Hanaud walked away from the Villa Rose in the company of Wethermill and Ricardo.
"We will go and lunch," he said.
"Yes; come to my hotel," said Harry Wethermill. But Hanaud shook his head.
"No; come with me to the Villa des Fleurs," he replied. "We may learn something there; and in a case like this every minute is of importance. We have to be quick."
"I may come too?" cried Mr. Ricardo eagerly.
"By all means," replied Hanaud, with a smile of extreme courtesy. "Nothing could be more delicious than monsieur's suggestions"; and with that remark he walked on silently.
Mr. Ricardo was in a little doubt as to the exact significance of the words. But he was too excited to dwell long upon them. Distressed though he sought to be at his friend's grief, he could not but assume an air of importance. All the artist in him rose joyfully to the occasion. He looked upon himself from the outside. He fancied without the slightest justification that people were pointing him out. "That man has been present at the investigation at the Villa Rose," he seemed to hear people say. "What strange things he could tell us if he would!"
And suddenly, Mr. Ricardo began to reflect. What, after all, could he have told them?
And that question he turned over in his mind while he ate his luncheon. Hanaud wrote a letter between the courses. They were sitting at a corner table, and Hanaud was in the corner with his back to the wall. He moved his plate, too, over the letter as he wrote it. It would have been impossible for either of his guests to see what he had written, even if they had wished. Ricardo, indeed, did wish. He rather resented the secrecy with which the detective, under a show of openness, shrouded his thoughts and acts. Hanaud sent the waiter out to fetch an officer in plain clothes, who was in attendance at the door, and he handed the letter to this man. Then he turned with an apology to his guests.
"It is necessary that we should find out," he explained, "as soon as possible, the whole record of Mlle. Celie."
He lighted a cigar, and over the coffee he put a question to Ricardo.
"Now tell me what you make of the case. What M. Wethermill thinks—that is clear, is it not? Helene Vauquier is the guilty one. But you, M. Ricardo? What is your opinion?"
Ricardo took from his pocket-book a sheet of paper and from his pocket a pencil. He was intensely flattered by the request of Hanaud, and he proposed to do himself justice. "I will make a note here of what I think the salient features of the mystery"; and he proceeded to tabulate the points in the following way:
(1) Celia Harland made her entrance into Mme. Dauvray's household under very doubtful circumstances.
(2) By methods still more doubtful she acquired an extraordinary ascendency over Mme. Dauvray's mind.
(3) If proof were needed how complete that ascendency was, a glance at Celia Harland's wardrobe would suffice; for she wore the most expensive clothes.
(4) It was Celia Harland who arranged that Servettaz, the chauffeur, should be absent at Chambery on the Tuesday night—the night of the murder.
(5) It was Celia Harland who bought the cord with which Mme. Dauvray was strangled and Helene Vauquier bound.
(6) The footsteps outside the salon show that Celia Harland ran from the salon to the motor-car.
(7) Celia Harland pretended that there should be a seance on the Tuesday, but she dressed as though she had in view an appointment with a lover, instead of a spiritualistic seance.
(8) Celia Harland has disappeared.
These eight points are strongly suggestive of Celia Harland's complicity in the murder. But I have no clue which will enable me to answer the following questions:
(a) Who was the man who took part in the crime? (b) Who was the woman who came to the villa on the evening of the murder with Mme. Dauvray and Celia Harland?
(c) What actually happened in the salon? How was the murder committed?
(d) Is Helene Vauquier's story true?
(e) What did the torn-up scrap of writing mean? (Probably spirit writing in Celia Harland's hand.)
(f) Why has one cushion on the settee a small, fresh, brown stain, which is probably blood? Why is the other cushion torn?
Mr. Ricardo had a momentary thought of putting down yet another question. He was inclined to ask whether or no a pot of cold cream had disappeared from Celia Harland's bedroom; but he remembered that Hanaud had set no store upon that incident, and he refrained. Moreover, he had come to the end of his sheet of paper. He handed it across the table to Hanaud and leaned back in his chair, watching the detective with all the eagerness of a young author submitting his first effort to a critic.
Hanaud read it through slowly. At the end he nodded his head in approval.
"Now we will see what M. Wethermill has to say," he said, and he stretched out the paper towards Harry Wethermill, who throughout the luncheon had not said a word.
"No, no," cried Ricardo.
But Harry Wethermill already held the written sheet in his hand. He smiled rather wistfully at his friend.
"It is best that I should know just what you both think," he said, and in his turn he began to read the paper through. He read the first eight points, and then beat with his fist upon the table.
"No no," he cried; "it is not possible! I don't blame you, Ricardo. These are facts, and, as I said, I can face facts. But there will be an explanation—if only we can discover it."
He buried his face for a moment in his hands. Then he took up the paper again.
"As for the rest, Helene Vauquier lied," he cried violently, and he tossed the paper to Hanaud. "What do you make of it?"
Hanaud smiled and shook his head.
"Did you ever go for a voyage on a ship?" he asked.
"Yes; why?"
"Because every day at noon three officers take an observation to determine the ship's position—the captain, the first officer, and the second officer. Each writes his observation down, and the captain takes the three observations and compares them. If the first or second officer is out in his reckoning, the captain tells him so, but he does not show his own. For at times, no doubt, he is wrong too. So, gentlemen, I criticise your observations, but I do not show you mine."
He took up Ricardo's paper and read it through again.
"Yes," he said pleasantly. "But the two questions which are most important, which alone can lead us to the truth—how do they come to be omitted from your list, Mr. Ricardo?"
