She broke off suddenly and listened. Some sound heard outside had given Celia a respite, perhaps more than a respite. Helene set the flask down upon the table. Her avarice had got the better of her hatred. She roughly plucked the earrings out of the girl’s ears. She hid them quickly in the bosom of her dress with her eye upon the door. She did not see a drop of blood gather on the lobe of Celia’s ear and fall into the cushion on which her face was pressed. She had hardly hidden them away before the door opened and Adele Rossignol burst into the room.
“What is the matter?” asked Vauquier.
“The safe’s empty. We have searched the room. We have found nothing,” she cried.
“Everything is in the safe,” Helene insisted.
“No.”
The two women ran out of the room and up the stairs. Celia, lying on the settee, heard all the quiet of the house change to noise and confusion. It was as though a tornado raged in the room overhead. Furniture was tossed about and over the room, feet stamped and ran, locks were smashed in with heavy blows. For many minutes the storm raged. Then it ceased, and she heard the accomplices clattering down the stairs without a thought of the noise they made. They burst into the room. Harry Wethermill was laughing hysterically, like a man off his head. He had been wearing a long dark overcoat when he entered the house; now he carried the coat over his arm. He was in a dinner-jacket, and his black clothes were dusty and disordered.
“It’s all for nothing!” he screamed rather than cried. “Nothing but the one necklace and a handful of rings!”
In a frenzy he actually stooped over the dead woman and questioned her.
“Tell us — where did you hide them?” he cried.
“The girl will know,” said Helene.
Wethermill rose up and looked wildly at Celia.
“Yes, yes,” he said.
He had no scruple, no pity any longer for the girl. There was no gain from the crime unless she spoke. He would have placed his head in the guillotine for nothing. He ran to the writing-table, tore off half a sheet of paper, and brought it over with a pencil to the sofa. He gave them to Vauquier to hold, and drawing out the sofa from the wall slipped in behind. He lifted up Celia with Rossignol’s help, and made her sit in the middle of the sofa with her feet upon the ground. He unbound her wrists and fingers, and Vauquier placed the writing-pad and the paper on the girl’s knees. Her arms were still pinioned above the elbows; she could not raise her hands high enough to snatch the scarf from her lips. But with the pad held up to her she could write.
“Where did she keep her jewels! Quick! Take the pencil and write,” said Wethermill, holding her left wrist.
Vauquier thrust the pencil into her right hand, and awkwardly and slowly her gloved fingers moved across the page.
“I do not know,” she wrote; and, with an oath, Wethermill snatched the paper up, tore it into pieces, and threw it down.
“You have got to know,” he said, his face purple with passion, and he flung out his arm as though he would dash his fist into her face. But as he stood with his arm poised there came a singular change upon his face.
“Did you hear anything?” he asked in a whisper.
All listened, and all heard in the quiet of the night a faint click, and after an interval they heard it again, and after another but shorter interval yet once more.
“That’s the gate,” said Wethermill in a whisper of fear, and a pulse of hope stirred within Celia.
He seized her wrists, crushed them together behind her, and swiftly fastened them once more. Adele Rossignol sat down upon the floor, took the girl’s feet upon her lap, and quietly wrenched off her shoes.
“The light,” cried Wethermill in an agonised voice, and Helena Vauquier flew across the room and turned it off.
All three stood holding their breath, straining their ears in the dark room. On the hard gravel of the drive outside footsteps became faintly audible, and grew louder and came near. Adele whispered to Vauquier:
“Has the girl a lover?”
And Helene Vauquier, even at that moment, laughed quietly.
