The Big Book of Female Detectives

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

  “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 and 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.

  “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.

  * * *

  —

  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?”

  He was told, and a page piloted him to the door. Without troubling to knock, he turned the handle and walked in. Jamieson Steele was sitting before a little fire, smoking a cigarette, and looked up at the intruder.

  “Hullo, Mr. Dawes,” he said calmly.

  “You know me, eh?” said Peter. “May I have a few words with you?”

  “You can have as many as you like,” said Steele. “Take a chair, won’t you? This is not a bad little sitting-room, but it is rather draughty. To what am I indebted for this visit? Is our wicked uncle pressing his charge of forgery?”

  Peter Dawes smiled.

  “I don’t think that is likely,” he said. “I have made a call upon you for the purpose of seeing your hands.”

  “My hands?” said the other in a tone of surprise. “Are you going in for a manicure?”

  “Hardly,” said Peter drily, as the other spread out his hands
before him. “What is the matter with your little finger?” he asked, after a scrutiny.

  Jamieson Steele examined the finger and laughed.

  “He is not very big, is he?” he laughed. “Arrested development, I suppose. It is the one blemish on an otherwise perfect body.”

  “Where have you been tonight?” asked Peter quietly.

  “I have been to various places, including Scotland Yard” was the staggering reply.

  “To Scotland Yard?” asked Peter incredulously, and Jamieson Steele nodded.

  “The fact is, I wanted to see you about the curious charge which Lord Claythorpe brings forward from time to time; and also I felt that some explanation was due to you as you are in charge of a case which nearly affects my wife, as to the reason I did a bolt when Claythorpe brought this charge of forgery against me.”

  “What time did you leave the Yard?”

  “About half an hour ago,” said Steele.

  Peter looked at him closely. He was wearing an ordinary lounge suit, and a soft shirt. The hand which had come upon the table had undoubtedly been encased in a stiff cuff and a black sleeve.

  “Why, what is the matter?” asked Steele.

  “There has been a robbery at the Ritz Carlton tonight,” Peter explained. “A man dressed as a waiter has stolen an emerald necklace.”

  “And naturally you suspect me,” he said ironically. “Well, you’re at liberty to search this apartment.”

  “May I see your dress clothes?” said Peter.

  For answer, the other led him to his bedroom, and his dress suit was discovered at the bottom of a trunk, carefully folded and brushed.

  “Now,” said Peter, “if you don’t mind, I’ll conduct the search you suggest. You understand that I have no authority to do so, and I can only make the search with your permission.”

  “You have my permission,” said the other. “I realise that I am a suspected person, so go ahead, and don’t mind hurting my feelings.”

  Peter’s search was thorough, but revealed nothing of importance.

  “This is my wife’s room,” said Steele. “Perhaps you would like to search that?”

  “I should,” said Peter Dawes, without hesitation, but again his investigations drew blank.

  He opened all the windows of the room, feeling along the window-sills for a tape, cord or thread, from which an emerald necklace might be suspended. It was an old trick to fasten a stolen article to a black thread, and the black thread to some stout gummed paper fastened to the window-sill; but here again he discovered nothing.

  “Now,” said the cheerful young man, “you had better search me.”

  “I might as well do the job thoroughly,” agreed Peter, and ran his hands scientifically over the other’s body.

  “Not guilty, eh?” said Steele, when he had finished. “Now perhaps you’ll sit down, and I’ll tell you something about Lord Claythorpe that will interest you. You know, of course, that Claythorpe has been living on the verge of bankruptcy. Won’t you sit down?” he said again, and Peter obeyed. “Here is a cigar which will steady your nerves.”

  “I can’t stay very long,” said Peter, “but I should like your end of the serial very much indeed.”

  He took the proffered cigar, and bit off the end.

  “As I was saying,” Steele went on, “Claythorpe has been living for years on the verge of bankruptcy. He is a man who, from his youth up, has been dependent on his wits. His early life was passed in what the good books called dissolute living. I believe there was a time when he was so broke he slept on the Embankment.”

  Peter nodded. He also had heard something to this effect.

  “This, of course, was before he came into the title. He is a clever and unscrupulous man with a good address. And knowing that he was up against it, he set himself to gain powerful friends. One of these friends was my wife’s uncle—a good-natured innocent kind of man, who had amassed a considerable fortune in South Africa. I believe Claythorpe bled him pretty considerably, and might have bled him to death, only the old fellow died naturally, leaving a handsome legacy to his friends and the residue of his property to my wife. Claythorpe was made the executor, and given pretty wide powers. Amongst the property which my wife inherited—or rather, would inherit on her wedding day, was a small coal-mine in the North of England, which at the time of the old man’s death was being managed by a very brilliant young engineer, whose name modesty alone prevents my revealing.”

