The Big Book of Female Detectives

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

  “Want me?” said Steele. “Why?”

  “I am going to take you into custody on the charge of being concerned in the robbery tonight,” said the detective.

  “You’re mad,” said Steele, with an immovable face.

  “Arrest him? Oh no, no!” It was the gasping voice of the girl. In a second she had flung herself upon the man, her two arms about him. “It isn’t true, it isn’t true!” she sobbed.

  Very gently Steele pushed her back.

  “Go away, my dear. This is no place for you,” he said. “Mr. Dawes has made a great mistake, as he will discover.”

  The watcher had joined the group now.

  “He’s got the goods, sir,” he said triumphantly. “I watched him. The necklace was in a cigar box. He has got it in his pocket.”

  “Hold out your hands,” said Peter, and in a second Jamieson Steele was handcuffed.

  “May I come?” said the girl.

  “It is better you did not,” said Peter. “Perhaps your husband will be able to prove his innocence. Anyway, you can do nothing.”

  They left her, a disconsolate figure, standing in the hall, and carried their prisoner to Cannon Row.

  “Now we’ll search you, if you don’t mind?” asked Peter.

  “Not at all,” said the other coolly.

  “Where did you say he put it?”

  “In his pocket, sir,” said the spy.

  Peter searched the overcoat pockets.

  “There’s nothing here,” he said.

  “Nothing there?” gasped the man in astonishment. “But I saw him put it there. He took it out of his hip pocket and——”

  “Well, let’s try his hip pocket. Take off your coat, Steele.”

  The young man obeyed, and again Peter’s deft fingers went over him, but with no better result. The two detectives looked at one another in consternation.

  “A slight mistake on your part, my friend,” said Peter, “I’m sorry we’ve given you all this trouble.”

  “Look in the bottom of the cab,” the second detective pleaded, and Peter laughed.

  “I don’t see what he could do. He had the bracelets on his hands, and I never took my eyes off them once. You can search the cab if you like—it’s waiting at the door.”

  But the search of the cab produced no better result.

  And then an inspiration dawned upon Peter, and he laughed, softly and long.

  “I’m going to give up this business,” he said. “I really am, Steele. I’m too childishly trustful.”

  Their eyes met, and both eyes were creased with laughter.

  “All right,” said Peter. “Let him go.”

  “Let him go?” said the other detective in dismay.

  “Yes. We’ve no evidence against this gentleman, and we’re very unlikely to secure it.”

  For in that short space of time, Peter had realized exactly the kind he was up against; saw as clearly as daylight what had happened to the emeralds, and knew that any attempt to find them now would merely lead to another disappointment.

  “If you don’t mind, Steele, I think I’ll go back with you to your hotel. I hope you’re not bearing malice.”

  “Not at all,” replied Steele. “It’s your job to catch me, and my job to——” he paused.

  “Yes?” said Peter curiously.

  “My job to get caught, obviously,” said Steele with a laugh.

  They did not speak again until they were in the cab on the way back to the hotel.

  “I’m afraid my poor wife is very much upset.”

  “I’m not worrying about that,” said Peter drily. “Steele, I think you are a wise man; and, being wise, you will not be averse to receiving advice from one who knows this game from A to Z.”

  Steele did not reply.

  “My advice to you is, get out of the country just as soon as you can, and take your wife with you,” said Peter. “There is an old adage that the pitcher goes often to the well—I need not remind you of that.”

  “Suppose I tell you I do not understand you,” said Steele.

  “You will do nothing so banal,” replied Peter. “I tell you I know your game, and the thing that is going to stand against you is the robbery of the mail. That is your only bad offence in my eyes, and it is the one for which I would work night and day to bring you to justice.”

  Again a silence.

  “Nothing was stolen from the mail, that I know,” said Peter. “It was all returned. Your principal offence is that you scared a respectable servant of his Majesty into fits. Anyway, it is a felony of a most serious kind, and would get you twenty years if we could secure evidence against you. You held up his Majesty’s mail with a loaded revolver——”

  “Even that you couldn’t prove,” laughed Steele. “It might not have been any more than a piece of gaspipe. After all, a hardened criminal, such as you believe I am, possessed of a brain which you must know by this time I have, would have sufficient knowledge of the law to prevent his carrying lethal weapons.”

  “We are talking here without witnesses,” said Peter.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Steele quickly. “I thought I was talking to you in my little sitting-room without witnesses.”

  “Anyway, you can be sure there are no witnesses here,” smiled Peter, as the cab turned into the street where the hotel was situated. “And I am asking you confidentially, and man to man, if you can give me any information at all regarding the murder in St. James’s Street.”

  Steele thought awhile.

  “I can’t,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I was in Falmouth at the time, as you know. Obviously, it was not the work of the lady who calls herself Four Square Jane, because my impression of that charming creature is that she would be scared to death at the sight of a revolver. The card which was found in the dead man’s hand——”

  “How did you know that?” asked Peter quickly.

