Four Square Jane

by Edgar Wallace

  “Yes, it is I,” said the doctor.

  “Oh, I just wanted to tell you that I read your moving appeal for funds in the Morning Post today.”

  The doctor’s face brightened. This little hospital was his life’s work, and the very hint of a promise that help was coming, however meagre that help might be, cheered him.

  “I’m glad you were moved by it,” he said, half in humour and half in earnest; “and I trust that you will be moved to some purpose. Am I wrong in suspecting you to be a possible subscriber?”

  There was a little laugh at the other end of the wire.

  “You are appealing for £8,000 to carry on the hospital for another six months,” said the girl.

  “That’s right,” nodded the doctor.

  “Well, I’ve sent you £10,000,” was the surprising reply, and the doctor gasped.

  “You’ve sent me £10,000!” he said hollowly. “You’re joking, I suppose.”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly sent you £10,000,” said the voice – “that is to say, in money. I have sent you the money’s worth. I sent a parcel to you last night. Have you got it?” The doctor looked round.

  “Yes,” he said, “there is a parcel here, posted at Clapham. Is that from you?”

  “That’s from me,” said the girl’s voice. “I am relieved to know that you have found it.”

  “What’s in it?” demanded the man curiously.

  “A very interesting armlet which was, and probably is still, the property of Lord Claythorpe.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the doctor sharply.

  “It is the armlet I stole from him,” said the voice; “and there is a reward of £10,000 for its return. I want you to return it, and apply the money to your hospital.”

  “To whom am I speaking?” asked Dr Parsons huskily.

  “To Four Square Jane!” was the reply and there was a “click!” as the receiver was hung up.

  With trembling fingers the doctor tore the tape which bound the little parcel, pulled the brown-paper cover aside, disclosing a small wooden box with a sliding lid. This he pushed back, and there, in its bed of cotton wool, glittered and flashed the famous Venetian Armlet.

  It was a nine days’ wonder. The daily Press, which for the past weeks had had to satisfy itself with extravagant weather reports

  and uninteresting divorce cases, fell upon this latest sensation with enthusiasm, and there was not a Sunday paper in the country that did not “feature” it in the largest of black type. For it was the greatest story that had been printed for years.

  The securing of the reward was not to be so simple a matter as the Press and Dr Parsons imagined. A telephone message had acquainted Lord Claythorpe with the recovery of his jewel, and the doctor himself carried it to Belgrave Square. Lord Claythorpe was a thin little man, bald of head, and yellow of face. He suffered from some sort of chronic jaundice, which not only tinged his skin, but gave a certain yellowy hue to his temper. He received the doctor in his beautiful library, one wall of which, Dr Parsons noticed, was covered with the doors of small safes which had been let into the wall itself. For Lord Claythorpe was a great connoisseur of precious stones, and argued that it was just as absurd to keep your gems all behind one door as it was to keep all your eggs in one basket.

  “Yes, yes,” he said a little testily; “that is the jewel. I wouldn’t have lost it for anything. If my fool of a – if her ladyship hadn’t taken it down with her I shouldn’t have had all this bother and worry. This is one of the rarest ornaments in the kingdom.”

  He descanted upon the peculiar artistic value and historical interest of this precious armlet for the greater part of a quarter of an hour, during which time Dr Parsons shifted uneasily from foot to foot, for no mention of the reward had been made. At last Parsons managed to murmur a hint.

  “Reward – er – reward,” said his lordship uncomfortably, “there was some talk of a reward. But surely, Dr Parsons, you do not intend to benefit your – er – charitable institution at the expense of a law-abiding citizen? Or, might I say, receive a subscription at the hands of a malicious and wicked criminal?”

  “I am wholly uninterested in the moral character of any person who donates money to my hospital,” said Parsons boldly. “The only thing that troubles me is the lack of funds.”

  “Perhaps,” said his lordship hopefully, “if I put my name down as an annual subscriber for–”

  The doctor waited.

