Legendary Women Detectives

“There are many things that distinguish such a woman as I have described to you from a common thief. There is the insane desire to steal – merely for stealing’s sake – a morbid craving. Of course in a sense it is stealing. But it is persistent, incorrigible, irrational, motiveless, useless.

“Stop and think about it a moment,” she concluded, lowering her voice and taking advantage of the very novelty of the situation she had created. “Such diseases are the product of civilization, of sensationalism. Naturally enough, then, woman, with her delicately balanced nervous organization, is the first and chief offender – if you insist on calling such a person an offender under your antiquated methods of dealing with such cases.”

She had paused.

“What did you say you called this thing?” asked Drummond as he tapped the arrangement on Annie Grayson’s arm.

He was evidently not much impressed by it, yet somehow instinctively regarded it with somewhat of the feelings of an elephant toward a mouse.

“That?” answered Constance, taking it off Annie Grayson’s wrist before she could do anything with it. “Why, I don’t know that I said anything about it. It is really a sphygmomanometer – the little expert witness that never lies – one of the instruments the insurance companies use now to register blood pressure and discover certain diseases. It occurred to me that it might be put to other and equally practical uses. For no one can conceal the emotions from this instrument, not even a person of cast-iron nerves.”

She had placed it on Drummond’s arm. He appeared fascinated.

“See how it works?” she went on. “You see one hundred and twenty-five millimetres is the normal pressure. Kitty Carr is absolutely abnormal. I do not know, but I think that she suffers from periodical attacks of vertigo. Almost all kleptomaniacs do. During an attack they are utterly irresponsible.”

Drummond was looking at the thing carefully. Constance turned to Annie Grayson.

“Where’s your husband?” she asked offhand.

“Oh, he disappeared as soon as these department store dicks showed up,” she replied bitterly. She had been watching Constance narrowly, quite nonplussed, and unable to make anything out of what was going on.

Constance looked at Drummond inquiringly.

He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid we’ll never catch him,” he said. “He got the jump on us – although we have our lines out for him, too.”

She had glanced down quickly at the little innocent-looking but telltale sphygmomanometer.

“You lie!” she exclaimed suddenly, with all the vigour of a man.

She was pointing at the quivering little needle which registered a sudden, access of emotion totally concealed by the sang-froid of Drummond’s well-schooled exterior.

She wrenched the thing off his wrist and dropped it into her bag. A moment later she stood by the open window facing the street, a bright little police whistle gleaming in her hand, ready for its shrill alarm if any move were made to cut short what she had to say.

She was speaking rapidly now.

“You see, I’ve had it on all of you, one after another, and each has told me your story, just enough of it for me to piece it together. Kitty is suffering from a form of vertigo, an insanity, kleptomania, the real thing. As for you, Mr. Drummond, you were in league with the alleged husband – your own stool pigeon – to catch Annie Grayson.”

Drummond moved. So did the whistle. He stopped.

“But she was too clever for you all. She was not caught, even by a man who lived with her as her own husband. For she was not operating.”

Annie Grayson moved as if to face out her accusers at this sudden turn of fortune.

“One moment, Annie,” cut in Constance.

“And yet, you are the real shoplifter, after all. You fell into the trap which Drummond laid for you. I take pleasure, Mr. Drummond, in presenting you with better evidence than even your own stool pigeon could possibly have given you under the circumstances.”

She paused.

“For myself,” she concluded, “I claim Kitty Carr. I claim the right to take her, to have her treated for her – her disease. I claim it because the real shoplifter, the queen of the shoplifters, Annie Grayson, has worked out a brand-new scheme, taking up a true kleptomaniac and using her insanity to carry out the stealings which she suggested – and safely, to this point, has profited by!”

THE MURDER AT TROYTE’S HILL

C. L. PIRKIS

(Sleuth: Loveday Brooke)