Devil's Dice

Chapter Eleven

The Locked Room

At first I dared not look the exigency in the face. For fully an hour I paced the room in nervous agitation, but the imperative necessity of recovering the box impressed itself every moment more deeply upon me. The crime was, as yet, still undiscovered; therefore, might I not enter, search, find the piece of evidence that would link me with the terrible tragedy, and return in the same manner as on the previous night? Undoubtedly the body was lying silent and ghastly where I left it, and if only I could get in and out of the flat unobserved, I should be free to assist the wretched man who was my friend, and who had held in his possession the extraordinary letter from Sybil.

The mantel-clock told me it was nearly three. At that hour there would be little likelihood of meeting anyone on the staircases, therefore I decided to go.

Taking one of the candles from the piano and a box of matches, I put on my overcoat and walked quickly along the deserted streets, avoiding the gaze of each constable I met, and eagerly scanning every dark nook as I went forward to the entrance of the imposing pile of flats in which Bethune resided.

My heart beat quickly as I placed my key in the lock and gained admittance. Then, scarce daring to breathe, I sped swiftly upstairs, and carefully unlocking the door of the flat, entered and closed it again. For a moment I stood breathless. A piano sounded somewhere overhead. The darkness unnerved me, for I knew I was in the presence of the ghastly dead.

With trembling hands I drew forth the candle and lit it, afterwards creeping silently forward toward the room in the doorway of which I had discovered the body of the man whose association with my dead love was so mysterious. By death his lips were sealed.

A loose board creaked ominously, and as I passed down the small narrow hall a long grandfather’s clock vibrated and startled me. In those moments of terror every sound became magnified, and I could hear the rapid thumping of my own heart.

Dreading to gaze upon the corpse, I held my breath and at last peered round the corner to the study door, but judge my amazement when I realised that the body was no longer there!

The crime had been discovered!

I dashed forward into the little book-lined den. It presented the same appearance as when I had left it. Nothing had been disturbed. Only the body had been removed, and all trace of the tragedy obliterated.

I bent to examine more closely the spot where the victim had fallen, when suddenly the sound of someone moving appalled me. There was a stealthy footstep in the hall.

Instantly I blew out the candle. But too late! I had been discovered.

In the impenetrable darkness the footsteps approached with soft stealthiness. Drawing myself up I placed my back resolutely against the wall, prepared to defend myself. The body of young Gilbert Sternroyd had been secretly removed, but I had been detected in the act of examining the spot, and had therefore betrayed knowledge of the crime. The murderer might commit a second crime to hide the first. The suggestion held me motionless.

Unarmed, I stood helpless against the unseen assassin, with only my clenched fist uplifted to ward off a blow.

“Who are you?” cried a voice. “Speak! or by Heaven, I’ll fire!” The voice was that of my friend Bethune.

“Jack!” I gasped. “Don’t you know my voice – Stuart?”

“You – old chap!” he exclaimed laughing. “What on earth do you mean by frightening a fellow out of his senses at this hour? I thought you were one of – ” and he hesitated. “I thought you were a burglar,” he added quickly.

Then in a few moments we entered the study, and I saw how pale and haggard he looked. His coat was off, and his sleeves were rolled up as if he had been at work. There were dark rings about his bright fevered eyes, and his complexion seemed a yellow clay-colour. In his trembling hand gleamed a deadly weapon – the revolver that had caused the death of Mabel’s mysterious friend.

Startled by this sudden discovery I stood staring at him, unable to utter a word. He laid the revolver upon the table, and gazed at me with eyes in which was an expression of abject terror. In those brief moments it flashed through my mind that some violent exertion had caused the beads of perspiration that stood upon his cold, pale brow; that the body might be still lying in the flat, and that I had entered just at a time when he was in the act of concealing it Guilt was betrayed upon his face; he appeared suspicious and utterly unnerved.

Yet he was my friend, and although I could scarce believe he had stained his hands with blood, I nevertheless resolved to ascertain the truth at all hazards. For a single instant I felt inclined to turn and leave him abruptly, but I quickly realised the necessity of not betraying suspicion if I desired to penetrate the mystery.

We had discovered each other in compromising attitudes. Neither of us dared to speak.

“Well,” I said at last, after a desperate effort to remain calm, “how is it that you bring out a revolver to welcome your visitors – eh?”

“Visitors!” he echoed bitterly. “At this hour? You let yourself in with your own key? Ah! I had never thought of that,” he gasped, as if the sudden recollection that my key fitted his door terrified him.

“Yes. I have been out late to-night, and not having seen or heard anything of you for a couple of days, I dropped in just to see if you were alive.”

“Why shouldn’t I be alive?” he snapped. “I’ve been down to barracks. Thatcher got leave on account of his father’s illness, and I had to do duty for him. I wrote to Dora.”

“I had no line from you. That’s why I looked you up,” I said, as carelessly as I could.

“Then all I’ve got to say, Stuart, is that you might have waited until morning, and not creep in and frighten a fellow just as he’s going to roost.”

“I had no intention of frightening you. In fact, I did not know you were at home.”

