Chapter IV: Part 4

Peter was discreetly silent. He took the dancer in to dinner, and found her a singularly dull person, except on the question of dress and the weakness of her sister artistes. The dinner was in full swing when Joyce Wilberforce, who was sitting almost opposite the detective, screamed and hunched herself up in the chair.

“Look, look!” she cried, pointing to the floor. “A rat!”

Peter, leaning over the table, saw a small brown shape run along the wainscot. The woman at his side shrieked and drew her feet up to the rail of her chair. This was the last thing he saw, for at that second all the lights in the room went out. He heard a scream from the dancer.

“My necklace, my necklace!”

There was a babble of voices, a discordant shouting of instructions and advice. Then Peter struck a match. The only thing he saw in the flickering light was the figure of Lola, with her hands clasped round her neck.

The collar of emeralds had disappeared!

It was five minutes before somebody fixed the fuse and brought the lights on again.

“Let nobody leave the room!” shouted Peter authoritatively. “Everybody here must be searched. And----”

Then his eyes fell upon a little card which had been placed on the table before him, and which had not been there when the lights went out. There was no need to turn it. He knew what to expect on the other side. The four squares and the little J looked up at him mockingly.

VIII

Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, had to do some mighty quick thinking and, by an effort of will, concentrate his mind upon all the events which had immediately preceded the robbery of the dancer’s necklace. First there was Joyce Wilberforce, who had undoubtedly seen a rat running along by the wainscot, and had drawn up her feet in a characteristically feminine fashion. Then he had seen the dancer draw up her feet, and put down her hands to pull her skirts tight--also a characteristically feminine action.

What else had he seen? He had seen a hand, the hand of a waiter, between himself and the woman on his left. He remembered now that there was something peculiar about that hand which had attracted his attention, and that he had been on the point of turning his head in order to see it better when Joyce’s scream had distracted his attention.

What was there about that hand? He concentrated all his mind upon this trivial matter, realising instinctively that behind that momentary omen was a possible solution of the mystery. He remembered that it was a well-manicured hand. That in itself was remarkable in a waiter. There had been no jewels or rings upon it, which was not remarkable. This he had observed idly. Then, in a flash, the detail which had interested him came back to his mind. The little finger was remarkably short. He puzzled his head to connect this malformation with something he had heard before. Leaving the room in the charge of the police who had been summoned, he took a taxi and drove straight to the hotel where Joyce Steele was staying with her husband.

“Mrs. Steele is out, but Mr. Steele has just come in,” said the hotel clerk. “Shall I send your name up?”

“It is unnecessary,” said the detective, showing his card. “I will go up to his room. What is the number?”

He was told, and a page piloted him to the door. Without troubling to knock, he turned the handle and walked in. Jamieson Steele was sitting before a little fire, smoking a cigarette, and looked up at the intruder.

“Hullo, Mr. Dawes,” he said calmly.

“You know me, eh?” said Peter. “May I have a few words with you?”

“You can have as many as you like,” said Steele. “Take a chair, won’t you? This is not a bad little sitting-room, but it is rather draughty. To what am I indebted for this visit? Is our wicked uncle pressing his charge of forgery?”

Peter Dawes smiled.

“I don’t think that is likely,” he said. “I have made a call upon you for the purpose of seeing your hands.”

“My hands?” said the other in a tone of surprise. “Are you going in for a manicure?”

“Hardly,” said Peter drily, as the other spread out his hands before him. “What is the matter with your little finger?” he asked, after a scrutiny.

Jamieson Steele examined the finger and laughed.

“He is not very big, is he?” he laughed. “Arrested development, I suppose. It is the one blemish on an otherwise perfect body.”

“Where have you been to-night?” asked Peter quietly.

“I have been to various places, including Scotland Yard?” was the staggering reply.

“To Scotland Yard?” asked Peter incredulously, and Jamieson Steele nodded.

“The fact is, I wanted to see you about the curious charge which Lord Claythorpe brings forward from time to time; and also I felt that some explanation was due to you as you are in charge of a case which nearly affects my wife, as to the reason I did a bolt when Claythorpe brought this charge of forgery against me.”

