The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  “…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.

  “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 mail bag. 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 a 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.”

  “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, a
nd 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 letter-box 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 light-proof. 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.

  “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 cam
e 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?”