Devil's Dice

Having dressed, I went to the Club, dined with several men I knew, and afterward descended to one of the smoking-rooms, where I accidentally picked up an evening paper. The first heading that confronted me was in bold capitals the words, “Sternroyd Mystery: Supposed Clue. The Missing Man’s Will.”

Breathless with eagerness I devoured the lines of faint print. They seemed to dance before my excited vision as I learnt from them that a reporter who was investigating the strange affair, had ascertained that a clue had been obtained by the detectives.

“The mystery,” continued the journal, “is likely to develop into one of the most sensational in the annals of modern crime. We use the word crime because from information our representative has obtained, it is absolutely certain that the young millionaire Sternroyd met with foul play. How, or where, cannot yet be ascertained. At Scotland Yard, however, they are in possession of reliable information that Mr Sternroyd had for some time actually anticipated assassination, and had confided this fact to a person who has now come forward and is actively assisting the police. Another extraordinary feature in the case is, that although Mr Sternroyd has a mother and a number of relatives living, he made a will, only a few weeks before his disappearance, bequeathing the whole of his enormous fortune to a lady well-known in London society. The police are most actively engaged in solving the mystery, and now that it has been ascertained that the missing man anticipated his end at the hand of another, it is confidently believed that in the course of a few hours the police will arrest a person suspected.”

The secret was out! Mabel had evidently placed her theory before the police and explained what Gilbert had told her regarding his fears. She was Jack’s enemy, and had placed the detectives on the scent. This, then, was the reason she had endeavoured to silence me regarding her interview with Markwick at Blatherwycke. When she had striven to induce me to swear secrecy, she had without doubt already informed the police of her suspicions, and well knew that ere long I should be called as a witness to speak as to Bethune’s movements. Our friendship had been broken. Fortunately I had promised nothing, and was free to speak.

The pink news-sheet I cast from me, congratulating myself that I had not fallen into the trap the Countess had so cunningly baited.

Even at that moment some men opposite me were discussing the mysterious affair, and as I smoked, my ears were on the alert to catch every syllable of their conversation. It was only now that I fully realised what widespread sensation Sternroyd’s disappearance had caused. Having been absent in the country, I was quite unaware of the intense public interest now centred in the whereabouts or fate of the young millionaire whose little peccadilloes and extravagances had from time to time afforded food for gossip and material for paragraphists in society journals.

“There is a woman in the case,” one of the men was saying between vigorous pulls at his cigar. “I knew Gilbert well. He wasn’t a fellow to disappear and bury himself in the country or abroad. Whatever he did, he did openly, and no better-hearted young chap ever breathed. He was awfully good to his relations. Why, dozens of them actually lived on his generosity.”

“I quite agree,” said another. “But I heard something in the Bachelors’ last night that seems to put quite a different complexion on the affair.”

“What is it?” inquired half-a-dozen eager voices in chorus.

“Well, it is now rumoured that he admired the Countess of Fyneshade, and that he was seen with her on several occasions just prior to his disappearance. Further, that the will about which to-night’s papers give mysterious hints, is actually in her favour. He’s left everything to her.”

The other men gave vent to exclamations of surprise, but this piece of gossip was immediately seized upon as a text for many theories of the weird and wonderful order, and when I rose and left, the group were still as far off solving the mystery to their own satisfaction as they had been half an hour before.

Wandering aimlessly along to Piccadilly Circus, I turned into the Criterion expecting to find a man I knew, but he was not there, and as I started to leave, I suddenly confronted a tall, well-dressed man who had been lounging beside me at the bar, and who now uttered my name and greeted me with a breezy “Good-evening, Mr Ridgeway.”

Unnerved by the constant strain of excitement, this suddenness with which we met caused me to start, but in an instant I told myself that I might learn something advantageous from this man, therefore called for more refreshment, and we began to chat.

The man’s name was Grindlay. He was a detective who owed his position of inspector in the Criminal Investigation Department mainly to my father’s recommendation. About six years previous a great fraud, involving a loss of something like thirty thousand pounds, was perpetrated upon my father’s bank by means of forged notes, and Grindlay, at that time a plain-clothes constable of the City Police, stationed at Old Jewry, succeeded, after his superiors had failed, in tracing the manufacturer of the notes to Hamburg and causing his arrest, extradition, and conviction. The ingenuity of the forger was only equalled by the cunning displayed by the detective, and in consequence of a question my father addressed to the Home Secretary in the House, Grindlay was transferred to Scotland Yard and soon promoted to an inspectorship. Therefore it was scarcely surprising that he should always show goodwill toward my family, and on each occasion we met, he always appeared unusually gentlemanly for one of his calling, and full of genuine bonhomie.

Immediately after the strange adventures of that memorable night on which I had been married to a lifeless bride, I had sought his counsel, but had been informed that he was absent in South America. It was now with satisfaction that I again met him, although I hesitated to speak to him upon the subject. Truth to tell I felt I had been ingeniously tricked, and that now after the lapse of months, even this astute officer could not assist me. No, as I stood beside him while he told me briefly how he had had “a smart run through the States, then down to Rio and home” after a fugitive, I resolved that my secret should still remain my own.

“Yes,” I said at length. “I heard you were away.”

“Ah! they told me at the Yard that you had called. Did you want to see me particularly?” he asked, fixing his dark-brown eyes on mine. He was a handsome fellow of middle age, with clear-cut features, a carefully twisted moustache and upon his cheeks that glow of health that seems peculiar to investigators of crime. In his well-made evening clothes and crush hat, he would have passed well for an army officer.