  “Say ten guineas a year,” suggested Lord Claythorpe.

  “You offered a £10,000 reward,” said the doctor, his anger rising. “Either your lordship is going to pay that reward or you are not. If you refuse to pay I shall go to the Press and tell them.”

  “The reward was for the conviction of the thief,” said his lordship in triumph. “You don’t deny that. Now, you haven’t brought the thief along to be convicted.”

  “It was for any information that would lead to the recovery of the jewel,” said the angry doctor; “and that is what I have brought you – not only information, but the jewel itself. There was some talk of conviction; but that, I am informed, is the usual thing to put into an advertisement of this character.”

  For half an hour they haggled, and the doctor was in despair. He knew that it might mean ruin to take this curmudgeon into court, and so after a painful argument he accepted, with a sense of despair, the £4,000 which Lord Claythorpe most reluctantly paid.

  That night his lordship gave a dinner party in honour of his niece, whose wedding was to take place two days later. Only one person spoke at that dinner party, and that person was Lord Claythorpe. For not only had he to tell his guests what were his sensations when he learnt the jewel was lost, but he had to describe vividly and graphically his emotions on its restoration. But the choicest morsel he retained to the last.

  “This doctor fellow wanted £10,000 – the impertinence of it! I knew very well I was offering too large a reward, and I told those police people so. Of course, the armlet is worth three times that amount, but that is nothing to do with it. But I beat him down! I beat him down!”

  “So I saw,” said the easy-going Mr Lewinstein.

  “So you saw?” said Lord Claythorpe suspiciously. “Where did you see it? I thought nobody knew but myself. Has that infernal doctor been talking?”

  “I expect so,” said Lewinstein. “I read it in the evening papers tonight. They’ve got quite a story about it. I’m afraid it’s not going to do you any good, Claythorpe. If Jane hears about it–”

  “Jane!” scoffed his lordship. “What the deuce do I care for Jane?”

  Lewinstein nodded, and catching his wife’s eye, smiled.

  “I didn’t care for Jane – until Jane came and hit me,” he said philosophically. “Until I saw her four little squares labelled on my door, and missed the contents of my private safe. I tell you that girl is no ordinary crook. She returned the armlet to you because she wanted to benefit the hospital, and if she hasn’t benefited the hospital as much as she hoped I’d like to bet a thousand pounds to a penny that she’s going to get the balance from you.”

  “Let her try!” Lord Claythorpe snapped his fingers. “For years the best burglars in Europe have been making a study of my methods, and three of them have got as far as the safe doors. But you know my system, Lewinstein,” he chuckled, “ten safes, and seven of them empty. That baffles ’em! Why, Lew Smith, who is the cleverest burglar – according to Scotland Yard – who ever went into or came out of prison, worked all night on two empty safes in my cupboard.”

  “Doesn’t anybody know which safes you use?”

  “Nobody,” replied the other promptly; “and only one of the three contains jewellery worth taking. No; it’s nine to one against the burglar ever finding the safe.”

  “What do you do?” asked the interested Lewinstein. “Change the contents of the safe every night?”

  Lord Claythorpe grinned and nodded.

  “In the daytime,” he said, “I keep most of my valua
bles in the big safe in the corner of my study. That is where I put such things as the Doges’ armlet. At night, before the servants retire, I take all the valuable cases out of my big safe and put them on the library table. My butler and my footman stand outside the door – outside, you understand – and then I switch out all the lights, open the safe in the darkness, put in the jewellery, lock the safe, pocket my keys, and there you are!”

  Lewinstein grunted, though the rest of the table had some word of applause for the genius and presence of the little man.

  “I think that’s rather unnecessary,” said Lewinstein, his practical mind revolting from anything which had a touch of the theatrical; “but I suppose you know your own business best.”

  “You suppose rightly,” snapped Claythorpe, who was not used to having his judgment or his wisdom questioned.