“What time did you leave the Yard?”

“About half an hour ago,” said Steele.

Peter looked at him closely. He was wearing an ordinary lounge suit, and a soft shirt. The hand which had come upon the table had undoubtedly been encased in a stiff cuff and a black sleeve.

“Why, what is the matter?” asked Steele.

“There has been a robbery at the Ritz Carlton to-night,” Peter explained. “A man dressed as a waiter has stolen an emerald necklace.”

“And naturally you suspect me,” he said ironically. “Well, you’re at liberty to search this apartment.”

“May I see your dress clothes?” said Peter.

For answer, the other led him to his bedroom, and his dress suit was discovered at the bottom of a trunk, carefully folded and brushed.

“Now,” said Peter, “if you don’t mind, I’ll conduct the search you suggest. You understand that I have no authority to do so, and I can only make the search with your permission.”

“You have my permission,” said the other. “I realise that I am a suspected person, so go ahead, and don’t mind hurting my feelings.”

Peter’s search was thorough, but revealed nothing of importance.

“This is my wife’s room,” said Steele. “Perhaps you would like to search that?”

“I should,” said Peter Dawes, without hesitation, but again his investigations drew blank.

He opened all the windows of the room, feeling along the window-sills for a tape, cord or thread, from which an emerald necklace might be suspended. It was an old trick to fasten a stolen article to a black thread, and the black thread to some stout gummed paper fastened to the window-sill; but here again he discovered nothing.

“Now,” said the cheerful young man, “you had better search me.”

“I might as well do the job thoroughly,” agreed Peter, and ran his hands scientifically over the other’s body.

“Not guilty, eh?” said Steele, when he had finished. “Now perhaps you’ll sit down, and I’ll tell you something about Lord Claythorpe that will interest you. You know, of course, that Claythorpe has been living on the verge of bankruptcy. Won’t you sit down?” he said again, and Peter obeyed. “Here is a cigar which will steady your nerves.”

“I can’t stay very long,” said Peter, “but I should like your end of the serial very much indeed.”

He took the proffered cigar, and bit off the end.

“As I was saying,” Steele went on, “Claythorpe has been living for years on the verge of bankruptcy. He is a man who, from his youth up, has been dependent on his wits. His early life was passed in what the good books called dissolute living. I believe there was a time when he was so broke he slept on the Embankment.”

Peter nodded. He also had heard something to this effect.

“This, of course, was before he came into the title. He is a clever and unscrupulous man with a good address. And knowing that he was up against it, he set himself to gain powerful friends. One of these friends was my wife’s uncle--a good-natured innocent kind of man, who had amassed a considerable fortune in South Africa. I believe Claythorpe bled him pretty considerably, and might have bled him to death, only the old fellow died naturally, leaving a handsome legacy to his friends and the residue of his property to my wife. Claythorpe was made the executor, and given pretty wide powers. Amongst the property which my wife inherited--or rather, would inherit on her wedding day, was a small coal-mine in the North of England, which at the time of the old man’s death was being managed by a very brilliant young engineer, whose name modesty alone prevents my revealing.”

“Go on,” said Peter, with a smile.

“Claythorpe, finding himself in control of such unlimited wealth, set himself out to improve the property. And the first thing he did was to project the flotation of my coal mine--I call it mine, and I always regarded it as such in a spiritual sense--for about six times its value.”

Peter nodded.