Hanaud put the question with his most serious air. But Ricardo was none the less sensible of the raillery behind the solemn manner. He flushed and made no answer.
"Still," continued Hanaud, "here are undoubtedly some questions. Let us consider them! Who was the man who took a part in the crime? Ah, if we only knew that, what a lot of trouble we should save ourselves! Who was the woman? What a good thing it would be to know that too! How clearly, after all, Mr. Ricardo puts his finger on the important points! What did actually happen in the salon?" And as he quoted that question the raillery died out of his voice. He leaned his elbows on the table and bent forward.
"What did actually happen in that little pretty room, just twelve hours ago?" he repeated. "When no sunlight blazed upon the lawn, and all the birds were still, and all the windows shuttered and the world dark, what happened? What dreadful things happened? We have not much to go upon. Let us formulate what we know. We start with this. The murder was not the work of a moment. It was planned with great care and cunning, and carried out to the letter of the plan. There must be no noise, no violence. On each side of the Villa Rose there are other villas; a few yards away the road runs past. A scream, a cry, the noise of a struggle—these sounds, or any one of them, might be fatal to success. Thus the crime was planned; and there WAS no scream, there WAS no struggle. Not a chair was broken, and only a chair upset. Yes, there were brains behind that murder. We know that. But what do we know of the plan? How far can we build it up? Let us see. First, there was an accomplice in the house—perhaps two."
"No!" cried Harry Wethermill.
Hanaud took no notice of the interruption.
"Secondly the woman came to the house with Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie between nine and half-past nine. Thirdly, the man came afterwards, but before eleven, set open the gate, and was admitted into the salon, unperceived by Mme. Dauvray. That also we can safely assume. But what happened in the salon? Ah! There is the question." Then he shrugged his shoulders and said with the note of raillery once more in his voice:
"But why should we trouble our heads to puzzle out this mystery, since M. Ricardo knows?"
"I?" cried Ricardo in amazement.
"To be sure," replied Hanaud calmly. "For I look at another of your questions. 'WHAT DID THE TORN-UP SCRAP OF WRITING MEAN?' and you add: 'Probably spirit-writing.' Then there was a seance held last night in the little salon! Is that so?"
Harry Wethermill started. Mr. Ricardo was at a loss.
"I had not followed my suggestion to its conclusion," he admitted humbly.
"No," said Hanaud. "But I ask myself in sober earnest, 'Was there a seance held in the salon last night?' Did the tambourine rattle in the darkness on the wall?"
"But if Helene Vauquier's story is all untrue?" cried Wethermill, again in exasperation.
"Patience, my friend. Her story was not all untrue. I say there were brains behind this crime; yes, but brains, even the cleverest, would not have invented this queer, strange story of the seances and of Mme. de Montespan. That is truth. But yet, if there were a seance held, if the scrap of paper were spirit-writing in answer to some awkward question, why—and here I come to my first question, which M. Ricardo has omitted—why did Mlle. Celie dress herself with so much elegance last night? What Vauquier said is true. Her dress was not suited to a seance. A light-coloured, rustling frock, which would be visible in a dim light, or even in the dark, which would certainly be heard at every movement she made, however lightly she stepped, and a big hat—no no! I tell you, gentlemen, we shall not get to the bottom of this mystery until we know why Mlle. Celie dressed herself as she did last night."
"Yes," Ricardo admitted. "I overlooked that point." "Did she—" Hanaud broke off and bowed to Wethermill with a grace and a respect which condoned his words. "You must bear with me, my young friend, while I consider all these points. Did she expect to join that night a lover—a man with the brains to devise this crime? But if so—and here I come to the second question omitted from M. Ricardo's list—why, on the patch of grass outside the door of the salon, were the footsteps of the man and woman so carefully erased, and the footsteps of Mlle. Celie—those little footsteps so easily identified—left for all the world to see and recognise?"
Ricardo felt like a child in the presence of his schoolmaster. He was convicted of presumption. He had set down his questions with the belief that they covered the ground. And here were two of the utmost importance, not forgotten, but never even thought of.
"Did she go, before the murder, to join a lover? Or after it? At some time, you will remember, according to Vauquier's story, she must have run upstairs to fetch her coat. Was the murder committed during the interval when she was upstairs? Was the salon dark when she came down again? Did she run through it quickly, eagerly, noticing nothing amiss? And, indeed, how should she notice anything if the salon were dark, and Mme. Dauvray's body lay under the windows at the side?"
Ricardo leaned forward eagerly.
"That must be the truth," he cried; and Wethermill's voice broke hastily in:
"It is not the truth and I will tell you why. Celia Harland was to have married me this week."
There was so much pain and misery in his voice that Ricardo was moved as he had seldom been. Wethermill buried his face in his hands. Hanaud shook his head and gazed across the table at Ricardo with an expression which the latter was at no loss to understand. Lovers were impracticable people. But he—Hanaud—he knew the world. Women had fooled men before to-day.
Wethermill snatched his hands away from before his face.
"We talk theories," he cried desperately, "of what may have happened at the villa. But we are not by one inch nearer to the man and woman who committed the crime. It is for them we have to search."
"Yes; but except by asking ourselves questions, how shall we find them, M. Wethermill?" said Hanaud. "Take the man! We know nothing of him. He has left no trace. Look at this town of Aix, where people come and go like a crowd about the baccarat-table! He may be at Marseilles to-day. He may be in this very room where we are taking our luncheon. How shall we find him?"