  “Go on,” said Peter, with a smile.

  “Claythorpe, finding himself in control of such unlimited wealth, set himself out to improve the property. And the first thing he did was to project the flotation of my coal mine—I call it mine, and I always regarded it as such in a spiritual sense—for about six times its value.”

  Peter nodded.

  “In order to bring in the public, it was necessary that a statement should be made with regard to the quantity of coal in the mine, the extent of the seams, etc., and it was my duty to prepare a most glowing statement, which would loosen the purse-strings of the investing public. Claythorpe put the scheme up to me, and I said, ‘No.’ I also told him,” the young man went on, choosing his words carefully, “that, if he floated this company, I should have something to say in the columns of the financial Press. So the thing was dropped, but Claythorpe never forgave me. There was a certain work which I had done for him outside my ordinary duties and, summoning me to his St. James’s Street office, he gave me a cheque. I noticed at the time that the cheque was for a much larger amount than I had expected, and thought his lordship was trying to get into my good books. I also noticed that the amount inscribed on the cheque had the appearance of being altered, and that even his lordship’s signature looked rather unusual. I took the cheque and presented it to my bank a few days later, and was summoned to the office, where I was denounced as a forger,” said the young man, puffing a ring of smoke into the air reflectively, “but it gives you a very funny feeling in the pit of the stomach. The heroic and proper and sensible thing to do was to stand on my ground, go up to the Old Bailey, make a great speech which would call forth the applause and approbation of judge and jury, and stalk out of the court in triumph. Under these circumstances, however, one seldom does the proper thing. Remington it was—the man who is now dead—who suggested that I should bolt; and, like a fool, I bolted. The only person who knew where I was was Joyce. I won’t tell you anything about my wife, because you probably know everything that is worth knowing. I’ll only say that I’ve loved her for years, and that my affection has been returned. It was she who urged me to come back to London and stand my trial, but I put this down to her child-like innocence—a man is always inclined to think that he’s the cleverer of the two when he’s exchanging advice with women. That’s the whole of the story.”

  Peter waited.

  “Now, Mr. Steele,” he said, “perhaps you will explain why you were at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel tonight disguised as a waiter.”

  Steele looked at him with a quizzical smile.

  “I think I could explain it if I’d been there,” he said. “Do you want me to invent an explanation as well as to invent my presence?”

  “I am as confident that you were there,” said Peter, “as I am that you are sitting here. I am also certain that it will be next to impossible to prove that you were in the room.” He rose from his seat. “I am going back to the hotel,” he said, “though I do not expect that any of our bloodhounds have discovered the necklace.”

  “Have another cigar,” said Steele, offering the open box.

  Peter shook his head.

  “No thank you,” he said.

  “They won’t hurt you, take a handful.”

  Peter laughingly refused.

  “I think I am nearly through with this Four Square Jane business,” he said, “and I am pretty certain that it is not going to bring kudos o
r promotion to me.”

  “I have a feeling that it will not, either,” said Steele. “It’s a rum case.”

  Peter shook his head.

  “Rum, because I’ve solved the mystery of Four Square Jane. I know who she is, and why she has robbed Claythorpe and his friends.”

  “You know her, do you?” said Steele thoughtfully, and the other nodded.

  Jamieson Steele waited till the door closed upon the detective, and then waited another five minutes before he rose and shot the bolt. He then locked the two doors leading from the sitting-room, took up the box of cigars and placed it on the table. He dipped into the box, and pulled out handful after handful of cigars, and then he took out something which glittered and scintillated in the light—a great collar of big emeralds—and laid it on the table. He looked at it thoughtfully, then wrapped it in a silk handkerchief and thrust it into his pocket, replacing the cigars in the box. He passed into his bedroom, and came out wearing a soft felt hat, and a long dark-blue trench coat.

  He hesitated before he unbolted the door, unbottoned the coat, and took out the handkerchief containing the emerald collar, and put it into his overcoat pocket. If he had turned his head at that moment, and looked at the half-opened door of his bedroom, he might have caught a glimpse of a figure that was watching his every movement. Peter Dawes had not come alone, and there were three entrances to the private suite which Mr. and Mrs. Steele occupied.

  Then Jamieson Steele stepped out so quickly that by the time the watcher was in the corridor, he had disappeared down the lift, which happened to be going down at that moment. The man raced down the stairs three at a time. The last landing was a broad marble balcony which overlooked the hall, and, glancing down, he saw Peter waiting. He waved his hand significantly, and at that moment the elevator reached the ground floor, and Jamieson Steele stepped out of it.

  He was half way across the vestibule when Peter confronted him.

  “Wait a moment, Mr. Steele. I want you,” said Peter.

  It was at that second that the swing doors turned and Joyce Steele came in.