“In order to bring in the public, it was necessary that a statement should be made with regard to the quantity of coal in the mine, the extent of the seams, etc., and it was my duty to prepare a most glowing statement, which would loosen the purse-strings of the investing public. Claythorpe put the scheme up to me, and I said, ‘No.’ I also told him,” the young man went on, choosing his words carefully, “that, if he floated this company, I should have something to say in the columns of the financial Press. So the thing was dropped, but Claythorpe never forgave me. There was a certain work which I had done for him outside my ordinary duties and, summoning me to his St. James’ Street office, he gave me a cheque. I noticed at the time that the cheque was for a much larger amount than I had expected, and thought his lordship was trying to get into my good books. I also noticed that the amount inscribed on the cheque had the appearance of being altered, and that even his lordship’s signature looked rather unusual. I took the cheque and presented it to my bank a few days later, and was summoned to the office, where I was denounced as a forger,” said the young man, puffing a ring of smoke into the air reflectively, “but it gives you a very funny feeling in the pit of the stomach. The heroic and proper and sensible thing to do was to stand on my ground, go up to the Old Bailey, make a great speech which would call forth the applause and approbation of judge and jury, and stalk out of the court in triumph. Under these circumstances, however, one seldom does the proper thing. Remington it was--the man who is now dead--who suggested that I should bolt; and, like a fool, I bolted. The only person who knew where I was was Joyce. I won’t tell you anything about my wife, because you probably know everything that is worth knowing. I’ll only say that I’ve loved her for years, and that my affection has been returned. It was she who urged me to come back to London and stand my trial, but I put this down to her child-like innocence--a man is always inclined to think that he’s the cleverer of the two when he’s exchanging advice with women. That’s the whole of the story.”

Peter waited.

“Now, Mr. Steele,” he said, “perhaps you will explain why you were at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel to-night disguised as a waiter.”

Steele looked at him with a quizzical smile.

“I think I could explain it if I’d been there,” he said. “Do you want me to invent an explanation as well as to invent my presence?”

“I am as confident that you were there,” said Peter, “as I am that you are sitting here. I am also certain that it will be next to impossible to prove that you were in the room.” He rose from his seat. “I am going back to the hotel,” he said, “though I do not expect that any of our bloodhounds have discovered the necklace.”

“Have another cigar,” said Steele, offering the open box.

Peter shook his head.

“No thank you,” he said.

“They won’t hurt you, take a handful.”

Peter laughingly refused.

“I think I am nearly through with this Four Square Jane business,” he said, “and I am pretty certain that it is not going to bring kudos or promotion to me.”

“I have a feeling that it will not, either,” said Steele. “It’s a rum case.”

Peter shook his head.

“Rum, because I’ve solved the mystery of Four Square Jane. I know who she is, and why she has robbed Claythorpe and his friends.”

“You know her, do you?” said Steele thoughtfully, and the other nodded.

Jamieson Steele waited till the door closed upon the detective, and then waited another five minutes before he rose and shot the bolt. He then locked the two doors leading from the sitting-room, took up the box of cigars and placed it on the table. He dipped into the box, and pulled out handful after handful of cigars, and then he took out something which glittered and scintillated in the light--a great collar of big emeralds--and laid it on the table. He looked at it thoughtfully, then wrapped it in a silk handkerchief and thrust it into his pocket, replacing the cigars in the box. He passed into his bedroom, and came out wearing a soft felt hat, and a long dark-blue trench coat.

He hesitated before he unbolted the door, unbuttoned the coat, and took out the handkerchief containing the emerald collar, and put it into his overcoat pocket. If he had turned his head at that moment, and looked at the half-opened door of his bedroom, he might have caught a glimpse of a figure that was watching his every movement. Peter Dawes had not come alone, and there were three entrances to the private suite which Mr. and Mrs. Steele occupied.

Then Jamieson Steele stepped out so quickly that by the time the watcher was in the corridor, he had disappeared down the lift, which happened to be going down at that moment. The man raced down the stairs three at a time. The last landing was a broad marble balcony which overlooked the hall, and, glancing down, he saw Peter waiting. He waved his hand significantly, and at that moment the elevator reached the ground floor, and Jamieson Steele stepped out of it.

He was half way across the vestibule when Peter confronted him.

“Wait a moment, Mr. Steele. I want you,” said Peter.

It was at that second that the swing doors turned and Joyce Steele came in.

“Want me?” said Steele. “Why?”

“I am going to take you into custody on the charge of being concerned in the robbery to-night,” said the detective.

“You’re mad,” said Steele, with an immovable face.

“Arrest him? Oh no, no!” It was the gasping voice of the girl. In a second she had flung herself upon the man, her two arms about him. “It isn’t true, it isn’t true!” she sobbed.

Very gently Steele pushed her back.

“Go away, my dear. This is no place for you,” he said. “Mr. Dawes has made a great mistake, as he will discover.”