  “I can only warn you,” said the persistent Lewinstein, “that in Four Square Jane you are dealing with a person who wouldn’t be stopped if you had fifty safes, and a policeman sitting on top of every one of them.”

  “Four Square Jane!” scoffed his lordship, “don’t worry about her! I have a detective here–”

  Mr Lewinstein laughed a bitter little laugh. “So had I,” he said shortly. “A female detective, may I ask?”

  “Of course not. I’ve got the best man from Scotland Yard,” said Lord Claythorpe.

  “What I should like to know is this,” said the other lowering his voice, “have you any kind of suspicious woman in the house?”

  “What do you mean, sir?” demanded Lord Claythorpe, bridling.

  “Can you account for all your lady guests? There are a dozen here tonight. Do you know them all?”

  “Every one of them,” said his lordship promptly. “Of course, I wouldn’t have strangers in the house at this moment. I have dear Joyce’s wedding presents–”

  “That’s what I’m thinking about,” said Mr Lewinstein. “Would you mind if I had a little look round myself?”

  There was a sneer on Lord Claythorpe’s thin lips.

  “Turning detective, Joe?” he asked.

  “Something like that,” said Lewinstein. “I’ve been bitten myself, and I know just where it hurts.”

  Lewinstein was given the run of the big house in Belgrave Square, and that evening he made one or two important discoveries.

  The first was that “the best detective from Scotland Yard” was a private detective, and although not a Headquarters’ officer, still a man of unquestionable honesty and experience, who had been employed by his lordship before.

  “It’s not much of a job,” admitted the detective. “I have to sit with my back to the door of his study all night long. His lordship doesn’t like anybody in the study itself – what’s that?” he asked suddenly.

  They were standing within half a dozen paces of the library door, and the detective’s sensitive ears had caught a sound.

  “I heard nothing,” said Lewinstein.

  “I swear I heard a sound inside that room. Do you mind staying here while I go for his lordship?”

  “Why don’t you go in?” asked the other.

  “Because his lordship keeps the library door locked,” grinned the detective. “I won’t keep you waiting long, sir.”

  He found Lord Claythorpe playing bridge, and brought that nobleman along, an agitated and alarmed figure. With shaking hands he inserted the key in the lock of the heavy door and swung it open.

  “You go in first, officer,” he said nervously. “You’ll find the switch on the right-hand side.”

  The room was flooded with light, but it was empty. At one end of the apartment was a long window, heavily barred. The blind was drawn, and this the detective pulled up, only to discover that the window was closed and had apparently not been opened.

  “That’s rum,” he said. “It was the noise of a blind I heard.”

  “The wind?” suggested Lewinstein.

  “It couldn’t have been the wind, sir, the windows are hermetically closed.”

  “Well nobody could get in that window anyway, through the bars,” said his lordship; but the detective shook his head.

  “An ordinary man couldn’t, sir. I’m not so sure that a young girl couldn’t slip through there as easily as you slip through the door.”

  “Bah!” said his lordship, “you’re nervous. Just take a look round, my good fellow.”

  There were no cupboards, and practically no places where anybody could hide, so the examination of the room was of a perfunctory character.

  “Are you satisfied?” asked his lordship.

  “Perfectly,” said the detective, and they went out, closing the door which Lord Claythorpe locked behind them.

  By half-past eleven the guests had departed, all except Lewinstein, who was hoping that he would be admitted to the curious ceremonial which Claythorpe had described. But in this he was disappointed. His lordship entered the library alone, locked the door behind him and switched out the lights, lest any prying eyes should see where he deposited the jewel cases he took from the great safe in the corner of the room. Presently they heard the soft thud of closing doors, and he emerged.

  “That’s all right,” he said with satisfaction, as he pocketed the keys. “Now come along and have a drink before you go. You’ll stay here, Johnson, won’t you?” he said to the private detective.

  “Yes, my lord,” said the man.