Wethermill nodded his head in a despairing assent.
"I know. But it is so hard to sit still and do nothing," he cried.
"Yes, but we are not sitting still," said Hanaud; and Wethermill looked up with a sudden interest. "All the time that we have been lunching here the intelligent Perrichet has been making inquiries. Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie left the Villa Rose at five, and returned on foot soon after nine with the strange woman. And there I see Perrichet himself waiting to be summoned."
Hanaud beckoned towards the sergent-de-ville.
"Perrichet will make an excellent detective," he said; "for he looks more bovine and foolish in plain clothes than he does in uniform."
Perrichet advanced in his mufti to the table.
"Speak, my friend," said Hanaud.
"I went to the shop of M. Corval. Mlle. Celie was quite alone when she bought the cord. But a few minutes later, in the Rue du Casino, she and Mme. Dauvray were seen together, walking slowly in the direction of the villa. No other woman was with them."
"That is a pity," said Hanaud quietly, and with a gesture he dismissed Perrichet.
"You see, we shall find out nothing—nothing," said Wethermill, with a groan.
"We must not yet lose heart, for we know a little more about the woman than we do about the man," said Hanaud consolingly.
"True," exclaimed Ricardo. "We have Helene Vauquier's description of her. We must advertise it."
Hanaud smiled.
"But that is a fine suggestion," he cried. "We must think over that," and he clapped his hand to his forehead with a gesture of self-reproach. "Why did not such a fine idea occur to me, fool that I am! However, we will call the head waiter."
The head waiter was sent for and appeared before them.
"You knew Mme. Dauvray?" Hanaud asked.
"Yes, monsieur—oh, the poor woman! And he flung up his hands.
"And you knew her young companion?"
"Oh yes, monsieur. They generally had their meals here. See, at that little table over there! I kept it for them. But monsieur knows well"—and the waiter looked towards Harry Wethermill—"for monsieur was often with them."
"Yes," said Hanaud. "Did Mme. Dauvray dine at that little table last night?"
"No, monsieur. She was not here last night."
"Nor Mlle. Celie?"
"No, monsieur! I do not think they were in the Villa des Fleurs at all."
"We know they were not," exclaimed Ricardo. "Wethermill and I were in the rooms and we did not see them."
"But perhaps you left early," objected Hanaud.
"No," said Ricardo. "It was just ten o'clock when we reached the Majestic."
"You reached your hotel at ten," Hanaud repeated. "Did you walk straight from here?"
"Yes."
"Then you left here about a quarter to ten. And we know that Mme. Dauvray was back at the villa soon after nine. Yes—they could not have been here last night," Hanaud agreed, and sat for a moment silent. Then he turned to the head waiter.
"Have you noticed any woman with Mme. Dauvray and her companion lately?"
"No, monsieur. I do not think so."
"Think! A woman, for instance, with red hair."
Harry Wethermill started forward. Mr. Ricardo stared at Hanaud in amazement. The waiter reflected.
"No, monsieur. I have seen no woman with red hair."
"Thank you," said Hanaud, and the waiter moved away.
"A woman with red hair!" cried Wethermill. "But Helene Vauquier described her. She was sallow; her eyes, her hair, were dark."
Hanaud turned with a smile to Harry Wethermill.
"Did Helene Vauquier, then, speak the truth?" he asked. "No; the woman who was in the salon last night, who returned home with Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie, was not a woman with black hair and bright black eyes. Look!" And, fetching his pocket-book from his pocket, he unfolded a sheet of paper and showed them, lying upon its white surface a long red hair.
"I picked that up on the table—the round satinwood table in the salon. It was easy not to see it, but I did see it. Now, that is not Mlle. Celie's hair, which is fair; nor Mme. Dauvray's, which is dyed brown; nor Helene Vauquier's, which is black; nor the charwoman's, which, as I have taken the trouble to find out, is grey. It is therefore from the head of our unknown woman. And I will tell you more. This woman with the red hair—she is in Geneva."
A startled exclamation burst from Ricardo. Harry Wethermill sat slowly down. For the first time that day there had come some colour into his cheeks, a sparkle into his eye.
"But that is wonderful!" he cried. "How did you find that out?"
Hanaud leaned back in his chair and took a pull at his cigar. He was obviously pleased with Wethermill's admiration.
"Yes, how did you find it out?" Ricardo repeated.
Hanaud smiled.
"As to that," he said, "remember I am the captain of the ship, and I do not show you my observation." Ricardo was disappointed. Harry Wethermill, however, started to his feet.
"We must search Geneva, then," he cried. "It is there that we should be, not here drinking our coffee at the Villa des Fleurs."
Hanaud raised his hand.
"The search is not being overlooked. But Geneva is a big city. It is not easy to search Geneva and find, when we know nothing about the woman for whom we are searching, except that her hair is red, and that probably a young girl last night was with her. It is rather here, I think—in Aix—that we must keep our eyes wide open."
"Here!" cried Wethermill in exasperation. He stared at Hanaud as though he were mad.
"Yes, here; at the post office—at the telephone exchange. Suppose that the man is in Aix, as he may well be; some time he will wish to send a letter, or a telegram, or a message over the telephone. That, I tell you, is our chance. But here is news for us."
Hanaud pointed to a messenger who was walking towards them. The man handed Hanaud an envelope.
"From M. le Commissaire," he said; and he saluted and retired. "From M. le Commissaire?" cried Ricardo excitedly.
But before Hanaud could open the envelope Harry Wethermill laid a hand upon his sleeve.