The watcher had joined the group now.

“He’s got the goods, sir,” he said triumphantly. “I watched him. The necklace was in a cigar box. He has got it in his pocket.”

“Hold out your hands,” said Peter, and in a second Jamieson Steele was handcuffed.

“May I come?” said the girl.

“It is better you did not,” said Peter. “Perhaps your husband will be able to prove his innocence. Anyway, you can do nothing.”

They left her, a disconsolate figure, standing in the hall, and carried their prisoner to Cannon Row.

“Now we’ll search you, if you don’t mind?” asked Peter.

“Not at all,” said the other coolly.

“Where did you say he put it?”

“In his pocket, sir,” said the spy.

Peter searched the overcoat pockets.

“There’s nothing here,” he said.

“Nothing there?” gasped the man in astonishment. “But I saw him put it there. He took it out of his hip pocket and----”

“Well, let’s try his hip pocket. Take off your coat, Steele.”

The young man obeyed, and again Peter’s deft fingers went over him, but with no better result. The two detectives looked at one another in consternation.

“A slight mistake on your part, my friend,” said Peter, “I’m sorry we’ve given you all this trouble.”

“Look in the bottom of the cab,” the second detective pleaded, and Peter laughed.

“I don’t see what he could do. He had the bracelets on his hands, and I never took my eyes off them once. You can search the cab if you like--it’s waiting at the door.”

But the search of the cab produced no better result.

And then an inspiration dawned upon Peter, and he laughed, softly and long.

“I’m going to give up this business,” he said. “I really am, Steele. I’m too childishly trustful.”

Their eyes met, and both eyes were creased with laughter.

“All right,” said Peter. “Let him go.”

“Let him go?” said the other detective in dismay.

“Yes. We’ve no evidence against this gentleman, and we’re very unlikely to secure it.”

For in that short space of time, Peter had realized exactly the kind he was up against; saw as clearly as daylight what had happened to the emeralds, and knew that any attempt to find them now would merely lead to another disappointment.

“If you don’t mind, Steele, I think I’ll go back with you to your hotel. I hope you’re not bearing malice.”

“Not at all,” replied Steele. “It’s your job to catch me, and my job to----” he paused.

“Yes?” said Peter curiously.

“My job to get caught, obviously,” said Steele with a laugh.

They did not speak again until they were in the cab on the way back to the hotel.

“I’m afraid my poor wife is very much upset.”

“I’m not worrying about that,” said Peter drily. “Steele, I think you are a wise man; and, being wise, you will not be averse to receiving advice from one who knows this game from A to Z.”

Steele did not reply.

“My advice to you is, get out of the country just as soon as you can, and take your wife with you,” said Peter. “There is an old adage that the pitcher goes often to the well--I need not remind you of that.”

“Suppose I tell you I do not understand you,” said Steele.

“You, will do nothing so banal,” replied Peter. “I tell you I know your game, and the thing that is going to stand against you is the robbery of the mail. That is your only bad offence in my eyes, and it is the one for which I would work night and day to bring you to justice.”

Again a silence.

“Nothing was stolen from the mail, that I know,” said Peter. “It was all returned. Your principal offence is that you scared a respectable servant of his Majesty into fits. Anyway, it is a felony of a most serious kind, and would get you twenty years if we could secure evidence against you. You held up his Majesty’s mail with a loaded revolver----”

“Even that you couldn’t prove,” laughed Steele. “It might not have been any more than a piece of gaspipe. After all, a hardened criminal, such as you believe I am, possessed of a brain which you must know by this time I have, would have sufficient knowledge of the law to prevent his carrying lethal weapons.”

“We are talking here without witnesses,” said Peter.

“I’m not so sure,” said Steele quickly. “I thought I was talking to you in my little sitting-room without witnesses.”

“Anyway, you can be sure there are no witnesses here,” smiled Peter, as the cab turned into the street where the hotel was situated. “And I am asking you confidentially, and man to man, if you can give me any information at all regarding the murder in St. James’ Street.”

Steele thought awhile.