“Then why did you come in?” he asked, with emphasis. I at once saw I had inadvertently made a declaration that might arouse his suspicions, and sought to modify it.

“Well,” I said, “I came in order to leave a note for you. In the passage I heard something fall, and was looking for it. I am leaving town early in the morning.”

“You are?” he cried eagerly. “Where are you going?”

“To Wadenhoe, for some hunting. My object in leaving the note was to ask you to run down and stay with us for a week or so. My people will be awfully glad to see you, and as Dora and her mother are going to entertain a house-party at Blatherwycke, you won’t be lonely.”

“Well, thanks, old fellow, it’s exceedingly good of you,” he answered, evidently reassured. “I should be charmed to have a few runs with the Fitzwilliam, for I’ve most pleasant recollections of three weeks last season in your country. When shall I come?”

“Next Saturday.”

“Very well. Give my compliments to your mother, and thank her for her kind invitation. I’ll be down on Saturday.”

“But why were you so scared when you discovered me?” I asked, leaning on the edge of the table and regarding him with feigned amusement.

“I don’t think I was very scared, was I?” he asked, with a hollow laugh. “There’s a bit of a scandal in the regiment that has upset me, and I don’t feel quite myself just now. A night’s rest, you know, will set me right. Besides, I’ve been writing a good deal lately and it always takes the nerve out of me.”

He drew forth the spirit stand and poured out some whisky. At first I could not bear the thought of drinking with a murderer, but again it was impressed upon my mind that, to successfully solve the mystery of the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I must act with discretion and arouse no suspicion that I had actually discovered the body. Therefore we drank together, while Jack’s demeanour quickly became calmer. It was apparent that he had no idea of my previous visit, and it was also equally manifest that the light-hearted gaiety succeeding his intense nervousness was forced and quite unnatural. He was striving to hide from me his terrible secret!

He flung himself into a chair while I stood upon the hearthrug, and our conversation drifted mainly upon our proposed runs with the hounds. I had not expected to find him at home nor to meet him with a revolver in his hand, but now I had made the discovery I understood all its importance. Yet his demeanour had in a few minutes so entirely changed; he seemed so calm and reassured that I relapsed into discouraging uncertainty.

Nevertheless, if he came to Wadenhoe I should have better opportunity of observing him, and of ascertaining whether the murdered man was an acquaintance. I could then test him by making observations and watching his face; I could worm from him his secret. I had trusted this man as my best friend, but now that I was half convinced he was an assassin I was filled with a feeling of revulsion, and was determined that Dora’s life should never be wrecked by an alliance with one whose hands were stained with blood.

Lying back in the American rocking-chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, he was laughing tightly as he told me an amusing story he had heard at mess that night, entirely forgetting the strange circumstances of our meeting, and having apparently overlooked the extreme lameness of my excuses. His appearance had been so unexpected that I had been quite unprepared to answer his questions and my invitation had been given entirely without previous contemplation. But I knew I had acted wisely, and that I had entirely allayed any suspicions I had aroused.

Then I thought of my missing match-box. He had no doubt not yet discovered it, and if he found it subsequently he would believe I had lost it during my present visit. Good! I was in the position of a detective holding an important clue, upon which I might work, and either clear or convict him.

Presently, when I announced my intention to depart, he rose, exclaiming with a laugh:

“When you call next time, old chap, you might ring, and not enter with your key. It was a narrow squeak that I didn’t wing you.”

“Are you so fond of shooting at people?” I asked meaningly.

“Shooting! What do you mean?” he asked with a sickly smile. “As a soldier I have to practice with the revolver, of course.”

“But not upon your visitors, I hope,” I said laughing as we were passing along the narrow hall.

We were outside the door of the dining-room, which, being ajar, showed there was no light inside, when suddenly there came from the room a distinct sound.

“Halloa!” I cried gayly. “Who have you got in there? Let’s have a look.”

I placed my hand upon the door to push it open, but with an agile movement he sprang towards me and stood resolutely with his back to the door, deathly pale in alarm.

“No, Stuart,” he gasped. “You must not enter.”

“Why? Who’s your friend? You arouse my curiosity,” I said.

“I forbid you to enter,” he replied firmly, standing with his arms akimbo and brows knit in determination.

“What’s the meaning of this confounded secrecy?” I asked seriously.

“It means – well, it means that I have a visitor who has called to see me privately.”

“Male or female?”

“I refuse to answer any such question regarding my personal affairs,” he replied brusquely.

“Come, don’t humbug. Let me go in and ascertain who it is,” I said, trying to push him aside and enter. But within a second he shut the door, locked it, and removed the key, saying:

“I absolutely decline to allow you to enter that room, Stuart. Indeed, your actions this evening are so strange and extraordinary that I’m almost inclined to think you are not accountable for them.”

“Then you refuse absolutely to tell me who your mysterious visitor is?”

“I do. It is neither my desire nor intention to compromise any person who endeavours to do me a service, even to gratify this idle curiosity of my best friend.”

Such caustic words, uttered in a tone of bitter resentment, showed plainly that he was resolved to preserve the secret of his visitor’s identity.

