit down, sit down, my dear child,” he fussed. “You’ll find paper and envelopes in this case.”

* * * * *

At eleven o’clock that night, South Western District Post Office No. 2 was a scene of animation. Postal vans, horse vans and motors were pulled up level with the big platform which led from the sorting room, and a dozen porters were engaged in handling mail bags for various destinations. The vans conveying local London mails had been despatched to the various district offices, the last to leave being a small one-horse van carrying the foreign mails to the G.P.O. It was driven by a middle-aged attendant named Carter, and pulled out of the yard at a quarter to twelve.

The weather was a repetition of that which had been experienced on the previous night. The south-wester was still blowing, the rain was coming down in gusty squalls, and the driver, muffled up to the chin, whipped up his horse to face the blast. His way led through the most deserted part of London’s West End--more deserted than usual on this stormy night. One of the main streets through which he had to pass was “up,” being in the hands of the road repairers, and he turned into a side street to make a detour which would bring him clear of the obstruction. He observed, as he again turned his horse into the narrow thoroughfare running parallel with the main road, that the street lamps were extinguished, and put this down to the storm. He was in the blackest patch of the road, when a red lamp flashed right ahead of him, and he pulled his horse back on its haunches.

“What’s the trouble?” he said leaning down and addressing the figure that held the lamp.

For answer, a blinding ray of light, directed by a powerful pocket lamp, struck him full in the face, and before he realised what had happened, someone had leapt on to the wheel and was by his side, clutching at the rails on top of the van. Something cold and hard was pressed against his neck.

“Utter a sound and you’re a dead man,” said a man’s voice.

A quarter of an hour later, all that stood for authority in London was searching for a dark low motor car, and Peter Dawes, sitting on the edge of his bed in his pyjamas, was eagerly questioning one of his junior officers over the ’phone.

“Robbed the mail? Impossible! How did it happen? Were they arrested? I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”

He slipped into a suit, buttoned his mackintosh, and stepped out into the wild night. His flat was opposite a cab rank, and in less than ten minutes he was at Scotland Yard.

“… the man said the thing was over so quickly he hadn’t a chance of shouting, besides which, the fellow who stood by his side threatened to shoot him.”

“What have they taken?”

“Only one bag, so far as can be ascertained. They knew just what they were after, and when they had got it they disappeared. The constable at the other end of the street heard the man shout, and came running down just in time to see a motor car turn the corner.”

Later, Peter interviewed the driver, a badly scared man, in the stable-yard of the contractor who supplied the horses for the post office vans. The driver was a man who had been in the Government service for ten years, and had covered the route he was following that night--except that he had never previously taken the side street rendered necessary by the condition of the road--for the greater part of that time.

“Did you see anybody else except the man who sat by your side and threatened you?” asked Peter.

“Yes, sir,” replied the man. “I saw what I thought was a girl in a black oilskin; she passed round to the back of the van.”

“Where is the van? Is it here?” asked the detective, and they showed him a small, four-wheeled vehicle, covered in at the top and with two doors which were fastened behind by a steel bar and padlocked. The padlock had been wrenched open, and the doors now stood ajar.

“They had taken out the mail bags, sir, in order to sort them out to see what was gone.”

Peter flashed his lamp in the interior, examining the floor and sides carefully. There was no clue of any kind until he began his inspection of the inside of the doors, and there, on the very centre, was the familiar label.

“Four Square Jane, eh?” said Peter, and whistled.

VII

“I deeply regret that I found it necessary to interfere with His Majesty’s mails. In a certain bag was a letter which was very compromising to me, and it was necessary that I should recover it. I beg to enclose the remainder of the letters which are, as you will see, intact and untampered with!”

This document, bearing the seal manual of Four Square Jane, was delivered to the Central Post Office accompanied by a large mail bag. The person who delivered it was a small boy of the District Messenger Service, who brought the package in a taxi-cab. He could give no information as to the person who had sent him except to say that it was a lady wearing a heavy veil, who had summoned him to a popular hotel, and had met him in the vestibule. They had taken a cab together, and at the corner of Clarges Street the cab had pulled up on the instructions of the lady; a man had appeared bearing a bundle that he had put into a cab which then drove on. A little later the lady had stopped the cab, given the boy a pound note, and herself descended. The boy could only say that in his opinion she was young, and undoubtedly in mourning.