“I can’t,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I was in Falmouth at the time, as you know. Obviously, it was not the work of the lady who calls herself Four Square Jane, because my impression of that charming creature is that she would be scared to death at the sight of a revolver. The card which was found in the dead man’s hand----”

“How did you know that?” asked Peter quickly.

“These things get about,” replied the other unabashed. “Has it occurred to you that it was a moist night, that the murderer may have been hot, and that on the card may be his fingerprints?”

“That did occur to me,” said Peter. “In fact, it was the first thing I thought about. And, if it is any interest to you, I will tell you that there was a finger print upon that card, which I have been trying for the past few days to----” He stopped. “Here we are at your hotel,” he said. “There’s a good detective lost in you, Steele.”

“Not lost, but gone before,” said the other flippantly. “Good-night. You won’t come up and have a cigar?”

“No thanks,” said a grim Peter.

He went back to Scotland Yard. It was curious, amazingly curious, that Steele should have mentioned the card that night. It was not into an empty office that he went, despite the lateness of the hour. There was an important police conference, and all the heads of departments were crowded into the room, the air of which was blue with tobacco smoke. A stout, genial man nodded to Peter as he came in.

“We’ve had a devil of a job getting it, Peter, but we’ve succeeded.”

Before him was a small visiting-card, bearing the name of Jamieson Steele. In the very centre was a violet finger print. The finger print had not been visible to the naked eye until it had been treated with chemicals, and its present appearance was the result of the patient work of three of Scotland Yard’s greatest scientists.

“Did you get the other?” said Peter.

“There it is,” said the stout man, and pointed to a strip of cardboard bearing two black finger prints.

Peter compared the two impressions.

“Well,” he said, “at any rate, one of the mysteries is cleared up. How did you get this?” he asked pointing to the strip of cardboard bearing the two prints.

“I called on him, and shook hands with him,” said the stout man with a smile. “He was horribly surprised and offended that I should take such a liberty. Then I handed him the strip of card. It was a little while later, when he put his hand on the blotting pad, that he discovered that his palm and finger-tips were black, and I think that he was the most astonished man I ever saw.”

Peter smiled.

“He didn’t guess that your hand would be carefully covered with lamp-black, I gather?”

“Hardly,” said the fat man.

Again Peter compared the two impressions.

“There is no doubt at all about it,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Half-past twelve. Not a bad time, either. I’ll take Wilkins and Browne,” he said, “and get the thing over. It’s going to be a lot of trouble. Have you got the warrant?”

The stout man opened the drawer of his desk and passed a sheet of paper across. Peter examined it.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

Lord Claythorpe was in his study taking a stiff whisky and soda when the detective was announced.

“Well?” he said. “Have you found the person who stole the emerald 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.

He was still shaky, however, when he recounted the happenings.

“They haven’t passed out of the hotel, that I’ll swear,” said the detective. “We’re watching every entrance, including the staff entrance. How did it occur?”

Peter shook his head.

“I went like a lamb to the slaughter,” he said, smiling grimly. “It was the promise of a confession, and my infernal curiosity which made me stay--to smoke a doped cigarette, too!” He thought a moment. “I don’t suppose they depended entirely on the cigarette, though,” he said. “And maybe it would have been a little more unpleasant for me, if I hadn’t smoked.”

An hour after he was well enough to conduct personally a search of the hotel premises. From cellar to roof he went, followed by two assistants, and it was not until he was actually on the roof that he discovered any clue. It was a small piece of beadwork against the wall which the girl had climbed, and which had been torn off in her exertions. They passed along the neck, and along the sloping roof till they came to the skylight, and this Peter forced.

He found, upon descending, that he was in the premises of Messrs. Backham and Boyd, ladies’ outfitters. The floor below was a large sewing-room, filled with girls who were working at their machines, until the unexpected apparition of a pale and grimy man brought an end to their labours. Neither the foreman nor the forewoman had seen anybody come in, and as it was necessary to pass through the room to reach a floor lower down, this seemed to prove conclusively to Dawes that the fugitives had not made use of this method to escape.

“The only people who have been in the upstairs room,” exclaimed the foreman, “are two of the warehousemen, who went up about two minutes ago, to bring down some bales.”

