“Now I come to Helene Vauquier’s second mistake. On the evening when you saw Mlle. Celie in the garden behind the baccarat-rooms you noticed that she wore no jewellery except a pair of diamond eardrops. In the photograph of her which Wethermill showed me, again she was wearing them. Is it not, therefore, probable that she usually wore them? When I examined her room I found the case for those earrings — the case was empty. It was natural, then, to infer that she was wearing them when she came down to the seance.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I read a description — a carefully written description — of the missing girl, made by Helene Vauquier after an examination of the girl’s wardrobe. There is no mention of the earrings. So I asked her— ‘Was she not wearing them?’ Helene Vauquier was taken by surprise. How should I know anything of Mlle. Celie’s earrings? She hesitated. She did not quite know what answer to make. Now, why? Since she herself dressed Mile. Celie, and remembers so very well all she wore, why does she hesitate? Well, there is a reason. She does not know how much I know about those diamond eardrops. She is not sure whether we have not dipped into that pot of cold cream and found them. Yet without knowing she cannot answer. So now we come back to our pot of cold cream.”
“Yes!” cried Mr. Ricardo. “They were there.”
“Wait a bit,” said Hanaud. “Let us see how it works out. Remember the conditions. Vauquier has some small thing which she must hide, and which she wishes to hide in Mlle. Celie’s room. For she admitted that it was her suggestion that she should look through mademoiselle’s wardrobe. For what reason does she choose the girl’s room, except that if the thing were discovered that would be the natural place for it? It is, then, something belonging to Mlle. Celie. There was a second condition we laid down. It was something Vauquier had not been able to hide before. It came, then, into her possession last night. Why could she not hide it last night? Because she was not alone. There were the man and the woman, her accomplices. It was something, then, which she was concerned in hiding from them. It is not rash to guess, then, that it was some piece of the plunder of which the other two would have claimed their share — and a piece of plunder belonging to Mlle. Celie. Well, she has nothing but the diamond eardrops. Suppose Vauquier is left alone to guard Mlle. Celie while the other two ransack Mme. Dauvray’s room. She sees her chance. The girl cannot stir hand or foot to save herself. Vauquier tears the eardrops in a hurry from her ears — and there I have my drop of blood just where I should expect it to be. But now follow this! Vauquier hides the earrings in her pocket. She goes to bed in order to be chloroformed. She knows that it is very possible that her room will be searched before she regains consciousness, or before she is well enough to move. There is only one place to hide them in, only one place where they will be safe. In bed with her. But in the morning she must get rid of them, and a nurse is with her. Hence the excuse to go to Mlle. Celie’s room. If the eardrops are found in the pot of cold cream, it would only be thought that Mlle. Celie had herself hidden them there for safety. Again it is conjecture, and I wish to make sure. So I tell Vauquier she can go away, and I leave her unwatched. I have her driven to the depot instead of to her friends, and searched. Upon her is found the pot of cream, and in the cream Mlle. Celie’s eardrops. She has slipped into Mlle. Celie’s room, as, if my theory was correct, she would be sure to do, and put the pot of cream into her pocket. So I am now fairly sure that she is concerned in the murder.
“We then went to Mme. Dauvray’s room and discovered her brilliants and her ornaments. At once the meaning of that agitated piece of hand-writing of Mlle. Celie’s becomes clear. She is asked where the jewels are hidden. She cannot answer, for her mouth, of course, is stopped. She has to write. Thus my conjectures get more and more support. And, mind this, one of the two women is guilty — Celie or Vauquier. My discoveries all fit in with the theory of Celie’s innocence. But there remain the footprints, for which I found no explanation.
“You will remember I made you all promise silence as to the finding of Mme. Dauvray’s jewellery. For I thought, if they have taken the girl away so that suspicion may fall on her and not on Vauquier, they mean to dispose of her. But they may keep her so long as they have a chance of finding out from her Mme. Dauvray’s hiding-place. It was a small chance but our only one. The moment the discovery of the jewellery was published the girl’s fate was sealed, were my theory true.