  “These things get about,” replied the other unabashed. “Has it occurred to you that it was a moist night, that the murderer may have been hot, and that on the card may be his fingerprints?”

  “That did occur to me,” said Peter. “In fact, it was the first thing I thought about. And, if it is any interest to you, I will tell you that there was a finger print upon that card, which I have been trying for the past few days to——” He stopped. “Here we are at your hotel,” he said. “There’s a good detective lost in you, Steele.”

  “Not lost, but gone before,” said the other flippantly. “Good-night. You won’t come up and have a cigar?”

  “No thanks,” said a grim Peter.

  He went back to Scotland Yard. It was curious, amazingly curious, that Steele should have mentioned the card that night. It was not into an empty office that he went, despite the lateness of the hour. There was an important police conference, and all the heads of departments were crowded into the room, the air of which was blue with tobacco smoke. A stout, genial man nodded to Peter as he came in.

  “We’ve had a devil of a job getting it, Peter, but we’ve succeeded.”

  Before him was a small visiting-card, bearing the name of Jamieson Steele. In the very centre was a violet finger print. The finger print had not been visible to the naked eye until it had been treated with chemicals, and its present appearance was the result of the patient work of three of Scotland Yard’s greatest scientists.

  “Did you get the other?” said Peter.

  “There it is,” said the stout man, and pointed to a strip of cardboard bearing two black finger prints.

  Peter compared the two impressions.

  “Well,” he said, “at any rate, one of the mysteries is cleared up. How did you get this?” he asked pointing to the strip of cardboard bearing the two prints.

  “I called on him, and shook hands with him,” said the stout man with a sm
ile. “He was horribly surprised and offended that I should take such a liberty. Then I handed him the strip of card. It was a little while later, when he put his hand on the blotting pad, that he discovered that his palm and finger-tips were black, and I think that he was the most astonished man I ever saw.”

  Peter smiled.

  “He didn’t guess that your hand would be carefully covered with lamp-black, I gather?”

  “Hardly,” said the fat man.

  Again Peter compared the two impressions.

  “There is no doubt at all about it,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Half-past twelve. Not a bad time, either. I’ll take Wilkins and Browne,” he said, “and get the thing over. It’s going to be a lot of trouble. Have you got the warrant?”

  The stout man opened the drawer of his desk and passed a sheet of paper across. Peter examined it.

  “Thank you,” he said simply.

  Lord Claythorpe was in his study taking a stiff whisky and soda when the detective was announced.

  “Well?” he said. “Have you found the person who stole the emerald necklace?”

  “No, my lord,” said Peter. “But I have found the man who shot Remington.”

  Lord Claythorpe’s face went ashen.

  “What do you mean?” he said hoarsely. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Peter, “that I am going to take you into custody on a charge of wilful murder, and I caution you that what you now say will be used in evidence against you.”

  * * *

  —

  At three o’clock in the morning, Lord Claythorpe, an inmate of a cell at Cannon Row, sent for Peter Dawes. Peter was ushered into the cell, and found that Claythorpe had recovered from the crushed and hopeless man he had left: he was now calm and normal.

  “I want to see you, Dawes,” he said, “to clear up a few matters which are on my conscience.”

  “Of course, you know,” said Peter, “that any statement you make——”

  “I know, I know,” said the other impatiently. “But I have this to say.” He paced the short cell, his hands gripped behind him. Presently he sat down at Peter’s side. “In the first place,” he said, “let me tell you that I killed Donald Remington. There’s a long story leading up to that killing, but I swear I had no intention of hurting him.”

  Peter had taken a notebook from one pocket and a pencil from another, and was jotting down in his queer shorthand the story the other told. Usually such a proceeding had the effect of silencing the man whose words were being inscribed, but Claythorpe did not seem to notice.

  “When Joyce Wilberforce’s uncle left me executor of his estate, I had every intention of going straight,” he went on. “But I made bad losses in the Kaffir market, and gradually I began to nibble at her fortune. The securities, which were kept in sealed envelopes at the bank, were taken out one by one, and disposed of; blank sheets of paper were placed in the envelopes, which were resealed. And when the burglary occurred, there was only one hundred-thousand-pound bond left. That bond you will find in a secret drawer of my desk. I think Remington, who was in my confidence except for this matter, suspected it all along. When I took the securities from the bank, it was with the intention of raiding my own office that night and leaving the sign of Four Square Jane to throw suspicion elsewhere. I came back to the office at eleven o’clock that night, but found Remington was before me. He had opened the safe with his key, and was satisfying his curiosity as to the contents of the envelopes. He threatened to expose me, for he had already discovered that the envelopes contained nothing of importance.

  “I was a desperate man. I had taken a revolver with me in case I was detected, intending to end my life then and there. Remington made certain demands on me, to which I refused to agree. He rose and walked to the door, telling me he intended to call the police; it was then that I shot him.”

  Peter Dawes looked up from his notes.

  “What about Steele’s card?” he said.

  Lord Claythorpe nodded.