“No,” I answered lightly: “I happened to be near you one day and thought I would give you a call. What are you doing to-night?”

“Keeping observation upon a man who is going to the Empire,” he answered, glancing hurriedly at his watch. “Come with me?”

For several reasons I accepted his invitation. First because I wanted some distraction, and secondly because it had occurred to me that I might ascertain from him something fresh regarding the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd.

We lit fresh cigars, and, strolling to the Empire Theatre, entered the lounge at that hour not yet crowded. As we walked up and down, his sharp, eager eyes darting everywhere in search of the man whose movements he was watching, I inquired the nature of the case upon which he was engaged.

“Robbery and attempted murder,” he answered under his breath so that passers-by should not hear. “You remember the robbery of diamonds in Hatton Garden a year ago, when a diamond merchant was gagged and nearly killed, while the thief got clear away with every stone in the safe. Well, it’s that case. I traced the stones back to Amsterdam, but failed to find the thief until three weeks ago.”

“And he’ll be here to-night?”

“Yes, I expect him. But don’t let’s talk of it,” he said under his breath. “Somebody may spot me. If you chance to meet any of your friends here, and am compelled to introduce me, remember I am Captain Hayden, of the East Surrey Regiment.”

“Very well,” I answered smiling, for this was not our first evening together, and I had already been initiated into some of the wiles of members of the Criminal Investigation Department.

For fully an hour we lounged at the bars, watched the variety performance, and strolled about, but my friend failed to discover his man. While standing at one of the bars, however, several men I knew passed and repassed, among them being the Earl of Fyneshade accompanied by Markwick and another man whom I had never before seen. The latter, well-dressed, was apparently a gentleman.

“Do you know that tall man?” I asked Grindlay as they went by, and we happened to be looking in their direction.

“No,” he answered. “Who is he?”

“The Earl of Fyneshade.”

“Fyneshade? Fyneshade?” he repeated. “Husband of the Countess, I suppose. She’s reckoned very beautiful, isn’t she? Do you know them?”

“Yes,” I replied. “They are friends of my family.”

“Oh,” he said, indifferently. “Who are the other men?”

I told my companion that the name of one was Markwick, and our conversation then quickly drifted to other topics. Presently, however, when the Earl repassed along the lounge, he said —

“Have you met his lordship recently? He doesn’t appear to have noticed you.”

“I saw both the Earl and the Countess this afternoon,” I said. “I called at Eaton Square.”

Almost before the words had left my lips, Fyneshade and his friends entered the bar, the trio speaking loudly in jovial tones, and in a moment he recognised me. Markwick and I exchanged glances, but neither of us acknowledged the other. It was strange, to say the least, that he of all men should be spending the evening with Mabel’s husband.

“Hulloa, Ridgeway!” cried the Earl, coming forward. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Where did you dine?”

“At the club,” I answered, and turning, introduced Grindlay as Captain Hayden.

“Good show here, isn’t it,” Fyneshade exclaimed enthusiastically to the detective. “Juniori is excellent to-night. Her last song, ‘Trois Rue du Pan,’ is immense. It’s the best thing she has ever sung, don’t you think so?” Grindlay agreed, criticised the vivacious dark-eyed chanteuse with the air of a blasé man-about-town, and chatted with his new acquaintance with well-bred ease and confidence. In a few minutes, however, Fyneshade returned to rejoin his friends at the other end of the small bar, while Grindlay and myself strolled out again on our watchful vigil.

At last, after a diligent search, my friend suddenly gripped my arm, whispering —

“See that man with the rose in his coat. You would hardly suspect him of a diamond robbery, would you?”

“No, by Jove!” I said. “I never should.” As we passed I looked toward him and saw he was aged about fifty, with hair slightly tinged with grey; he wore evening clothes, with a fine pearl and emerald solitaire in his shirt, and upon his hands were lavender gloves. In earnest conversation with him was a short, stout, elderly man, with grey scraggy beard and moustache, about whose personality there was something striking, yet indefinable.

“Oh!” exclaimed Grindlay, when we were out of hearing. “I had not suspected this!”

“Suspected what?” I asked, eagerly; for tracking criminals was to me a new experience.

“I did not know that our friend there was acquainted with the little man. I’ve seen his face somewhere before, and if I’m not very much mistaken, we hold a warrant for him with the offer of a reward from the Belgian Government.” Then placing his cigar in his mouth and puffing thoughtfully at it for a moment, he added, “Let’s saunter back. I must get another look at him.”

We turned, strolling slowly along, and as we passed, Grindlay left me and went close to him to take a match from the little marble table near which the pair was standing. Leisurely he lit his cigar, then returning to me, said briefly:

“I’m not yet certain, but I could almost swear he’s the man. If he is, then I’ve fallen on him quite unexpectedly, and shall arrest him before he leaves this place. But I must first run down to the Yard and refresh my memory. Come with me?”

I assented, and we went out, driving to the offices of the Criminal Investigation Department in a hansom. Through the great entrance hall, up two wide stone staircases and down a long echoing corridor, he conducted me until we entered a large room wherein were seated several clerks. He had thrown away his cigar, his keen face now wore a strange pre-occupied look, and as he approached a shelf, took down a large ledger, and opened it before him, he glanced up at the clock remarking as if to himself —

“I’ve got an hour. They are certain to remain until the end.”

His eye ran rapidly down several columns of names, until one arrested his attention and he closed the index-book, replaced it, and left me for a few moments, observing with a laugh – “I won’t keep you long, but here – there’s something to amuse you.”