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’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, or 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 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. P
ostal 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 Big Book of Female Detectives Page 203