Here was new fuel to the flames of excitement which the murder of Remington had aroused. A murder one day, accompanied by a robbery which, if rumour had any foundation, involved nearly a quarter of a million pounds, and this tragedy followed on the next day by the robbery of the King’s mail; and all at the hands of a mysterious woman whose name was already a household word--these happenings apart from the earlier crimes were sufficient to furnish not only London but the whole of Britain with a subject for discussion.

Lord Claythorpe heard the news of the robbery with some uneasiness. Inquiries made at the local district office however, relieved him of his anxiety. The mail bag which had been taken, he was informed, was part of the Indian mail. The Australian mail had been delivered at the General Post Office earlier in the evening by the service which left the district office at nine o’clock. It was as well for his peace of mind that he did not know how erroneous was the information he had been given. He had asked Joyce to breakfast with him, and had kept her waiting whilst he pursued these inquiries; for he had read of the robbery in bed, and had hurried round to the district office without delay.

“This is the most amazing exploit of all,” he said to the girl, as he handed her the paper. “Take this,” he said. “I have read it.”

“Poor Jane Briglow!”

“Why Jane Briglow?”

The girl smiled.

“Mother insists that it is she who has committed all these acts. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that Jane is in good service in the North of England.”

Claythorpe looked at her in surprise.

“Is that so?” he said incredulously. “Do you know, I’d begun to form a theory about that girl.”

“Well, don’t,” said Joyce, helping herself to jam.

“I wonder whether they’ll get the bag back,” speculated his lordship. “There’s nothing about it in the papers.”

“It is very unlikely, I should think,” said Joyce. She rolled up her table-napkin. “You wanted to see me about something this morning,” she said.

He nodded.

“Yes, Joyce,” he said. “I’ve been thinking matters over. I’m afraid I was rather prejudiced against young Steele.” The girl made no reply. “I’m not even certain that he was guilty of the offence with which I charged him,” Claythorpe went on. “You see, I was very worried at the time, and it is possible that I may have signed a cheque and overlooked the fact. You were very fond of Steele?”

She nodded.

“Well,” said Lord Claythorpe heartily, “I will no longer stand in your way.”

She looked at him steadily.

“You mean you will consent to my marriage?”

He nodded.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Why not, indeed?” she said, a little bitterly. “I understand that my fortune no longer depends upon whether I marry according to your wishes or not--since I have no fortune.”

“It is very deplorable,” said his lordship gravely. “Really, I feel morally responsible. It is a most stupendous tragedy, but I will do whatever I can to make it up to you, Joyce. I am not a rich man by any means, but I have decided, if you still feel you cannot marry my son, and would prefer to marry Mr. Steele, to give you a wedding gift of twenty thousand pounds.”

“That is very good of you,” said the girl politely, “but, of course, I cannot take your verbal permission. You will not mind putting that into writing?”

“With all the pleasure in life,” said Lord Claythorpe, getting up and walking to a writing-table, “really Joyce, you’re becoming quite shrewd in your old age,” he chuckled.

He drew a sheet of paper from a writing-case and poised a pen.

“What is the date?” he asked.

“It is the nineteenth,” said the girl. “But date it as from the first of the month.”

“Why?” he asked in surprise.

“Well, there are many reasons,” said the girl slowly. “I shouldn’t like people to think, for example, that your liking for Mr. Steele dated from the loss of my property.”

He looked at her sharply, but not a muscle of her face moved.

“That is very considerate of you,” he said with a shrug, “and it doesn’t really matter whether I make it the first or the twenty-first, does it?”

He wrote quickly, blotted the sheet, handed it to the girl, and she read it and folded the paper away in her handbag.

“Was that really the reason you asked me to date the permission back?” he asked curiously.

