The Square Emerald · Chapter 10 (1/2)

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“Druze was illiterate, but, like all illiterate people, had acquired a certain form of culture and was very clever to conceal this misfortune. I think, in fact I know, she had the schooling of an average child, but she was just incapable of learning⁠—the Council Schools and even the Public Schools are full of people like that, of girls and boys familiar with the most obscure sciences who have never tasted these elementary arts.”

Leslie thought quickly.

“Her signature was on the passport?”

“I wrote it,” said the surprising woman. “She told me she wanted to go across to France for a weekend trip and asked me if I would sign the passport form. That was only a few weeks ago, so it is fresh in my mind. Now tell me what I am to do? The police will come to me, and I am prepared to tell them the truth, though I cannot see how I can help them.”

“The whole truth?” asked Leslie significantly.

Jane Raytham looked at the girl for a long time before she answered.

“As much as I’ve told you⁠—not as much as you guess,” she said in her even voice.

Leslie carried her cup of coffee to the desk.

“Would you like me to write down the gist of what you have said, and sign the statement?” she asked. “That may save you an awful lot of trouble.”

Jane hesitated.

“Is it necessary? I suppose it is,” she said. “Yes, if you would be so kind.”

For ten minutes she watched the girl as her pen flew over the paper, and took the pages from her as they were written.

“You have put my case more cleverly than I could have put it myself,” she said with a little smile. “I almost think you’re sympathetic.”

“You don’t know how sympathetic I am,” said Leslie, rising from her chair to make way for the other.

Lady Raytham sat down, read the last sheet again, and had dipped her pen in the ink, when the sound of voices came from outside the door. It was Lucretia’s raised protest, and a deeper voice, which Leslie instantly recognized, and, running to the door, threw it open. The Princess Anita Bellini stood on the landing, glaring through her monocle at the defiant Lucretia.

“You can’t come in; Miss Maughan’s engaged,” she was saying. “I don’t care if you’re a princess or if you’re the Queen of Sheba. When Miss Maughan’s engaged nobody can⁠—”

“That will do, Lucretia. Come in, Princess.”

The big woman strode into the apartment without a word of thanks, not even deigning to look at the defiant maid.

“Where is⁠—?” she began, and then she saw Lady Raytham at the desk. “What are you writing, Jane?” she demanded loudly. “You’re not being such a fool as to make a statement to the police, are you?”

“Lady Raytham is merely telling me as much as I already know,” said Leslie.

“Jane, you must not sign it. I forbid it!”

There was a tremor of anger in the hard voice, and, looking at the woman, Leslie saw how deeply the tragedy must have affected her. She seemed ten years older. The big slit of a mouth was downturned at the ends, the eyes red and inflamed.

Very calmly Lady Raytham affixed her signature.

“Don’t be foolish, Anita,” she said quietly. “The police are entitled to know certain things about Druze.”

“What have you told them? Can I see this precious document?”

She reached out her hand, but Leslie was before her.

“Let me read it to you, Princess,” she said, and placed the desk between herself and her furious visitor. That Princess Bellini was in a cold tremble of rage was patent.

She read without interruption to the end.

“Jane Raytham, you’re a fool to sign a thing like that!” stormed the woman. “Let them find things out without committing yourself to paper. This girl has tricked you into a confession⁠—”

“Confession?” said Leslie, with a smile. “How absurd! Lady Raytham knew that Druze was a woman; it was impossible that she should not. And, as she says, she has only told us what we already knew. And what you already knew.”

“I knew nothing,” said Anita Bellini harshly, her baleful eyes fixed on the girl. “Except that you have tricked Lady Raytham into making a statement which will involve her in considerable trouble.”

Leslie faced her squarely, and for the first time Anita Bellini became dimly and uncomfortably conscious of the strength of this inconsiderable person. They had met before, and the honours of that meeting had not rested with the Princess. But she had thought of Leslie as a girl with a certain glibness of tongue, a gift of smart repartee, but without any of the especial qualities that she might expect in a foe worthy of her heaviest metal. But now it had dawned upon her that, whether she was “Coldwell’s pretty typist,” as she had contemptuously referred to her, or whether she was “a Scotland Yard underling,” she was certainly a factor to be considered and forestalled. And if she had any doubt on the subject, Leslie Maughan’s first words would have dispelled it.

“Lady Raytham has made a statement, and you also will make a statement, Princess,” she said, “either before or after the inquest.”

The woman surveyed her with an oddly sly look that was unnatural in her.

“I don’t know how you can bring me in,” she began, and her tone was milder than it had been.

“You employed Druze. Apparently you knew she was a woman, and are acquainted with her early history,” said Leslie quietly. “That is quite sufficient to bring you into any inquiry which the police set afoot.”