Was it some person who was assisting him to get rid of the hideous evidence of the crime?

His hands trembled perceptibly as he stood before the locked door, and there had returned to his ashen face that wild, haggard expression of intense fear so noticeable when he had first discovered me.

“You speak of the person being compromised if discovered by me,” I said. “Then I presume your visitor is a woman?”

“You are at liberty to entertain whatever conviction you please. I shall, however, tell you nothing.”

“You refuse?”

“Yes, I refuse.”

“Even though I should tell Dora that I found, in the middle of the night, a mysterious woman in your rooms?”

“Even then I shall refuse to compromise my visitor,” he answered, with firmness that completely astounded me.

“Very well,” I said abruptly. “Good-night. Remember your appointment, and come down to Wadenhoe next Saturday.”

“Good-night. Next time we meet I hope you will not be quite so inquisitive,” he replied, as he closed the door after me and I descended the stairs.

Chapter Twelve

In Strict Confidence

My first impulse was to remain outside and watch for any person who might emerge, but I knew that his front windows commanded a wide view of the street and he would soon detect me; and again, if anyone did come out, I should not know whether they came from one of the other flats in the same building. Slowly I walked round to my chambers, contemplating the best course to pursue, and at length came to the conclusion that a midnight vigil would be useless, for it might possibly further arouse my friend’s suspicions and so thwart my own efforts.

His refusal to disclose the identity of his guest and his firm determination to keep the visit a secret, convinced me more than ever that by his hand Gilbert Sternroyd had fallen, and that he was endeavouring to get rid of the evidence of his crime. That night I slept but little, and in the morning, remembering Dora’s appointment, I resolved to run round and see him before she called. It was my intention to make pretence that I had a conviction that his visitor was a woman, and wished to give him a chance of explaining to me. If he again refused, then I would impart my suspicions to the woman who loved him. I had no desire to cause her pain, but felt it best that she should know the truth. Sooner or later the blow must fall, and I knew alas! that it would crush her.

Just before ten I stood again outside Bethune’s door and rang. My summons was answered by Mrs Horton, who in reply to my question whether Captain Bethune was in, answered:

“No, sir. The Captain hasn’t been home these three days, sir. He’s at barracks, I believe.”

“For three days!” I echoed. It was evident that he had returned and again left unknown to this woman. Then I asked whether she had been there every day.

“No sir. I’ve been down in Hampshire, sir, to bury my poor niece. The Captain said he would be away, so my daughter went with me.”

In answer to further questions she told me that she had returned to work at eight that morning, and that the Captain was still absent. It was evident, too, that she had no suspicion of the tragedy, every trace of which had now been carefully removed.

Making an excuse that I wanted to obtain a paper from the rack in the dining-room, I entered and looked around. Nothing had apparently been disturbed, but on the mantelshelf I saw a plain gold signet ring that had evidently been overlooked. Taking it up, I examined it, and found engraved on the inside the initials “G.S.” It was evidently a ring from the dead man’s finger.

I put it down, scrutinised the room carefully, looked in the grate, but saw nothing, then taking up a paper, went out, wishing Mrs Horton “good-day.”

Punctually at the hour appointed, Saunders ushered Dora into my room. She was elegantly dressed in a smart tailor-made gown of dove-grey cloth with a large black hat with feathers, and wore a flimsy veil that rather enhanced than concealed her beauty.

“I feel I’m becoming awfully reckless in making this visit,” she commenced with a laugh when she had seated herself in my chair, “but when I got home last night I received such a strange letter from Jack that I felt compelled to seek your advice.”

“If I can be of any service I shall be delighted,” I said.

She seemed nervously agitated, and her eyes were, I thought, unduly heavy, as if she were unusually anxious.

“Thanks, you are always kind,” she said. “Both Mabel and myself always look upon you as our big brother. We often wonder why you never marry. We shall hear of it, however, some day.”

“Never, I hope,” I answered with a forced smile, remembering the grim tragedy of my marriage, and recollecting that her lover had once made the very same remark to me.

“Why never? If you had a wife you would be far happier. At present you have only your man to look after your personal comforts, and surely your dinners at your club can never be so pleasant as if you dined at home in company with a pretty wife.”

“Upon my word,” I cried, laughing, “I shall believe that you actually intend to propose to me next, Dora. I think if it were not – well, if it were not for an obstacle whose name is Jack Bethune, I should be inclined to offer you marriage.”

“Oh! Don’t talk like that,” she protested with a demure look. “You quite misconstrue my words. Once you and I were lovers, when we were in our teens, but all that is past. We have both seen the world now, and have met others whom we could love better.”

“I don’t know that I have,” I said reflectively. She was one of the most charming girls of the season, and I believe were it not for the fact that I had already loved and lost, and that my feelings toward the opposite sex had become sadly embittered by what I felt was unnecessary pain that had been heaped upon me, I should have asked her to renounce her lover and let me take his place.

But only during a few moments did I entertain such foolish thoughts, for I quickly saw that she adored the soldier-novelist, and that I had no right to be disloyal to a friend, even though that friend might be a murderer.