She shook her head.

“No,” she said coolly. “I was married to Jamieson last week.”

“Married!” he gasped. “Without my permission!”

“With your permission,” she said, tapping her little bag.

For a second he frowned, and then he burst into a roar of laughter.

“Well, well,” he said. “That’s rather rich. You’re a very naughty girl, Joyce. Does your mother know?”

“Mother knows nothing about it,” said the girl. “There is one more thing I want to speak to you about, Lord Claythorpe, and that is in connection with the robbery of the mail last night.”

It was at that moment that Peter Dawes was announced.

“It’s the detective,” said Lord Claythorpe with a little frown. “You don’t want to see him?”

“On the contrary, let him come in, because what I am going to say will interest him,” she said.

Claythorpe nodded to the butler, and a few seconds later Peter Dawes came into the room. He bowed to the girl and shook hands with Lord Claythorpe.

“This is my niece--well, not exactly my niece,” smiled Claythorpe, “but the niece of a very dear friend of mine, and, in fact, the lady who is the principal loser in that terrible tragedy of St. James’ Street.”

“Indeed?” said Peter with a smile. “I think I know the young lady by sight.”

“And she was going to make an interesting communication to me just as you came in,” said Claythorpe. “Perhaps, Joyce, dear, you will tell Mr. Dawes?”

“I was only going to say that this morning I received this.” She did not go to her bag, but produced a folded paper from the inside of her blouse. This she opened and spread on the table and Claythorpe’s face went white, for it was the five hundred thousand dollar bond which he had despatched the day before to Australia. “I seem to remember,” said the girl, “that this was part of my inheritance--you remember I was given a list of the securities you held for me?”

Lord Claythorpe licked his dry lips.

“Yes,” he said huskily. “That is part of your inheritance.”

“How did it come to you?” asked Peter Dawes.

“It was found in my letter-box this morning,” said the girl.

“Accompanied by a letter?”

“No, nothing,” said Joyce. “For some reason I connected it with the mail robbery, and thought that perhaps you had entrusted this certificate to the post--and that in your letter you mentioned the fact that it was mine.”

“That also is impossible,” said Peter Dawes quietly, “because, if your statement is correct, this document would have been amongst those which were stolen on the night that Remington was murdered. Isn’t that so, Lord Claythorpe?”

Claythorpe nodded.

“It is very providential for you, Joyce,” he said huskily. “I haven’t the slightest idea how it came to you. Probably the thief who murdered Remington knew it was yours and restored it.”

The girl nodded.

“The thief being Four Square Jane, eh?” said Peter Dawes, eyeing his lordship narrowly.

“Naturally, who else?” said Claythorpe, meeting the other’s eyes steadily. “It was undoubtedly her work, her label was on the inside of the safe.”

“That is true,” agreed Peter. “But there was one remarkable fact about that label which seems to have been overlooked.”

“What was that?”

“It had been used before,” said Peter slowly. “It was an old label which had previously been attached to something or somewhere, for the marks of the old adhesion were still on it when I took it off. In fact, there were only a few places where the gum on the label remained useful.”

Neither the eyes of the girl or Lord Claythorpe left the other’s face.

“That is curious,” said Lord Claythorpe slowly. “What do you deduce from that?”

Dawes shrugged.

“Nothing, except that it is possible someone is using Four Square Jane’s name in vain,” he said, “someone who was in a position to get one of the old labels she had used on her previous felonies. May I sit down?” he asked, for he had not been invited to take a seat.

Claythorpe nodded curtly, and Dawes pulled a chair from the table and seated himself.

“I have been reconstructing that crime,” he said, “and there are one or two things that puzzle me. In the first place, I am perfectly certain that no woman was in your office on the night the murder was committed.”

Lord Claythorpe raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed!” he said. “And yet the constable who was first in the room told me that he distinctly smelt a very powerful scent--the sort a woman would use. I also noticed it when I went into the room.”