All Celia’s heart and youth rose in revolt against her extremity. If she could only free her lips! The footsteps came round the corner of the house, they sounded on the drive outside the very window of this room. One cry, and she would be saved. She tossed back her head and tried to force the handkerchief out from between her teeth. But Wethermill’s hand covered her mouth and held it closed. The footsteps stopped, a light shone for a moment outside. The very handle of the door was tried. Within a few yards help was there — help and life. Just a frail latticed wooden door stood between her and them. She tried to rise to her feet. Adele Rossignol held her legs firmly. She was powerless. She sat with one desperate hope that, whoever it was who was in the garden, he would break in. Were it even another murderer, he might have more pity than the callous brutes who held her now; he could have no less. But the footsteps moved away. It was the withdrawal of all hope. Celia heard Wethermill behind her draw a long breath of relief. That seemed to Celia almost the cruellest part of the whole tragedy. They waited in the darkness until the faint click of the gate was heard once more. Then the light was turned up again.
“We must go,” said Wethermill. All the three of them were shaken. They stood looking at one another, white and trembling. They spoke in whispers. To get out of the room, to have done with the business — that had suddenly become their chief necessity.
Adele picked up the necklace and the rings from the satin-wood table and put them into a pocket-bag which was slung at her waist.
“Hippolyte shall turn these things into money,” she said. “He shall set about it to-morrow. We shall have to keep the girl now — until she tells us where the rest is hidden.”
“Yes, keep her,” said Helene. “We will come over to Geneva in a few days, as soon as we can. We will persuade her to tell.” She glanced darkly at the girl. Celia shivered.
“Yes, that’s it,” said Wethermill. “But don’t harm her. She will tell of her own will. You will see. The delay won’t hurt now. We can’t come back and search for a little while.”
He was speaking in a quick, agitated voice. And Adele agreed. The desire to be gone had killed even their fury at the loss of their prize. Some time they would come back, but they would not search now — they were too unnerved.
“Helene,” said Wethermill, “get to bed. I’ll come up with the chloroform and put you to sleep.”
Helene Vauquier hurried upstairs. It was part of her plan that she should be left alone in the villa chloroformed. Thus only could suspicion be averted from herself. She did not shrink from the completion of the plan now. She went, the strange woman, without a tremor to her ordeal. Wethermill took the length of rope which had fixed Celia to the pillar.
“I’ll follow,” he said, and as he turned he stumbled over the body of Mme. Dauvray. With a shrill cry he kicked it out of his way and crept up the stairs. Adele Rossignol quickly set the room in order. She removed the stool from its position in the recess, and carried it to its place in the hall. She put Celia’s shoes upon her feet, loosening the cord from her ankles. Then she looked about the floor and picked up here and there a scrap of cord. In the silence the clock upon the mantelshelf chimed the quarter past eleven. She screwed the stopper on the flask of vitriol very carefully, and put the flask away in her pocket. She went into the kitchen and fetched the key of the garage. She put her hat on her head. She even picked up and drew on her gloves, afraid lest she should leave them behind; and then Wethermill came down again. Adele looked at him inquiringly.
“It is all done,” he said, with a nod of the head. “I will bring the car down to the door. Then I’ll drive you to Geneva and come back with the car here.”
He cautiously opened the latticed door of the window, listened for a moment, and ran silently down the drive. Adele closed the door again, but she did not bolt it. She came back into the room; she looked at Celia, as she lay back upon the settee, with a long gla
nce of indecision. And then, to Celia’s surprise — for she had given up all hope — the indecision in her eyes became pity. She suddenly ran across the room and knelt down before Celia. With quick and feverish hands she untied the cord which fastened the train of her skirt about her knees.
At first Celia shrank away, fearing some new cruelty. But Adele’s voice came to her ears, speaking — and speaking with remorse.
“I can’t endure it!” she whispered. “You are so young — too young to be killed.”
The tears were rolling down Celia’s cheeks. Her face was pitiful and beseeching.
“Don’t look at me like that, for God’s sake, child!” Adele went on, and she chafed the girl’s ankles for a moment.
“Can you stand?” she asked.
Celia nodded her head gratefully. After all, then, she was not to die. It seemed to her hardly possible. But before she could rise a subdued whirr of machinery penetrated into the room, and the motor-car came slowly to the front of the villa.
“Keep still!” said Adele hurriedly, and she placed herself in front of Celia.