Anita Bellini took out her monocle, polished it on her handkerchief, and returned it to her eye.

“Possibly I was rather precipitate,” she said. “But I think you should make allowance for my⁠—whatever I have said. I have been awfully upset by Druze’s death. Would you read the statement again?”

It was a very simple record of the information which Lady Raytham had given to the girl, and, when she had finished reading:

“No, there is nothing in that,” said the Princess. “I suppose this evidence has to come out. Does it mean that we shall be called at the inquest? I couldn’t stand that, I couldn’t!”

In that instant Leslie detected a tremor in the woman’s voice. Anita Bellini, the formidable, had a weak spot, after all. But she recovered herself very quickly.

“If everybody had his due, Peter Dawlish would be under arrest,” she said, and, ignoring the protests of Jane: “The man hated Druze; you know that quite well, Jane. He threatened her; I can prove it!” And then, in a conciliatory tone: “I hope we’re not going to be bad friends, Miss Maughan. If I can help you I will. Is there any more you can tell me than appears in the evening newspaper?”

“Nothing,” said Leslie shortly.

They left together soon after, but before they departed, Leslie found an opportunity of speaking a few words to Jane Raytham.

“I don’t want you to tell anybody about the necklace,” she said in a low voice, as she accompanied her down the stairs. “Especially about the emerald that was found in Druze’s hand. You promise me? Or have you already told?”

Jane Raytham shook her head.

“I wondered why you hadn’t put that in the statement,” she suggested. “But you may trust me; I shall not speak about it, even to Anita.”

At that moment the voice of the Princess hailed her from the foot of the stairs, and further conversation became impossible.

Leslie arrived at Scotland Yard just before twelve, and was mounting the stone stairs as Peter Dawlish came down.

“A clean bill,” he said with a smile. “At any rate, that is the impression Coldwell gives me. It seems that your detective man’s search was a very thorough one. I suppose you know that he searched me also? And, by the way, Belinda sends her love.”

“Belinda?” Leslie was momentarily bewildered. “Oh, you mean the little child, Elizabeth. How wicked! I had almost forgotten her!”

“She hasn’t forgotten you,” laughed Peter, and with a cheery wave of his hand went on.

She found Mr. Coldwell in his big, comfortable office, the stub of a cigar between his teeth, his bristling brows gathered in thought.

“Just going to phone you,” he grumbled. “I’ve seen that man of yours, and I’m satisfied that he had nothing to do with the crime.”

“ ‘That man of mine’ being Peter Dawlish?” she said calmly. “You give me quite a proprietorial feeling.”

From her bag she took the statement that Lady Raytham had signed and laid it on the table before him. He read it through carefully, folded it up, and slipped it into a drawer.

“Did you tell Anita Bellini about the emerald we found in Druze’s hand?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “That’s the last thing in the world I should have told her. I asked Lady Raytham not to tell either. Why?”

He smiled grimly.

“Thought you hadn’t,” he said. “Her Serenity called me on the phone five minutes ago, and said she’d read in one of the newspapers that something very valuable had been found on Druze’s person. I haven’t seen all the newspapers, but those I’ve read make no mention of the emerald, and I don’t see why they should, unless they are psychic. The Princess suggested, rather than said, that you had confirmed this mythical newspaper report.”

Leslie shook her head in admiration.

“That woman is certainly a quick worker,” she said. “What did you tell her?”

Mr. Coldwell relit his cigar with the exasperating deliberation of his age.

“I told her that we had found something valuable⁠—a packet of money. She seemed kind of disappointed.”

The telephone bell shrilled; he picked up the receiver, listened in silence for a time, and then:

“All right, I’ll come down,” he said.

“The Lambeth police have got a quaint clue; a kind of ready-made one, but it should be investigated, as it has to do with your Peter. Would you like to come along?”

She looked at him steadily.

“If you refer to him as my Peter again, I shall be very offensive to you, Mr. Coldwell,” she said, and Coldwell scratched his chin.

“Somehow he seems to belong to you; I don’t know why I get that impression.”

Her eyes wandered to a corner of the room, and for the first time she saw the two big travelling trunks. They were new and bore the label of the Cunard Steamship Company.

“Druze’s,” he said laconically. “We’ll go through those when we come back.”

It was at the corner of Severall Street that the taxicab stopped. The local sub-divisional inspector was waiting, and with him a detective.

“Let me have a look at that paper,” said Coldwell immediately, and Leslie, who had not heard the one-sided conversation on the telephone, wondered what was coming next.

The inspector took a dirty slip of paper from his pocketbook and gave it into Coldwell’s hand. He fixed his glasses and read, then passed the slip to the girl. The message was written in pencil and in an illiterate hand.

“Dawlish keeps his gun under a loose board in his bedroom just as you go inside the door.”