“So did I,” said Peter, “and that quite decided me that Four Square Jane had nothing to do with the business. A cool, calculating woman like Four Square Jane is certain to be a lady of more than ordinary intelligence and regular habits. She is not the kind who would suddenly take up a powerful scent, because it is possible to trace a woman criminal by this means, and it is certain that in no other case which is associated with her name was there the slightest trace or hint of perfume. That makes me more certain that the crime was committed by a man and that he sprinkled the scent on the floor in order to leave the impression that Four Square Jane had been the operator.”

“What do you think happened?” asked Lord Claythorpe after a pause.

“I think that Remington went to the office with the intention of examining the contents of the safe,” said Peter deliberately. “I believe he had the whole of the envelopes on the table, and had opened several, when he was surprised by somebody who came into the office. There was an argument, in the course of which he was shot dead.”

“You suggest that the intruder was a burglar?” said Lord Claythorpe with a set face, but Peter shook his head.

“No,” he said. “This man admitted himself to the office by means of a key. The door was not forced, and there was no sign of a skeleton key having been used. Moreover, the newcomer must have been well acquainted with the office, because, after the murder was committed he switched out the light and pulled up the blinds which Remington had lowered, so that the light should not attract attention from the street. We know they were lowered, because the constable on beat duty on the other side of the street saw no sign of a light. The blinds were heavy and practically light-proof. Now, the man who committed the murder knew his way about the office well enough to turn out the light, move in the dark, and manipulate the three blinds which covered the windows. I’ve been experimenting with those blinds, and I’ve found that they’re fairly complicated in their mechanism.”

Again there was a pause.

“A very fantastic theory, if you will allow me to say so,” said Lord Claythorpe, “and not at all like the sensible, commonsense point of view that I should have expected from Scotland Yard.”

“That may be so,” said Peter quietly. “But we get romantic theories even at Scotland Yard.”

He looked down at the bond, still spread out on the table.

“I suppose your lordship will put this in the bank after your unhappy experience?” he said.

“Yes, yes,” said Lord Claythorpe briefly, and Peter turned to the girl.

“I congratulate you upon recovering a part of your property,” he said. “I understand this is held in trust for you until you’re married.”

Lord Claythorpe started violently.

“Until you’re married!” he said. “Why, why!” He caught the girl’s smiling eyes. “That means now, doesn’t it?” he said.

“Until your marriage is approved by me,” said Lord Claythorpe.

“I think it is approved by you,” said Joyce, and dived her hand into her bag.

“It will be delivered to you formally to-morrow,” said his lordship stiffly.

Peter Dawes and the girl went out of the house together and walked in silence a little way.

“I’d give a lot to know what you’re thinking,” said the girl.

“And I’d give a lot to know what you know,” smiled Peter, and at that cryptic exchange they parted.

That night Mr. Lewinstein was giving a big dinner party at the Ritz Carlton. Joyce had been invited months before, but had no thought of accepting the invitation until she returned to the hotel where she was staying.

A good-looking man rose as she entered the vestibule, and came towards her with a smile. He took her arm, and slowly they paced the long corridor leading to the elevator.

“So that’s Mr. Jamieson Steele, eh?” said Peter Dawes, who had followed her to the hotel, and he looked very thoughtfully in the direction the two had taken.

He went from the hotel and called on Mr. Lewinstein by appointment, and that great financier welcomed him with a large cigar.

“I heard you were engaged upon the Four Square Jane case, Mr. Dawes,” he said, “and I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I invited you to dinner to-night.”

“Is this a professional or a friendly engagement?” smiled Peter.

“It’s both,” said Mr. Lewinstein frankly. “The fact is, Mr. Dawes, and I’m not going to make any bones about the truth, it is necessary in my business that I should keep in touch with the best people in London. From time to time I give a dinner-party, and I bring together all that is bright and beautiful and brainy. Usually these dinners are given in my own house, but I’ve had a rather painful experience,” he said grimly, and Peter, who knew the history of Four Square Jane’s robbery, nodded in sympathy.

“Now, I want to say a few words about Miss Four Square Jane,” said Lewinstein. “Do you mind seeing if the door is closed?”