Wethermill opened the wooden door, while Celia’s heart raced in her bosom.
“I will go down and open the gate,” he whispered. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Wethermill disappeared; and this time he left the door open. Adele helped Celia to her feet. For a moment she tottered; then she stood firm.
“Now run!” whispered Adele. “Run, child, for your life!”
Celia did not stop to think whither she should run, or how she should escape from Wethermill’s search. She could not ask that her lips and her hands might be freed. She had but a few seconds. She had one thought — to hide herself in the darkness of the garden. Celia fled across the room, sprang wildly over the sill, ran, tripped over her skirt, steadied herself, and was swung off the ground by the arms of Harry Wethermill.
“There we are,” he said, with his shrill, wavering laugh. “I opened the gate before.” And suddenly Celia hung inert in his arms.
The light went out in the salon. Adele Rossignol, carrying Celia’s cloak, stepped out at the side of the window.
“She has fainted,” said Wethermill. “Wipe the mould off her shoes and off yours too — carefully. I don’t want them to think this car has been out of the garage at all.”
Adele stooped and obeyed. Wethermill opened the door of the car and flung Celia into a seat. Adele followed and took her seat opposite the girl. Wethermill stepped carefully again on to the grass, and with the toe of his shoe scraped up and ploughed the impressions which he and Adele Rossignol had made on the ground, leaving those which Celia had made. He came back to the window.
“She has left her footmarks clear enough,” he whispered. “There will be no doubt in the morning that she went of her own free will.”
Then he took the chauffeur’s seat, and the car glided silently down the drive and out by the gate. As soon as it was on the road it stopped. In an instant Adele Rossignol’s head was out of the window.
“What is it?” she exclaimed in fear.
Wethermill pointed to the roof. He had left the light burning in Helene Vauquier’s room.
“We can’t go back now,” said Adele in a frantic whisper. “No; it is over. I daren’t go back.” And Wethermill jammed down the lever. The car sprang forward, and humming steadily over the white road devoured the miles. But they had made their one mistake.
CHAPTER XX
THE GENEVA ROAD
THE CAR HAD nearly reached Annecy before Celia woke to consciousness. And even then she was dazed. She was only aware that she was in the motor-car and travelling at a great speed. She lay back, drinking in the fresh air. Then she moved, and with the movement came to her recollection and the sense of pain. Her arms and wrists were still bound behind her, and the cords hurt her like hot wires. Her mouth, however, and her feet were free. She started forward, and Adele Rossignol spoke sternly from the seat opposite.
“Keep still. I am holding the flask in my hand. If you scream, if you make a movement to escape, I shall fling the vitriol in your face,” she said.
Celia shrank back, shivering.
“I won’t! I won’t!” she whispered piteously. Her spirit was broken by the horrors of the night’s adventure. She lay back and cried quietly in the darkness of the carriage. The car dashed through Annecy. It seemed incredible to Celia that less than six hours ago she had been dining with Mme. Dauvray and the woman opposite, who was now her jailer. Mme. Dauvray lay dead in the little salon, and she herself — she dared not think what lay in front of her. She was to be persuaded — that was the word — to tell what she did not know. Meanwhile her name would be execrated through Aix as the murderess of the woman who had saved her. Then suddenly the car stopped. There were lights outside. Celia heard voices. A man was speaking to Wethermill. She started and saw Adele Tace’s arm flash upwards. She sank back in terror; and the car rolled on into the darkness. Adele Tace drew a breath of relief. The one point of danger had been passed. They had crossed the Pont de la Caille, they were in Switzerland.
Some long while afterwards the car slackened its speed. By the side of it Celia heard the sound of wheels and of the hooves of a horse. A single-horsed closed landau had been caught up as it jogged along the road. The motor-car stopped; close by the side of it the driver of the landau reined in his horse. Wethermill jumped down from the chauffeur’s seat, opened the door of the landau, and then put his head in at the window of the car.
“Are you ready? Be quick!”