  “I had taken that with me to throw suspicion upon Steele, because I believed, and still believe, that he is associated with Four Square Jane.”

  “Tell me one thing,” said Peter. “Do you know or suspect Four Square Jane?”

  Lord Claythorpe shook his head.

  “I’ve always suspected that she was Joyce Wilberforce herself,” he said, “but I’ve never been able to confirm that suspicion. In the old days, when the Wilberforces were living in Manchester Square, I used to see the girl, and suspected she was carrying notes to young Steele, who had a top-floor office at the corner of Cavendish Square.”

  “Where were you living at the time?” asked Peter quickly.

  “I had a flat in Grosvenor Square,” said Lord Claythorpe.

  Peter jumped up.

  “Was the girl’s uncle alive at this time?”

  Lord Claythorpe nodded.

  “He was still alive,” he said.

  “Where was he living?”

  “In Berkeley——”

  “I’ve got it!” said Peter excitedly. “This was when all the trouble was occurring, when you were planning to rob the girl, and using your influence against her. Don’t you see? ‘Four Square Jane.’ She has named the four squares where the four characters in your story lived.”

  Lord Claythorpe frowned.

  “That solution never occurred to me,” he said.

  He did not seem greatly interested in a matter which excited Peter Dawes to an unusual extent. He had little else to say, and when Peter Dawes left him, he lay wearily down on the plank bed.

  Peter was talking for some time with the inspector in charge of the station, when the gaoler called him.

  “I don’t know what was the matter with that prisoner, sir,” he said, “but, looking through the peephole about two minutes ago, I saw him pulling the buttons off his coat.”

  Peter frowned.

  “You’d better change that coat of his,” he said, “and place him under observation.”

  They all went back to the cell together. Lord Claythorpe was lying in the attitude in which Peter had left him, and they entered the cell together. Peter bent down and touched the face, then, with a cry, turned the figure over on its back.

  “He’s dead!” he cried.

  He looked at the coat. One of the buttons had been wrenched off. Then he bent down and smelt the dead man’s lips, and began a search of the floor. Presently he found what he was looking for—a section of a button. He picked it up, smelt it, and handed it to the inspector.

  “So that’s how he did it,” he said gravely. “Claythorpe was prepared for this.”

  “What is it?” asked the inspector.

  “The second button of his coat has evidently been made specially for him. It is a compressed tablet of cyanide of potassium, coloured to match the other buttons, and he had only to tear it off to end his life.”

  So passed Lord Claythorpe, a great scoundrel, leaving his title to a weakling of a son, and very few happy memories to that obscure and hysterical woman who bore his name. Peter’s work was done, save for the mystery of Four Square Jane, and even that mystery was exposed. The task he had set himself now was a difficult one, and one in which he had very little heart. He obtained a fresh set of warrants, and accompanied by a small army of detectives who watched every exit, made his call at the hotel at which Steele and his wife were staying.

  He went straight up to the room, and found Joyce and her husband at breakfast. They were both dressed; the fact that several trunks were packed suggested that they were contemplating an early move.

  Peter closed the door behind him and came slowly to the breakfast table, and the girl greeted him with a smile.

  “You’re just in time for breakfast,” she said. “Won’t you have some coffee?”

  Peter shook his head. S
teele was eyeing him narrowly, and presently the young man laughed.

  “Joyce,” he said, “I do believe that friend Dawes has come to arrest us all.”

  “You might guess again, and guess wrong,” said Peter, sitting himself down and leaning one elbow on the table. “Mr. Steele, the game is up. I want you!”

  “And me, too?” asked the girl, raising her eyebrows.

  She looked immensely pretty, he thought, and he had a sore heart for her.

  “Yes, you, too, Mrs. Steele,” he said quietly.

  “What have I done?” she asked.

  “There are several things you’ve done, the latest being to embrace your husband in the vestibule of the hotel when we had arrested him for being in possession of an emerald necklace, and in your emotion relieving him of the incriminating evidence.”

  She laughed, throwing back her head.

  “It was prettily done, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “Very prettily,” said Peter.

  “Have you any other charge?”

  “None, except that you are Four Square Jane,” said Peter Dawes.

  “So you’ve found that out, too, have you?” asked the girl. She raised her cup to her lips without a tremor, and her eyes were dancing with mischief.

  Peter Dawes felt that had this woman been engaged on a criminal character instead of devoting her life to relieving the man who had robbed her of his easy gains, she would have lived in history as the greatest of all those perverted creatures who set the law at defiance.

  Steele took a cigarette from his pocket, and offered his case to the detective.

  “As you say, the jig is up,” said he, “and since we desire most earnestly that there should be no unpleasant scene, and this is a more comfortable place to make a confession than a cold, cold prison cell, I will tell you that the whole scheme of Four Square Jane was mine.”

  “That’s not true,” said the girl quietly. “You mustn’t take either the responsibility or the credit, dear.”

  Steele laughed as he held a light to the detective’s cigarette.

  “Anyway, I planned some of our cleverest exploits,” he said, and she nodded.