Peter looked outside, and closed the door carefully.

“I’d hate what I’m saying to be repeated in certain quarters,” Lewinstein went on. “But in that robbery there were several remarkable coincidences. Do you know that Four Square Jane stole nothing, in most cases, except the presents that had been given by Claythorpe? Claythorpe is rather a gay old bird and has gone the pace. He has been spending money like water for years. Of course, he may have a big income, or he may not. I know just what he gets out of the City. On the night of the burglary at my house this girl went through every room and took articles which in many cases had been given to the various people by Claythorpe. For example, something he had presented to my wife disappeared; some shirt-studs, which he gave to me, were also gone. That’s rather funny, don’t you think?”

“It fits in with my theory,” said Peter nodding, “that Four Square Jane has only one enemy in the world, and that is Lord Claythorpe.”

“That’s my opinion, too,” said Lewinstein. “Now to-night I am giving a big dinner-party, as I told you, and there will be a lot of women there, and the women are scared of my parties since the last one. There will be jewels to burn, but what makes me specially nervous is that Claythorpe has insisted on Lola Lane being invited.”

“The dancer?” asked Peter in surprise, and the other nodded.

“She’s a great friend of Claythorpe’s--I suppose you know that? He put up the money for her last production, and, not to put too fine a point upon it, the old man is infatuated by the girl.”

Mr. Lewinstein sucked contemplatively at one of his large cigars.

“I am not a prude, you understand, Mr. Dawes,” he said, “and the way men amuse themselves does not concern me. Claythorpe is much too big a man for me to refuse any request he makes. In the present state of society, people like Lola are accepted, and it is not for me to reform the Smart Set. The only thing I’m scared about is that she will be covered from head to foot in jewels.”

He pulled again at his cigar, and looked at it before he went on:

“Which Lord Claythorpe has given her.”

“This is news to me,” said Peter.

“It would be news to a lot of people,” said Lewinstein, “for Claythorpe is supposed to be one of the big moral forces in the City.” He chuckled, as though at a good joke. “Now, there’s another point I want to make to you. This girl Lola has been telling her friends--at least, she told a friend of mine--that she was going to the Argentine to live in about six months’ time. My friend asked her if Lord Claythorpe agreed to that arrangement. You know, these theatrical people are very frank, and she said ‘Yes.’” He looked at the detective.

“Which means that Claythorpe is going, too,” said Peter, and Lewinstein nodded.

“That is also news,” said Peter Dawes. “Thank you, I will accept your invitation to dinner to-night.”

“Good!” said Lewinstein, brightening. “You don’t mind, but I may have to put you next to Lola.”

That evening when Peter strolled into the big reception hall which Mr. Lewinstein had engaged with his private dining-room, his eyes wandered in search of the lady. He knew her by sight--had seen her picture in the illustrated newspapers. He had no difficulty in distinguishing her rather bold features; and, even if he had not, he would have known, from the daring dress she wore, that this was the redoubtable lady whose name had been hinted in connection with one or two unpleasant scandals.

But chiefly his eyes were for the great collar of emeralds about her shapely throat. They were big green stones which scintillated in the shaded lights, and were by far the most remarkable jewels in the room. Evidently Lewinstein had explained to Lord Claythorpe the reason of the invitation, because his lordship received him quite graciously and made no demur at a common detective occupying the place by the side of the lady who had so completely enthralled him.

It was after the introduction that Peter had a surprise, for he saw Joyce Wilberforce.

“I didn’t expect to see you again to-day, Miss Wilberforce,” he said.

“I did not expect to come myself,” replied the girl, “but my husband--you knew I was married?”

Mr. Dawes nodded.

“That is one of the things I did know,” he laughed.

“My husband had an engagement, and he suggested that I should amuse myself by coming here. What do you think of the emeralds?” she asked mischievously. “I suppose you’re here to keep a friendly eye on them?”

Peter smiled.

“They are rather gorgeous, aren’t they? Though I cannot say I admire their wearer.”