Devil's Dice

Taking from one of the unoccupied desks a large, heavily-bound volume, he placed it before me, adding – “The people in there are mostly foreigners wanted for crimes abroad, and believed to be living in free England.” And he went out, leaving me to inspect this remarkable collection of photographs. Each portrait, mounted in the great album, bore a number written in red ink across it, and I soon found myself highly interested in them. Presently Grindlay returned hurriedly with a similar album, the leaves of which he turned over one by one, carefully scrutinising each picture on the page in his eager search for the counterfeit presentment of the man who, unsuspicious of detection, was calmly enjoying the ballet at the Empire.

“Anything there to interest you?” he inquired presently without looking up, as we stood side by side.

“Yes,” I answered, “Are these all foreigners?”

“Mostly. They are wanted for all kinds of crime, from fraud to murder,” he replied.

They were indeed a most incongruous set. Many were photographs taken by the French and German and Italian police after the criminal’s previous conviction, and the suspects were often in prison dress; but the portraits of others were in cabinet size, bearing the names of well-known Paris, Berlin, and Viennese photographers.

“Have any of these people been arrested?” I inquired.

“No. When they are, we take out the picture and file it. If there is any reason why they should not be arrested it is written below.”

And he went on with his careful but rapid search while carelessly I turned over leaf after leaf. A few of the men appeared quite refined and gentlemanly. Some of the women were quiet and inoffensive-looking, and one or two of them stylishly dressed and exceedingly pretty, but it could be distinguished that the majority bore the stamp of crime on their brutal, debased faces.

I had glanced at a number of leaves mechanically, and had grown tired of inspecting the motley crowd of evildoers, when suddenly an involuntary cry of abject amazement escaped my lips.

My eyes had fallen upon two portraits placed side by side among a number of others whose physiognomy clearly betrayed the fact that they were malefactors. Stupefied by the discovery I stood aghast, staring at them, scarcely believing my own eyes.

The two portraits were those of Sybil and myself!

Sybil’s picture was similar to the one I had purchased in Regent Street, and was by the same photographer, while mine had evidently been copied from one that had been taken in Paris two years before.

Of what crime had we been suspected? Here was yet another phase of the inexplicable mystery of Sybil’s marriage and death. Some words were written beneath her portrait in red ink and initialled. I bent to examine them and found they read – “Warrant not executed – Death.”

I raised my head slowly and turned to Grindlay.

Chapter Twenty One

Grindlay’s Tactics

The detective, bending over the album, was so deeply engrossed in contemplating a photograph he had just discovered, that he failed to notice my exclamation of surprise, or if he heard it he vouchsafed no remark.

I turned to him for the purpose of seeking some explanation regarding the portrait of myself and my dead bride, but in an instant it occurred to me that he knew nothing regarding the strange circumstances of my marriage, or of the fact that Sybil was “wanted,” otherwise he would not have been so indiscreet as to give me this book of photographs to inspect. By directing his attention to it I should be compelled to explain how ingeniously I had been tricked.

No. Again silence was best.

I decided that I would keep my own counsel, at least for the present, and watch the progress of events. At the other portraits on the page I glanced, then turned over leaf after leaf in search of another face I had cause to remember – that of the mysterious Markwick. But he was not included. Only Sybil and myself were suspected. What, I wondered, could be the crime for which our arrest was demanded. Why, indeed, if I had been “wanted,” had I not been arrested long ago?

The discovery was astounding.

Grindlay, extracting the photograph from the book, left me hurriedly with a word of apology, and while he was absent I again turned to the strange assortment of foreign criminals, among whom I figured so prominently. Again and again I read the endorsement beneath Sybil’s photograph. Her bright eyes looked out at me sadly. Her beautiful countenance bore the same strange world-weary look as on that evening when she had first passed me in the half-lights of the Casino Garden in the far-off Pyrenean valley. But alas! the one word “death” written below was a sad reality. She was lost to me, and had died with her inscrutable secret locked within her heart.

Presently the detective returned, thrusting some ominous-looking papers in his breast-pocket as he walked, and closing the book I followed him out a few moments later.

“I have the warrant,” he said calmly, as we entered a cab together. “I shall make the arrest at once.”