"Before we pass to something new, M. Hanaud," he said, "I should be very glad if you would tell me what made you shiver in the salon this morning. It has distressed me ever since. What was it that those two cushions had to tell you?"
There was a note of anguish in his voice difficult to resist. But Hanaud resisted it. He shook his head.
"Again," he said gravely, "I am to remind you that I am captain of the ship and do not show my observation."
He tore open the envelope and sprang up from his seat.
"Mme. Dauvray's motor-car has been found," he cried. "Let us go!"
Hanaud called for the bill and paid it. The three men left the Villa des Fleurs together.
They got into a cab outside the door. Perrichet mounted the box, and the cab was driven along the upward-winding road past the Hotel Bernascon. A hundred yards beyond the hotel the cab stopped opposite to a villa. A hedge separated the garden of the villa from the road, and above the hedge rose a board with the words "To Let" upon it. At the gate a gendarme was standing, and just within the gate Ricardo saw Louis Besnard, the Commissaire, and Servettaz, Mme. Dauvray's chauffeur.
"It is here," said Besnard, as the party descended from the cab, "in the coach-house of this empty villa."
"Here?" cried Ricardo in amazement.
The discovery upset all his theories. He had expected to hear that it had been found fifty leagues away; but here, within a couple of miles of the Villa Rose itself—the idea seemed absurd! Why take it away at all—unless it was taken away as a blind? That supposition found its way into Ricardo's mind, and gathered strength as he thought upon it; for Hanaud had seemed to lean to the belief that one of the murderers might be still in Aix. Indeed, a glance at him showed that he was not discomposed by their discovery.
"When was it found?" Hanaud asked.
"This morning. A gardener comes to the villa on two days a week to keep the grounds in order. Fortunately Wednesday is one of his days. Fortunately, too, there was rain yesterday evening. He noticed the tracks of the wheels which you can see on the gravel, and since the villa is empty he was surprised. He found the coach-house door forced and the motor-car inside it. When he went to his luncheon he brought the news of his discovery to the depot."
The party followed the Commissaire along the drive to the coach-house.
"We will have the car brought out," said Hanaud to Servettaz.
It was a big and powerful machine with a limousine body, luxuriously fitted and cushioned in the shade of light grey. The outside panels of the car were painted a dark grey. The car had hardly been brought out into the sunlight before a cry of stupefaction burst from the lips of Perrichet.
"Oh!" he cried, in utter abasement. "I shall never forgive myself—never, never!"
"Why?" Hanaud asked, turning sharply as he spoke.
Perrichet was standing with his round eyes staring and his mouth agape.
"Because, monsieur, I saw that car—at four o'clock this morning—at the corner of the road—not fifty yards from the Villa Rose."
"What!" cried Ricardo.
"You saw it!" exclaimed Wethermill.
Upon their faces was reflected now the stupefaction of Perrichet.
"But you must have made a mistake," said the Commissaire.
"No, no, monsieur," Perrichet insisted. "It was that car. It was that number. It was just after daylight. I was standing outside the gate of the villa on duty where M. le Commissaire had placed me. The car appeared at the corner and slackened speed. It seemed to me that it was going to turn into the road and come down past me. But instead the driver, as if he were now sure of his way, put the car at its top speed and went on into Aix."
"Was any one inside the car?" asked Hanaud.
"No, monsieur; it was empty."
"But you saw the driver!" exclaimed Wethermill.
"Yes; what was he like?" cried the Commissaire.
Perrichet shook his head mournfully.
"He wore a talc mask over the upper part of his face, and had a little black moustache, and was dressed in a heavy great-coat of blue with a white collar."
"That is my coat, monsieur," said Servettaz, and as he spoke he lifted it up from the chauffeur's seat. "It is Mme. Dauvray's livery."
Harry Wethermill groaned aloud.
"We have lost him. He was within our grasp—he, the murderer!—and he was allowed to go!"
Perrichet's grief was pitiable.
"Monsieur," he pleaded, "a car slackens its speed and goes on again—it is not so unusual a thing. I did not know the number of Mme. Dauvray's car. I did not even know that it had disappeared"; and suddenly tears of mortification filled his eyes. "But why do I make these excuses?" he cried. "It is better, M. Hanaud, that I go back to my uniform and stand at the street corner. I am as foolish as I look."
"Nonsense, my friend," said Hanaud, clapping the disconsolate man upon the shoulder. "You remembered the car and its number. That is something—and perhaps a great deal," he added gravely. "As for the talc mask and the black moustache, that is not much to help us, it is true." He looked at Ricardo's crestfallen face and smiled. "We might arrest our good friend M. Ricardo upon that evidence, but no one else that I know."
Hanaud laughed immoderately at his joke. He alone seemed to feel no disappointment at Perrichet's oversight. Ricardo was a little touchy on the subject of his personal appearance, and bridled visibly. Hanaud turned towards Servettaz.
"Now," he said, "you know how much petrol was taken from the garage?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Can you tell me, by the amount which has been used, how far that car was driven last night?" Hanaud asked.
Servettaz examined the tank.
"A long way, monsieur. From a hundred and thirty to a hundred and fifty kilometres, I should say."
"Yes, just about that distance, I should say," cried Hanaud.
His eyes brightened, and a smile, a rather fierce smile, came to his lips. He opened the door, and examined with a minute scrutiny the floor of the carriage, and as he looked, the smile faded from his face. Perplexity returned to it. He took the cushions, looked them over and shook them out.
