Four Square Jane

by Edgar Wallace

  “Why?” he asked in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

  She shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It was at that moment that Peter Dawes was announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Lord Claythorpe licked his dry lips.

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

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

  “It was found in my letterbox this morning,” said the girl.

  “Accompanied by a letter?”

  “No, nothing,” said Joyce. “For some reason I connected it with

  the mail robbery, and thought that perhaps you had entrusted this certificate to the post – and that in your letter you mentioned the fact that it was mine.”

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

  Claythorpe nodded.

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

  The girl nodded.

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

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

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

  “What was that?”

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

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

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

  Dawes shrugged.

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

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

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

  Lord Claythorpe raised his eyebrows.

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

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

  hint of perfume. That makes me more certain that the crime was

  committed by a man and that he sprinkled the scent on the floor in order to leave the impression that Four Square Jane had been the operator.”

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

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

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

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

  Again there was a pause.

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, yes,” said Lord Claythorpe briefly, and Peter turned to the girl.<
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  “I congratulate you upon recovering a part of your property,” he said. “I understand this is held in trust for you until you’re married.”

  Lord Claythorpe started violently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He went from the hotel and called on Mr Lewinstein by appointment, and that great financier welcomed him with a large cigar. “I heard you were engaged upon the Four Square Jane case, Mr Dawes,” he said, “and I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I invited you to dinner tonight.”

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

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

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

  Peter looked outside, and closed the door carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

  Mr Lewinstein sucked contemplatively at one of his large cigars.

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

  He pulled again at his cigar, and looked at it before he went on: “Which Lord Claythorpe has given her.”

  “This is news to me,” said Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Mr Dawes nodded.

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

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

  Peter smiled.

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

  Peter was discreetly silent. He took the dancer in to dinner, and found her a singularly dull person, except on the question of dress amid 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.<
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  “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.

  8

  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?”