“Shall you arrest both men?”

“No,” he replied, laughing. “The situation is rather critical. I don’t want to arrest the first man at present, only his companion. If I arrest the latter the diamond thief will no doubt abscond. I shall therefore be compelled to wait until they have parted.”

“What’s the charge against the other?” I inquired, much interested.

“Jewel robbery,” he answered sharply. “He’s one of a gang who have their head-quarters in Brussels. I must keep him under observation, for he’s a slippery customer, and has already done several long stretches. Where he’s been lately, goodness knows. The police of Europe have been looking out for him for fully two years, and this seems to be his first public appearance. It was quite by a fluke that I spotted him, for he can’t hide the deformity of his hand, even though he is wearing gloves.”

“What deformity?” I inquired. “I did not notice any.”

“No,” he laughed. “You are not a detective. The deformity consists in two fingers of his left hand being missing. It was this fact that first attracted my attention toward him.”

Across Leicester Square we dashed rapidly, and, pulling up before the Empire, were soon strolling again in the lounge, having been absent about three-quarters of an hour. The crowd was now so great that locomotion was difficult, nevertheless the detective, having lit a fresh cigar, walked leisurely here and there in search of the pair of criminals, while I confess my interest was divided between them and the Earl of Fyneshade. Why the latter should now fraternise with the man of whom only a few hours ago he had been so madly jealous was incomprehensible, and my eyes were everywhere on the alert to again discover them and watch their actions. Fyneshade had left his wife because of her friendship with this sinister-faced individual, yet he was actually spending the evening with him. It was a curious fact, and one of which Mabel evidently did not dream. What, I wondered, could be the motive? Had Markwick sought the Earl’s society with some evil design? Or had the Earl himself, determined to ascertain the truth, stifled his feelings of jealousy, and for the nonce extended the hand of friendship to the man he hated?

The performance was drawing to a close, the bars and foyer were crowded, and the chatter and laughter so loud that neither song nor music could be heard. Although we struggled backward and forward, and peered into the various bars, Grindlay could not discover the men for whom he was in search, neither could I find the Earl and his companions.

“I’m very much afraid they’ve left,” the detective said to me presently, when he had made a thorough investigation.

“What shall you do?”

“Oh, I know where I can find the first man, therefore the second; being in London, it will not be a very difficult matter to get scent of him again,” he answered lightly, adding, “But I haven’t seen your friend the Earl. He’s gone also, I suppose.”

“I believe so. I haven’t noticed him since we returned.”

“You said you knew that man who was with him,” he observed.

“The tall man,” I repeated. “You mean Markwick. Yes, I’ve met him once or twice. But I don’t know much of him.”

“Foreigner, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think so. If he is, he speaks English amazingly well.”

“Ah! I thought he had a foreign cast in his features,” he said, striking a vesta to relight his cigar. “I’ve seen him about town of late, and wondered who and what he was; that’s why I asked.”

“Well, I don’t exactly know what he is. All I know is that he is a friend of the Earl and his wife, and that he visits at one or two good country houses. Beyond that I am ignorant.”

The detective did not reply. He was too occupied in searching for the jewel thieves. Time after time we strolled up and down, descended to the stalls, ascended to the grand circle, and had peered into every nook, but without success, until at length we entered one of the bars to drink. While we stood there, I inquired whether he had the warrant for the arrest of the man in his pocket, to which he replied in the affirmative.

“Let me have a look at it,” I urged. “I’ve never seen a warrant.”

But he shook his head, and laughing good-naturedly replied:

“No, Mr Ridgeway; you must really excuse me. It is a rigid rule in our Department that we never show warrants to anybody except the person arrested. The ends of justice might, in certain cases, be defeated by such an injudicious action; therefore it is absolutely forbidden. The warrant is always strictly secret.”

I smiled, assured him that it was only out of curiosity I had asked to see it, and then, mentioning the strange disappearance of Gilbert Sternroyd, asked him whether he had been engaged in that inquiry.

“Yes,” he said, “I have – in an indirect manner. It’s an extraordinary case, most extraordinary. Murder, without a doubt.”

“With what object?” I asked.

“As far as we can ascertain, there was absolutely no object,” he answered.