“Where did this come from?” asked Coldwell.

“It was delivered at the station just before I telephoned to you. A street lad brought it along; he said it had been handed to him by a man, who gave him a few coppers for his trouble. I thought it best that you should know.”

They walked down the street towards Mrs. Inglethorne’s house, and the door was opened immediately by that lady, who was surprisingly clean and spruce. She seemed surprised, but was certainly not agitated by the appearance of the police officers.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Dawlish has just come in. Shall I call him down?”

“No, thank you; we’ll go up.”

Coldwell mounted the stairs and knocked at the door of the front room, and a voice bade them come in. Over the inspector’s shoulder, Leslie saw that Peter was sitting at a deal table, pen in hand, a stack of addressed envelopes before him. He shifted his chair round, and his eyebrows rose in astonishment.

“Hullo!” he said, obviously taken aback by the character of the call. “Do you want to see me again, inspector?”

Coldwell took in the room with a glance.

“I have information that you’ve a gun concealed under this floor,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll make another search.”

“Fire ahead,” said Peter, without a moment’s hesitation.

Coldwell turned back to the door, lifted a corner of the faded carpet, and saw the loose board immediately. To lift it up was the work of a second. Thrusting in his hand, he pulled out a long black Browning pistol. Peter’s face went white; his jaw dropped in an amazement that could not have been simulated.

“Anything more here?” asked Coldwell, and, kneeling, thrust in his hand and groped about. Presently he found a small package wrapped in cloth and brought it to the light. He unwrapped it slowly.

“My Gawd!” gasped a hollow voice.

Mrs. Inglethorne had crept up the stairs and was an interested spectator. And if her profanity was inexcusable, there was reason enough for her astonishment, for in the centre of that dirty rag lay three large diamond rings, the least valuable of which must have been worth a hundred pounds.

“Do you know anything about these, Dawlish?”

Peter shook his head.

“No; I’m not a burglar,” he said, with a return of his old good spirits. “That branch of the profession is not my forte⁠—and that little find has every appearance of being the proceeds of a very old burglary.”

Coldwell looked at the wrapper; it was thick with dust. Even as he turned back one corner of the rag a fine cloud arose.

“Do you know anything about these, Mrs. Inglethorne?”

She shook her head.

“Or the pistol?”

The woman was paralyzed; her face had gone a ghastly grey as she realized the enormous significance of that find. There they had lain, month after month, at least £500 worth of jewellery, the results of one of her lodger’s little coups, and she none the wiser.

“Never⁠—seen⁠—it!” Mrs. Inglethorne found a difficulty in breathing.

“This has been used as a hiding-place before,” said the inspector, as he laid the pistol and rings upon the deal table.

He examined the Browning, noted its make and number, and, having carefully removed the magazine and dislodged the cartridges from the chamber, smelt at the barrel.

“It has been fired recently, I should imagine; it still smells of cordite. Is this yours, Dawlish?”

“No, sir; I’ve never seen it before.”

“Humph!” The inspector sat down on the bed in exactly the place where the girl had sat the night before. He looked round for Mrs. Inglethorne, but that untidy woman had vanished.

“Nobody told you about that hiding-place?”

“No, sir⁠—”

“Hullo, Elizabeth!” It was Leslie’s interruption. The frail child stood in the doorway, shyly smiling at the beautiful lady of her dreams.

She whispered something that the girl could not catch, and Leslie went nearer to her, took the two thin hands in hers, and, stooping, kissed the pale cheeks.

“Tea?” she said with a laugh. “No, dear, I don’t think we want tea. It was very nice of you to come⁠—”

The child’s eyes were fixed on the table; they were wide open, and in their depths Leslie saw a look of fear.

“What is it?” asked Leslie.

“That big gun,” whispered the child. “Mother had it this morning, and I was so frightened.”

The sharp-eared Coldwell heard.

“Your mother had it this morning, my dear?” he said kindly. “Where did she have it?”

“In the kitchen. A gentleman left it⁠—a little gentleman with a yellow face. Mother brought it into the kitchen and said we all ought to be killed.”

She clapped her hands to her mouth with an exclamation of fright, for only then did she remember the strict injunctions laid upon her. Coldwell strode out of the room to the head of the stairs and called Mrs. Inglethorne in a stentorian voice. It was a long time before he had an answer, and then, by the tremulous voice, he guessed that part of the conversation between himself and the child had been overheard.

“Come up here,” he said curtly, and Mrs. Inglethorne came lumbering up the stairs.

“This pistol came to your house this morning⁠—from whom?”

The woman’s mouth was dry with terror. She blinked from one to the other.

“A gentleman brought it,” she gulped. “He said it belonged to Mr. Dawlish⁠—and would I put it under the floor⁠—without a word of a lie, sir, if I never move from here.”