“Two men?” said Peter quickly. “Who were they?”

But, though he pushed his inquiries to the lower and more influential regions of the shop, he could not discover the two porters. A lot of new men had been recently engaged, said the manager, and it was impossible to say who had been upstairs and who had not.

The door porter at the wholesale entrance, however, had seen the two porters come out, carrying their somewhat awkwardly-shaped bundles on their shoulders.

“Were they heavy?” asked Peter.

“Very,” said the door-keeper. “They put them on a cart, and didn’t come back.”

Now if there was one thing more certain than another in Peter’s mind, it was that Four Square Jane did not depend entirely upon the assistance she received from her husband. Peter recalled the fact that there had once been two spurious detectives who had called on Lord Claythorpe having the girl in custody. They were probably two old hands at the criminal game, enlisted by the ingenious Mr. Steele. This proved to be the case, as Peter was to find later. And either Four Square Jane or he might have planted these two men in an adjoining warehouse with the object of rendering just that kind of assistance, which, in fact, they did render.

Peter reached the streets again, baffled and angry. Then he remembered that in Lord Claythorpe’s desk was a certain bond to bearer for five hundred thousand dollars. Four Square Jane would not leave England until she had secured this; and, as the thought occurred to him, he hailed a taxi, and drove at top speed to the dead man’s house.

Already the news of the tragedy which had overcome the Claythorpe’s household had reached the domestics: and the gloomy butler who admitted him greeted him with a scowl as though he were responsible for the death of his master.

“You can’t go into the study, sir,” he said, with a certain satisfaction, “it has been locked and sealed.”

“By whom?” asked Peter.

“By an official of the Court, sir,” said the man.

Peter went to the study door, and examined the two big red seals.

There is something about the seal of the Royal Courts of Justice which impresses even an experienced officer of the law. To break that seal without authority involves the most uncomfortable consequences, and Peter hesitated.

“Has anybody else been here?” he asked.

“Only Miss Wilberforce, sir,” said the man.

“Miss Wilberforce?” almost yelled Peter. “When did she come?”

“About the same time as the officer who sealed the door,” said the butler. “In fact, she was in the study when he arrived. He ordered her out pretty roughly, too, sir,” said the butler with relish, as though finding in Miss Wilberforce’s discomfiture some compensation for the tragedy which had overtaken his employer. “She sent me upstairs to get an umbrella she had left when she was here last, and when I came down she was gone. The officer grumbled something terribly.”

Peter went to the telephone and rang up Scotland Yard, but they had heard nothing of the sealing of the house and suggested that he should seek out the Chancery officials to discover who had made the order and under what circumstances. Only those who have attempted to disturb the routine of the Court of Chancery will appreciate the unhappy hours which Peter spent that day, wandering from master to master, in a vain attempt to secure news or information.

He went back to the house at half-past four that evening, determined to brave whatever terror the Court of Chancery might impose, and again he was met by the butler on the doorstep, but this time a butler bursting with news.

“I’m very glad you’ve come, sir. I’ve got such a lot to tell you. About half-an-hour after you’d gone, sir, I heard a ripping and tearing in the study, and I went to the door and listened. I couldn’t understand what was going on, so I shouted out: ‘Who’s there?’ And who do you think replied?”

Peter’s heart had sunk at the butler’s words.

“I know,” he said. “It was Four Square--it was Miss Joyce Wilberforce.”

“So it was, sir,” said the butler in surprise. “How did you know?”

“I guessed,” said Peter shortly.

“It appeared she’d been locked in quite by accident by the officer of the Court,” the butler went on, “and she was having a look through his lordship’s desk to find some letters she’d left behind.”

“Of course, sir, everybody knows that Lord Claythorpe’s desk is one of the most wonderful in the world. It’s full of secret drawers, and I remember Miss Joyce saying once that if his lordship wanted to hide anything it would take a month to find it.”

Peter groaned.

“They wanted time--of course, they wanted time!”

What a fool he had been all through! There was no need for the butler to tell him the rest of the story, because he guessed it. But the man went on.