"I see no sign—" he began, and then he uttered a little shrill cry of satisfaction. From the crack of the door by the hinge he picked off a tiny piece of pale green stuff, which he spread out upon the back of his hand.
"Tell me, what is this?" he said to Ricardo.
"It is a green fabric," said Ricardo very wisely.
"It is green chiffon," said Hanaud. "And the frock in which Mlle. Celie went away was of green chiffon over satin. Yes, Mlle. Celie travelled in this car."
He hurried to the driver's seat. Upon the floor there was some dark mould. Hanaud cleaned it off with his knife and held some of it in the palm of his hand. He turned to Servettaz.
"You drove the car on Tuesday morning before you went to Chambery?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Where did you take up Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie?"
"At the front door of the Villa Rose."
"Did you get down from the seat at all?"
"No, monsieur; not after I left the garage."
Hanaud returned to his companions.
"See!" And he opened his hand. "This is black soil—moist from last night's rain—soil like the soil in front of Mme. Dauvray's salon. Look, here is even a blade or two of the grass"; and he turned the mould over in the palm of his hand. Then he took an empty envelope from his pocket and poured the soil into it and gummed the flap down. He stood and frowned at the motor-car.
"Listen," he said, "how I am puzzled! There was a man last night at the Villa Rose. There were a man's blurred footmarks in the mould before the glass door. That man drove madame's car for a hundred and fifty kilometres, and he leaves the mould which clung to his boots upon the floor of his seat. Mlle. Celie and another woman drove away inside the car. Mlle. Celie leaves a fragment of the chiffon tunic of her frock which caught in the hinge. But Mlle. Celie made much clearer impressions in the mould than the man. Yet on the floor of the carriage there is no trace of her shoes. Again I say there is something here which I do not understand." And he spread out his hands with an impulsive gesture of despair.
"It looks as if they had been careful and he careless," said Mr. Ricardo, with the air of a man solving a very difficult problem.
"What a mind!" cried Hanaud, now clasping his hands together in admiration. "How quick and how profound!"
There was at times something elephantinely elfish in M. Hanaud's demeanour, which left Mr. Ricardo at a loss. But he had come to notice that these undignified manifestations usually took place when Hanaud had reached a definite opinion upon some point which had perplexed him.
"Yet there is perhaps, another explanation," Hanaud continued. "For observe, M. Ricardo. We have other evidence to show that the careless one was Mlle. Celie. It was she who left her footsteps so plainly visible upon the grass, not the man. However, we will go back to M. Wethermill's room at the Hotel Majestic and talk this matter over. We know something now. Yes, we know—what do we know, monsieur?" he asked, suddenly turning with a smile to Ricardo, and, as Ricardo paused: "Think it over while we walk down to M. Wethermill's apartment in the Hotel Majestic."
"We know that the murderer has escaped," replied Ricardo hotly.
"The murderer is not now the most important object of our search. He is very likely at Marseilles by now. We shall lay our hands on him, never fear," replied Hanaud, with a superb gesture of disdain. "But it was thoughtful of you to remind me of him. I might so easily have clean forgotten him, and then indeed my reputation would have suffered an eclipse." He made a low, ironical bow to Ricardo and walked quickly down the road.
"For a cumbersome man he is extraordinarily active," said Mr. Ricardo to Harry Wethermill, trying to laugh, without much success. "A heavy, clever, middle-aged man, liable to become a little gutter-boy at a moment's notice."
Thus he described the great detective, and the description is quoted. For it was Ricardo's best effort in the whole of this business.
The three men went straight to Harry Wethermill's apartment, which consisted of a sitting-room and a bedroom on the first floor. A balcony ran along outside. Hanaud stepped out on to it, looked about him, and returned.
"It is as well to know that we cannot be overheard," he said.
Harry Wethermill meanwhile had thrown himself into a chair. The mask he had worn had slipped from its fastenings for a moment. There was a look of infinite suffering upon his face. It was the face of a man tortured by misery to the snapping-point.
Hanaud, on the other hand, was particularly alert. The discovery of the motor-car had raised his spirits. He sat at the table.
"I will tell you what we have learnt," he said, "and it is of importance. The three of them—the man, the woman with the red hair, and Mlle. Celie—all drove yesterday night to Geneva. That is only one thing we have learnt."
"Then you still cling to Geneva?" said Ricardo.
"More than ever," said Hanaud.
He turned in his chair towards Wethermill.
"Ah, my poor friend!" he said, when he saw the young man's distress.
Harry Wethermill sprang up with a gesture as though to sweep the need of sympathy away.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"You have a road map, perhaps?" said Hanaud.
"Yes," said Wethermill, "mine is here. There it is"; and crossing the room he brought it from a sidetable and placed it in front of Hanaud.
Hanaud took a pencil from his pocket.
"One hundred and fifty kilometres was about the distance which the car had travelled. Measure the distances here, and you will see that Geneva is the likely place. It is a good city to hide in. Moreover the car appears at the corner at daylight. How does it appear there? What road is it which comes out at that corner? The road from Geneva. I am not sorry that it is Geneva, for the Chef de la Surete is a friend of mine."
"And what else do we know?" asked Ricardo.
"This," said Hanaud. He paused impressively. "Bring up your chair to the table, M. Wethermill, and consider whether I am right or wrong"; and he waited until Harry Wethermill had obeyed. Then he laughed in a friendly way at himself.
"I cannot help it," he said; "I have an eye for dramatic effects. I must prepare for them when I know they are coming. And one, I tell you, is coming now."