Adele turned to Celia.
“Not a word, remember!”
Wethermill flung open the door of the car. Adele took the girl’s feet and drew them down to the step of the car. Then she pushed her out. Wethermill caught her in his arms and carried her to the landau. Celia dared not cry out. Her hands were helpless, her face at the mercy of that grim flask. Just ahead of them the lights of Geneva were visible, and from the lights a silver radiance overspread a patch of sky. Wethermill placed her in the landau; Adele sprang in behind her and closed the door. The transfer had taken no more than a few seconds. The landau jogged into Geneva; the motor turned and sped back over the fifty miles of empty road to Aix.
As the motor-car rolled away, courage returned for a moment to Celia. The man — the murderer — had gone. She was alone with Adele Rossignol in a carriage moving no faster than an ordinary trot. Her ankles were free, the gag had been taken from her lips. If only she could free her hands and choose a moment when Adele was off her guard she might open the door and spring out on to the road. She saw Adele draw down the blinds of the carriage, and very carefully, very secretly, Celia began to work her hands behind her. She was an adept; no movement was visible, but, on the other hand, no success was obtained. The knots had been too cunningly tied. And then Mme. Rossignol touched a button at her side in the leather of the carriage.
The touch turned on a tiny lamp in the roof of the carriage, and she raised a warning hand to Celia.
“Now keep very quiet.”
Right through the empty streets of Geneva the landau was quietly driven. Adele had peeped from time to time under the blind. There were few people in the streets. Once or twice a sergent-de-ville was seen under the light of a lamp. Celia dared not cry out. Over against her, persistently watching her, Adele Rossignol sat with the open flask clenched in her hand, and from the vitriol Celia shrank with an overwhelming terror. The carriage drove out from the town along the western edge of the lake.
“Now listen,” said Adele. “As soon as the landau stops the door of the house opposite to which it stops will open. I shall open the carriage door myself and you will get out. You must stand close by the carriage door until I have got out. I shall hold this flask ready in my hand. As soon as I am out you will run across the pavement into the house. You won’t speak or scream.”
Adele Rossignol turned out the lamp and ten minutes later the carriage passed down the little street and attracted Mme. Gobin�
�s notice. Marthe Gobin had lit no light in her room. Adele Rossignol peered out of the carriage. She saw the houses in darkness. She could not see the busybody’s face watching the landau from a dark window. She cut the cords which fastened the girl’s hands. The carriage stopped. She opened the door. Celia sprang out on to the pavement. She sprang so quickly that Adele Rossignol caught and held the train of her dress. But it was the fear of the vitriol which had made her spring so nimbly. It was that, too, which made her run so lightly and quickly into the house. The old woman who acted as servant, Jeanne Tace, received her. Celia offered no resistance. The fear of vitriol had made her supple as a glove. Jeanne hurried her down the stairs into the little parlour at the back of the house, where supper was laid, and pushed her into a chair. Celia let her arms fall forward on the table. She had no hope now. She was friendless and alone in a den of murderers, who meant first to torture, then to kill her. She would be held up to execration as a murderess. No one would know how she had died or what she had suffered. She was in pain, and her throat burned. She buried her face in her arms and sobbed. All her body shook with her sobbing. Jeanne Rossignol took no notice. She treated Celie just as the others had done. Celia was LA PETITE, against whom she had no animosity, by whom she was not to be touched to any tenderness. LA PETITE had unconsciously played her useful part in their crime. But her use was ended now, and they would deal with her accordingly. She removed the girl’s hat and cloak and tossed them aside.
“Now stay quiet until we are ready for you,” she said. And Celia, lifting her head, said in a whisper:
“Water!”
The old woman poured some from a jug and held the glass to Celia’s lips.
“Thank you,” whispered Celia gratefully, and Adele came into the room. She told the story of the night to Jeanne, and afterwards to Hippolyte when he joined them.
“And nothing gained!” cried the older woman furiously. “And we have hardly a five-franc piece in the house.”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 21