“After a bit,” he said, “I heard the key turn in the lock, and out came Miss Joyce, looking as pleased as Punch. But you should have seen the state of that desk!”

“So she broke the seals, did she?” said Peter, with gentle irony.

“Oh, yes, she broke the seals, and she broke the desk, too,” said the butler impressively. “And when she came out, she was carrying a big square sheet of paper in her hand--a printed-on paper, like a bank note, sir.”

“I know,” said Peter. “It was a bond.”

“Ah. I think it might have been,” said the butler hazily. “At any rate, that’s what she had. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it took a lot of finding.’ ‘Miss,’ said I, ‘you oughtn’t to take anything from his lordship’s study until the law----’ ‘Blow the law,’ said she. Them was her very words--blow the law, sir.”

“She’s blown it, all right,” said Peter, and left the house. His last hope was to block all the ports, and in this way prevent their leaving the country. However, he had no great hopes of succeeding in his attempts to hold the volatile lady whose escapades had given him so many sleepless nights.

* * * * *

Two months later, Peter Dawes received a letter bearing a South American postmark. It was from Joyce Steele.

“You don’t know how sorry I am that we had to give you so much trouble,” it ran; “and really, the whole thing was ridiculous, because all the time I was breaking the law to secure that which was my own. It is true that I am Four Square Jane. It is equally true that I am Four Square Jane no longer, and that henceforth my life will be blameless! And really, dear Mr. Dawes, you did much better than any of the other detectives who were put on my track. I am here with my husband, and the two friends who very kindly assisted us with our many exploits are also in South America, but at a long distance from us. They are very nice people, but I am afraid they have criminal minds, and nothing appals me more than the criminal mind. No doubt there is much that has happened that has puzzled you, and made you wonder why this, or that, or the other happened. Why, for example, did I consent to go to church with that impossible person, Francis Claythorpe? Partly, dear friend, because I was already married, and it did not worry me a bit to add bigamy to my other crimes. And partly because I made ample preparations for such a contingency, and knew that marriage was impossible. I had hoped, too, that Lord Claythorpe would give me a wedding present of some value, which hope was doomed to disappointment. But I did get a lot of quite valuable presents from his many friends, and these both Jamieson and I most deeply appreciate. Jamieson was the doctor who saw me at Lewinstein’s by the way. He has been my right-hand man, and my dearest confederate. Perhaps, Mr. Dawes, you will meet us again in London, when we are tired of South America. And perhaps when you meet us you will not arrest us, because you will have taken a more charitable view of our behaviour, and perhaps you will have induced those in authority to share your view. I am tremendously happy--would you be kind enough to tell my mother that? I do not think it will cheer her up, because she is not that kind.

“I first got my idea of playing Four Square Jane from hearing a servant we once employed--a Jane Briglow--discussing the heroic adventures of some fictional personage in whom she was interested. But it was a mistake to call me ‘Jane.’ The ‘J’ stands for Joyce. When you have time for a holiday, won’t you come over and see us? We should love to entertain you.”

There was a P.S. to the letter which brought a wry smile to the detective’s face.

“P.S. Perhaps you had better bring your own cigarettes.”

[The End]

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (_e.g._ childlike/child-like, dinner-party/dinner party, Ritz-Carlton/Ritz Carlton, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Add ToC.

Punctuation fixes: some missing periods and commas, and adjust some quotation mark pairings/nestings.

[Chapter I]

Change “She left the room as _noislessly_ as she had entered” to _noiselessly_.

[Chapter II]

“applause for the genius and _presience_ of the little man” to _prescience_.

[Chapter III]

“Mr. _Tressler_ took his loss very calmly until the newspapers” to _Tresser_.

[Chapter V]

“she sticks to it; and maybe _its_ something else” to _it’s_.

“But I’m afraid _its_ no use. This poor fellow has been shot” to _it’s_.

[Chapter VII]

(“Is that so?” he said _increduously_.) to _incredulously_.

[Chapter VIII]

“he unbolted the door, _unbottoned_ the coat, and took out” to _unbuttoned_.

[Chapter IX]

“_Its_ full of secret drawers, and I remember Miss Joyce saying” to _It’s_.

[End of text]