He shook his finger at his companions. Ricardo shifted and shuffled in his chair. Harry Wethermill kept his eyes fixed on Hanaud's face, but he was quiet, as he had been throughout the long inquiry.
Hanaud lit a cigarette and took his time.
"What I think is this. The man who drove the car into Geneva drove it back, because—he meant to leave it again in the garage of the Villa Rose."
"Good heavens!" cried Ricardo, flinging himself back. The theory so calmly enunciated took his breath away.
"Would he have dared?" asked Harry Wethermill.
Hanaud leaned across and tapped his fingers on the table to emphasise his answer.
"All through this crime there are two things visible—brains and daring; clever brains and extraordinary daring. Would he have dared? He dared to be at the corner close to the Villa Rose at daylight. Why else should he have returned except to put back the car? Consider! The petrol is taken from tins which Servettaz might never have touched for a fortnight, and by that time he might, as he said, have forgotten whether he had not used them himself. I had this possibility in my mind when I put the questions to Servettaz about the petrol which the Commissaire thought so stupid. The utmost care is taken that there shall be no mould left on the floor of the carriage. The scrap of chiffon was torn off, no doubt, when the women finally left the car, and therefore not noticed, or that, too, would have been removed. That the exterior of the car was dirty betrayed nothing, for Servettaz had left it uncleaned."
Hanaud leaned back and, step by step, related the journey of the car.
"The man leaves the gate open; he drives into Geneva the two women, who are careful that their shoes shall leave no marks upon the floor. At Geneva they get out. The man returns. If he can only leave the car in the garage he covers all traces of the course he and his friends have taken. No one would suspect that the car had ever left the garage. At the corner of the road, just as he is turning down to the villa, he sees a sergent-de-ville at the gate. He knows that the murder is discovered. He puts on full speed and goes straight out of the town. What is he to do? He is driving a car for which the police in an hour or two, if not now already, will be surely watching. He is driving it in broad daylight. He must get rid of it, and at once, before people are about to see it, and to see him in it. Imagine his feelings! It is almost enough to make one pity him. Here he is in a car which convicts him as a murderer, and he has nowhere to leave it. He drives through Aix. Then on the outskirts of the town he finds an empty villa. He drives in at the gate, forces the door of the coach-house, and leaves his car there. Now, observe! It is no longer any use for him to pretend that he and his friends did not disappear in that car. The murder is already discovered, and with the murder the disappearance of the car. So he no longer troubles his head about it. He does not remove the traces of mould from the place where his feet rested, which otherwise, no doubt, he would have done. It no longer matters. He has to run to earth now before he is seen. That is all his business. And so the state of the car is explained. It was a bold step to bring that car back—yes, a bold and desperate step. But a clever one. For, if it had succeeded, we should have known nothing of their movements—oh, but nothing—nothing. Ah! I tell you this is no ordinary blundering affair. They are clever people who devised this crime—clever, and of an audacity which is surprising."
Then Hanaud lit another cigarette.
Mr. Ricardo, on the other hand, could hardly continue to smoke for excitement.
"I cannot understand your calmness," he exclaimed.
"No?" said Hanaud. "Yet it is so obvious. You are the amateur, I am the professional—that is all."
He looked at his watch and rose to his feet.
"I must go" he said and as he turned towards the door a cry sprang from Mr. Ricardo's lips "It is true. I am the amateur. Yet I have knowledge, Monsieur Hanaud which the professional would do well to obtain."
Hanaud turned a guarded face towards Ricardo. There was no longer any raillery in his manner. He spoke slowly, coldly.
"Let me have it then!"
"I have driven in my motor-car from Geneva to Aix," Ricardo cried excitedly. "A bridge crosses a ravine high up amongst the mountains. At the bridge there is a Custom House. There—at the Pont de la Caille—your car is stopped. It is searched. You must sign your name in a book. And there is no way round. You would find sure and certain proof whether or no Madame Dauvray's car travelled last night to Geneva. Not so many travellers pass along that road at night. You would find certain proof too of how many people were in the car. For they search carefully at the Pont de la Caille."
A dark flush overspread Hanaud's face. Ricardo was in the seventh Heaven. He had at last contributed something to the history of this crime. He had repaired an omission. He had supplied knowledge to the omniscient. Wethermill looked up drearily like one who has lost heart.
"Yes, you must not neglect that clue," he said.
Hanaud replied testily:
"It is not a clue. M. Ricardo tells that he travelled from Geneva into France and that his car was searched. Well, we know already that the officers are particular at the Custom Houses of France. But travelling from France into Switzerland is a very different affair. In Switzerland, hardly a glance, hardly a word." That was true. M. Ricardo crestfallen recognized the truth. But his spirits rose again at once. "But the car came back from Geneva into France!" he cried.
"Yes, but when the car came back, the man was alone in it," Hanaud answered. "I have more important things to attend to. For instance I must know whether by any chance they have caught our man at Marseilles." He laid his hand on Wethermill's shoulder. "And you, my friend, I should counsel you to get some sleep. We may need all our strength to-morrow. I hope so." He was speaking very bravely. "Yes, I hope so."
Wethermill nodded.
"I shall try," he said.
"That's better," said Hanaud cheerfully. "You will both stay here this evening; for if I have news, I can then ring you up."
Both men agreed, and Hanaud went away. He left Mr. Ricardo profoundly disturbed. "That man will take advice from no one," he declared. "His vanity is colossal. It is true they are not particular at the Swiss Frontier. Still the car would have to stop there. At the Custom House they would know something. Hanaud ought to make inquiries." But neither Ricardo nor Harry Wethermill heard a word more from Hanaud that night.
