Four Square Jane Read online

  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’s 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’s 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 its 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 h
e 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 GPO. 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.

  7

  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 mailbag. 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 the 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.”