"Certainly," said the Commissaire.
"Yes," said Mr. Ricardo.
"To be sure, monsieur," said Perrichet.
As for Harry Wethermill, he made no reply. His burning eyes were fixed upon Hanaud’s face, and that was all. Hanaud, for his part, asked for no reply from him. Indeed, he did not look towards Harry Wethermill’s face at all. Ricardo understood. Hanaud did not mean to be deterred by the suffering written there.
He went down again into the little gay salon lit with flowers and August sunlight, and stood beside the couch gazing at it with troubled eyes. And, as he gazed, he closed his eyes and shivered. He shivered like a man who has taken a sudden chill. Nothing in all this morning’s investigations, not even the rigid body beneath the sheet, nor the strange discovery of the jewels, had so impressed Ricardo. For there he had been confronted with facts, definite and complete; here was a suggestion of unknown horrors, a hint, not a fact, compelling the imagination to dark conjecture. Hanaud shivered. That he had no idea why Hanaud shivered made the action still more significant, still more alarming. And it was not Ricardo alone who was moved by it. A voice of despair rang through the room. The voice was Harry Wethermill’s, and his face was ashy white.
"Monsieur!" he cried, "I do not know what makes you shudder; but I am remembering a few words you used this morning."
Hanaud turned upon his heel. His face was drawn and grey and his eyes blazed.
"My friend, I also am remembering those words," he said. Thus the two men stood confronting one another, eye to eye, with awe and fear in both their faces.
Ricardo was wondering to what words they both referred, when the sound of wheels broke in upon the silence. The effect upon Hanaud was magical. He thrust his hands in his pockets.
"Helene Vauquier’s cab," he said lightly. He drew out his cigarette-case and lighted a cigarette.
"Let us see that poor woman safely off. It is a closed cab I hope."
It was a closed landau. It drove past the open door of the salon to the front door of the house. In Hanaud’s wake they all went out into the hall. The nurse came down alone carrying Helene Vauquier’s bag. She placed it in the cab and waited in the doorway.
"Perhaps Helene Vauquier has fainted," she said anxiously: "she does not come." And she moved towards the stairs.
Hanaud took a singularly swift step forward and stopped her.
"Why should you think that?" he asked, with a queer smile upon his face, and as he spoke a door closed gently upstairs. "See," he continued, "you are wrong: she is coming."
Ricardo was puzzled. It had seemed to him that the door which had closed so gently was nearer than Helene Vauquier’s door. It seemed to him that the door was upon the first, not the second landing. But Hanaud had noticed nothing strange; so it could not be. He greeted Helene Vauquier with a smile as she came down the stairs.
"You are better, mademoiselle," he said politely.
"One can see that. There is more colour in your cheeks. A day or two, and you will be yourself again."
He held the door open while she got into the cab. The nurse took her seat beside her; Durette mounted on the box. The cab turned and went down the drive.
"Goodbye, mademoiselle," cried Hanaud, and he watched until the high shrubs hid the cab from his eyes. Then he behaved in an extraordinary way. He turned and sprang like lightning up the stairs. His agility amazed Ricardo. The others followed upon his heels. He flung himself at Celia’s door and opened it He burst into the room, stood for a second, then ran to the window. He hid behind the curtain, looking out. With his hand he waved to his companions to keep back. The sound of wheels creaking and rasping rose to their ears. The cab had just come out into the road. Durette upon the box turned and looked towards the house. Just for a moment Hanaud leaned from the window, as Besnard, the Commissaire, had done, and, like Besnard again, he waved his hand. Then he came back into the room and saw, standing in front of him, with his mouth open and his eyes starting out of his head, Perrichet-the intelligent Perrichet.
"Monsieur," cried Perrichet, "something has been taken from this room."
Hanaud looked round the room and shook his head.
"No," he said.
"But yes, monsieur," Perrichet insisted. "Oh, but yes. See! Upon this dressing-table there was a small pot of cold cream. It stood here, where my finger is, when we were in this room an hour ago. Now it is gone."
Hanaud burst into a laugh.
"My friend Perrichet," he said ironically, "I will tell you the newspaper did not do you justice. You are more intelligent. The truth, my excellent friend, lies at the bottom of a well; but you would find it at the bottom of a pot of cold cream. Now let us go. For in this house, gentlemen, we have nothing more to do."
He passed out of the room. Perrichet stood aside, his face crimson, his attitude one of shame. He had been rebuked by the great M. Hanaud, and justly rebuked. He knew it now. He had wished to display his intelligence-yes, at all costs he must show how intelligent he was. And he had shown himself a fool. He should have kept silence about that pot of cream.
CHAPTER VIII
THE CAPTAIN OF THE SHIP
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 stance.
(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 o
f.
"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 today.
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 today. He may be in this very room where we are taking our luncheon. How shall we find him?"
At the Villa Rose ih-1 Page 8