The next morning, however, before Mr. Ricardo was out of his bed, M. Hanaud was announced. He came stepping gaily into the room, more elephantinely elfish than ever.
"Send your valet away," he said. And as soon as they were alone he produced a newspaper, which he flourished in Mr. Ricardo's face and then dropped into his hands.
Ricardo saw staring him in the face a full description of Celia Harland, of her appearance and her dress, of everything except her name, coupled with an intimation that a reward of four thousand francs would be paid to any one who could give information leading to the discovery of her whereabouts to Mr. Ricardo, the Hotel Majestic, Aix-les-Bains!
Mr. Ricardo sat up in his bed with a sense of outrage.
"You have done this?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Why have you done it?" Mr. Ricardo cried.
Hanaud advanced to the bed mysteriously on the tips of his toes.
"I will tell you," he said, in his most confidential tones. "Only it must remain a secret between you and me. I did it—because I have a sense of humour."
"I hate publicity," said Mr. Ricardo acidly.
"On the other hand you have four thousand francs," protested the detective. "Besides, what else should I do? If I name myself, the very people we are seeking to catch—who, you may be sure, will be the first to read this advertisement—will know that I, the great, the incomparable Hanaud, am after them; and I do not want them to know that. Besides"—and he spoke now in a gentle and most serious voice—"why should we make life more difficult for Mlle. Celie by telling the world that the police want her? It will be time enough for that when she appears before the Juge d'Instruction."
Mr. Ricardo grumbled inarticulately, and read through the advertisement again.
"Besides, your description is incomplete," he said. "There is no mention of the diamond earrings which Celia Harland was wearing when she went away."
"Ah! so you noticed that!" exclaimed Hanaud. "A little more experience and I should be looking very closely to my laurels. But as for the earrings—I will tell you. Mlle. Celie was not wearing them when she went away from the Villa Rose."
"But—but," stammered Ricardo, "the case upon the dressing-room table was empty."
"Still, she was not wearing them, I know," said Hanaud decisively.
"How do you know?" cried Ricardo, gazing at Hanaud with awe in his eyes. "How could you know?"
"Because"—and Hanaud struck a majestic attitude, like a king in a play—"because I am the captain of the ship."
Upon that Mr. Ricardo suffered a return of his ill-humour.
"I do not like to be trifled with," he remarked, with as much dignity as his ruffled hair and the bed-clothes allowed him. He looked sternly at the newspaper, turning it over, and then he uttered a cry of surprise.
"But this is yesterday's paper!" he said.
"Yesterday evening's paper," Hanaud corrected.
"Printed at Geneva!"
"Printed, and published and sold at Geneva," said Hanaud.
"When did you send the advertisement in, then?"
"I wrote a letter while we were taking our luncheon," Hanaud explained. "The letter was to Besnard, asking him to telegraph the advertisement at once."
"But you never said a word about it to us," Ricardo grumbled.
"No. And was I not wise?" said Hanaud, with complacency. "For you would have forbidden me to use your name."
"Oh, I don't go so far as that," said Ricardo reluctantly. His indignation was rapidly evaporating. For there was growing up in his mind a pleasant perception that the advertisement placed him in the limelight.
He rose from his bed.
"You will make yourself comfortable in the sitting-room while I have my bath."
"I will, indeed," replied Hanaud cheerily. "I have already ordered my morning chocolate. I have hopes that you may have a telegram very soon. This paper was cried last night through the streets of Geneva."
Ricardo dressed for once in a way with some approach to ordinary celerity, and joined Hanaud.
"Has nothing come?" he asked.
"No. This chocolate is very good; it is better than that which I get in my hotel."
"Good heavens!" cried Ricardo, who was fairly twittering with excitement. "You sit there talking about chocolate while my cup shakes in my fingers."
"Again I must remind you that you are the amateur, I the professional, my friend."
As the morning drew on, however, Hanaud's professional quietude deserted him. He began to start at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, to glance every other moment from the window, to eat his cigarettes rather than to smoke them. At eleven o'clock Ricardo's valet brought a telegram into the room. Ricardo seized it.
"Calmly, my friend," said Hanaud.
With trembling fingers Ricardo tore it open. He jumped in his chair. Speechless, he handed the telegram to Hanaud. It had been sent from Geneva, and it ran thus:
"Expect me soon after three.—MARTHE GOBIN."
Hanaud nodded his head.
"I told you I had hopes." All his levity had gone in an instant from his manner. He spoke very quietly.
"I had better send for Wethermill?" asked Ricardo.
Hanaud shrugged his shoulders.
"As you like. But why raise hopes in that poor man's breast which an hour or two may dash for ever to the ground? Consider! Marthe Gobin has something to tell us. Think over those eight points of evidence which you drew up yesterday in the Villa des Fleurs, and say whether what she has to tell us is more likely to prove Mlle. Celie's innocence than her guilt. Think well, for I will be guided by you, M. Ricardo," said Hanaud solemnly. "If you think it better that your friend should live in torture until Marthe Gobin comes, and then perhaps suffer worse torture from the news she brings, be it so. You shall decide. If, on the other hand, you think it will be best to leave M. Wethermill in peace until we know her story, be it so. You shall decide."
Ricardo moved uneasily. The solemnity of Hanaud's manner impressed him. He had no wish to take the responsibility of the decision upon himself. But Hanaud sat with his eyes strangely fixed upon Ricardo, waiting for his answer.