  On the way to the smoking-room where drinks had been served, Lord Claythorpe explained that he did not rely entirely upon the detective agency, that he had indeed notified Scotland Yard.

  “The house is being watched, or will be watched, night and day until after the wedding,” he said.

  “I think you’re wise,” responded Mr Lewinstein.

  He tossed down a stiff whisky and soda, and, accompanied by his host, went into the hall where he was helped on with his coat. He was on the point of saying “Good night,” when there was a thunderous knock at the front door, and the butler opened it. Two men stood on the doorstep gripping between them a frail and slender figure.

  “It’s all right, sir,” said one, with a note of exultation, “we’ve got her! Can we come in?”

  “Got her?” gasped his lordship, “who is it?” And yet there was no need for him to ask. The prisoner was a girl dressed from head to foot in black. A heavy veil covered her face, being secured apparently under the tightly fitting little felt hat on her head.

  “Caught her under your library window,” said one of the men with satisfaction, and there was a grunt from Johnson the private detective.

  “Who are you?” asked his lordship.

  “Sergeant Felton, from Scotland Yard, sir. Are you Lord Claythorpe?”

  “Yes,” said his lordship.

  “We’ve been watching the house,” said the man, “and we saw her dodging down the side passage which leads to your stables. Now then, young woman, let’s have a look at your face.”

  “No, no, no,” said the girl struggling, “there are reasons. The Chief Commissioner knows the reason.”

  Her captor hesitated and looked at his companion.

  “I think we’d better get the superintendent in charge of the case before we go any further, my lord,” he said.

  He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “Hold out your hands,” he said, and snapped the glittering bracelets on her wrists.

  “Have you got a strong room, my lord, where I can keep her till the superintendent comes?”

  “In my library,” said his lordship.

  “Has it got a good door?”

  Lord Claythorpe smiled.

  He himself unlocked the library door and switched on the lights, and the girl was pushed into the room and on to a chair. The detective took a strap from his pocket and secured her ankles together.

  “I’m not taking any risks with you, my lady,” he said. “I don’t know who you are, but I shall know in a very short time. Now I want to telephone. Have you a telephone here?”

  “There i
s one in the hall.”

  The detective looked at the girl, and scratched his chin.

  “I don’t like leaving her alone, Robinson. You had better stay with her. Remember, you’re not to take your eyes off her, see?”

  They went out together, his lordship closing and locking the door behind them, whilst the man went in search of a telephone number.

  “By the way, you can hear my man if he shouts, can’t you?”

  he asked.

  “No,” said his lordship promptly. “You can hear nothing through that door. But surely your man is capable of looking after a girl?”

  Lewinstein, a silent spectator of these happenings, smiled. He had no illusions as to the resources of that girl, and was anxious to see the end of this adventure. In the meantime, behind the locked doors of the library the girl held out her hands and the “detective” with her unlocked the handcuffs. She bent and loosened the strap, then moved quickly to the wall where the ten safes were embedded. Each she examined quickly.

  “These are the three, Jimmy,” she said, and her companion nodded.

  “I won’t ask you how you know,” he said admiringly.

  “It was easy,” she said. “As soon as I got in here I gummed some thin black silk over the edges of each door. These three have been broken, so these three safes have been opened. We’ll take a chance on this one. Give me the key.”

  The “detective” opened a little leather case which he had taken from his pocket, and revealed some queerly shaped instruments. Three times the girl tried, each time withdrawing the tool from the keyhole to readjust the mechanism of her skeleton key, and at the third time the lock snapped back, and the door swung open. “Got it first time,” she said in triumph.

  She pulled out a case, opened it and took one fleeting look, then thrust the jewel case into a long pocket on one side of her dress. In twenty seconds the safe was emptied, and the girl nodded to her companion.

  “Get the window open. Put the light out first. You’ll find it a squeeze, Jimmy. It’s easy enough for me.”

  Outside the “detective-sergeant” was having trouble with the phone. He put it down and turned despairingly to his lordship.