"Well," said Ricardo, at length, "good news will be none the worse for waiting a few hours. Bad news will be a little the better."
"Yes," said Hanaud; "so I thought you would decide." He took up a Continental Bradshaw from a bookshelf in the room. "From Geneva she will come through Culoz. Let us see!" He turned over the pages. "There is a train from Culoz which reaches Aix at seven minutes past three. It is by that train she will come. You have a motor-car?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Will you pick me up in it at three at my hotel? We will drive down to the station and see the arrivals by that train. It may help us to get some idea of the person with whom we have to deal. That is always an advantage. Now I will leave you, for I have much to do. But I will look in upon M. Wethermill as I go down and tell him that there is as yet no news."
He took up his hat and stick, and stood for a moment staring out of the window. Then he roused himself from his reverie with a start.
"You look out upon Mont Revard, I see. I think M. Wethermill's view over the garden and the town is the better one," he said, and went out of the room.
At three o'clock Ricardo called in his car, which was an open car of high power, at Hanaud's hotel, and the two men went to the station. They waited outside the exit while the passengers gave up their tickets. Amongst them a middle-aged, short woman, of a plethoric tendency, attracted their notice. She was neatly but shabbily dressed in black; her gloves were darned, and she was obviously in a hurry. As she came out she asked a commissionaire:
"How far is it to the Hotel Majestic?"
The man told her the hotel was at the very top of the town, and the way was steep.
"But madame can go up in the omnibus of the hotel," he suggested.
Madame, however, was in too much of a hurry. The omnibus would have to wait for luggage. She hailed a closed cab and drove off inside it.
"Now, if we go back in the car, we shall be all ready for her when she arrives," said Hanaud.
They passed the cab, indeed, a few yards up the steep hill which leads from the station. The cab was moving at a walk.
"She looks honest," said Hanaud, with a sigh of relief. "She is some good bourgeoise anxious to earn four thousand francs."
They reached the hotel in a few minutes.
"We may need your car again the moment Marthe Gobin has gone," said Hanaud.
"It shall wait here," said Ricardo.
"No," said Hanaud; "let it wait in the little street at the back of my hotel. It will not be so noticeable there. You have petrol for a long journey?"
Ricardo gave the order quietly to his chauffeur, and followed Hanaud into the hotel. Through a glass window they could see Wethermill smoking a cigar over his coffee.
"He looks as if he had not slept," said Ricardo.
Hanaud nodded sympathetically, and beckoned Ricardo past the window.
"But we are nearing the end. These two days have been for him days of great trouble; one can see that very clearly. And he has done nothing to embarrass us. Men in distress are apt to be a nuisance. I am grateful to M. Wethermill. But we are nearing the end. Who knows? Within an hour or two we may have news for him."
He spoke with great feeling, and the two men ascended the stairs to Ricardo's rooms. For the second time that day Hanaud's professional calm deserted him. The window overlooked the main entrance to the hotel. Hanaud arranged the room, and, even while he arranged it, ran every other second and leaned from the window to watch for the coming of the cab.
"Put the bank-notes upon the table," he said hurriedly. "They will persuade her to tell us all that she has to tell. Yes, that will do. She is not in sight yet? No."
"She could not be. It is a long way from the station," said Ricardo, "and the whole distance is uphill."
"Yes, that is true," Hanaud replied. "We will not embarrass her by sitting round the table like a tribunal. You will sit in that arm-chair."
Ricardo took his seat, crossed his knees, and joined the tips of his fingers.
"So! not too judicial!" said Hanaud; "I will sit here at the table. Whatever you do, do not frighten her." Hanaud sat down in the chair which he had placed for himself. "Marthe Gobin shall sit opposite, with the light upon her face. So!" And, springing up, he arranged a chair for her. "Whatever you do, do not frighten her," he repeated. "I am nervous. So much depends upon this interview." And in a second he was back at the window.
Ricardo did not move. He arranged in his mind the interrogatory which was to take place. He was to conduct it. He was the master of the situation. All the limelight was to be his. Startling facts would come to light elicited by his deft questions. Hanaud need not fear. He would not frighten her. He would be gentle, he would be cunning. Softly and delicately he would turn this good woman inside out, like a glove. Every artistic fibre in his body vibrated to the dramatic situation.
Suddenly Hanaud leaned out of the window.
"It comes! it comes!" he said in a quick, feverish whisper. "I can see the cab between the shrubs of the drive."
"Let it come!" said Mr. Ricardo superbly.
Even as he sat he could hear the grating of wheels upon the drive. He saw Hanaud lean farther from the window and stamp impatiently upon the floor.
"There it is at the door," he said; and for a few seconds he spoke no more. He stood looking downwards, craning his head, with his back towards Ricardo.
Then, with a wild and startled cry, he staggered back into the room. His face was white as wax, his eyes full of horror, his mouth open.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed Ricardo, springing to his feet.
"They are lifting her out! She doesn't move! They are lifting her out!"
For a moment he stared into Ricardo's face—paralysed by fear. Then he sprang down the stairs. Ricardo followed him.
There was confusion in the corridor. Men were running, voices were crying questions. As they passed the window they saw Wethermill start up, aroused from his lethargy. They knew the truth before they reached the entrance of the hotel. A cab had driven up to the door from the station; in the cab was an unknown woman stabbed to the heart.
"She should have come by the omnibus," Hanaud repeated and repeated stupidly. For the moment he was off his balance.