“Then came our advertisement and Mme. Gobin’s written testimony. There was one small point of interest which I will take first: her statement that Adele was the Christian name of the woman with the red hair, that the old woman who was the servant in that house in the suburb of Geneva called her Adele, just simply Adele. That interested me, for Helene Vauquier had called her Adele too when she was describing to us the unknown visitor. ‘Adele’ was what Mme. Dauvray called her.”
“Yes,” said Ricardo. “Helene Vauquier made a slip there. She should have given her a false name.”
Hanaud nodded.
“It is the one slip she made in the whole of the business. Nor did she recover herself very cleverly. For when the Commissaire pounced upon the name, she at once modified her words. She only thought now that the name was Adele, or something like it. But when I went on to suggest that the name in any case would be a false one, at once she went back upon her modifications. And now she was sure that Adele was the name used. I remembered her hesitation when I read Marthe Gobin’s letter. They helped to confirm me in my theory that she was in the plot; and they made me very sure that it was an Adele for whom we had to look. So far well. But other statements in the letter puzzled me. For instance, ‘She ran lightly and quickly across the pavement into the house, as though she were afraid to be seen.’ Those were the words, and the woman was obviously honest. What became of my theory then? The girl was free to run, free to stoop and pick up the train of her gown in her hand, free to shout for help in the open street if she wanted help. No; that I could not explain until that afternoon, when I saw Mlle. Celie’s terror-stricken eyes fixed upon that flask, as Lemerre poured a little out and burnt a hole in the sack. Then I understood well enough. The fear of vitriol!” Hanaud gave an uneasy shudder. “And it is enough to make any one afraid! That I can tell you. No wonder she lay still as a mouse upon the sofa in the bedroom. No wonder she ran quickly into the house. Well, there you have the explanation. I had only my theory to work upon even after Mme. Gobin’s evidence. But as it happened it was the right one. Meanwhile, of course, I made my inquiries into Wethermill’s circumstances. My good friends in England helped me. They were precarious. He owed money in Aix, money at his hotel. We knew from the motor-car that the man we were searching for had returned to Aix. Things began to look black for Wethermill. Then you gave me a little piece of information.”
“I!” exclaimed Ricardo, with a start.
“Yes. You told me that you walked up to the hotel with Harry Wethermill on the night of the murder and separated just before ten. A glance into his rooms which I had — you will remember that when we had discovered the motor-car I suggested that we should go to Harry Wethermill’s rooms and talk it over — that glance enabled me to see that he could very easily have got out of his room on to the verandah below and escaped from the hotel by the garden quite unseen. For you will remember that whereas your rooms look out to the front and on to the slope of Mont Revard, Wethermill’s look out over the garden and the town of Aix. In a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes he could have reached the Villa Rose. He could have been in the salon before half-past ten, and that is just the hour which suited me perfectly. And, as he got out unnoticed, so he could return. So he did return! My friend, there are some interesting marks upon the window-sill of Wethermill’s room and upon the pillar just beneath it. Take a look, M. Ricardo, when you return to your hotel. But that was not all. We talked of Geneva in Mr. Wethermill’s room, and of the distance between Geneva and Aix. Do you remember that?”
“Yes,” replied Ricardo.
“Do you rememb
er too that I asked him for a road-book?”
“Yes; to make sure of the distance. I do.”
“Ah, but it was not to make sure of the distance that I asked for the road-book, my friend. I asked in order to find out whether Harry Wethermill had a road-book at all which gave a plan of the roads between here and Geneva. And he had. He handed it to me at once and quite naturally. I hope that I took it calmly, but I was not at all calm inside. For it was a new road-book, which, by the way, he bought a week before, and I was asking myself all the while — now what was I asking myself, M. Ricardo?”
“No,” said Ricardo, with a smile. “I am growing wary. I will not tell you what you were asking yourself, M. Hanaud. For even were I right you would make out that I was wrong, and leap upon me with injuries and gibes. No, you shall drink your coffee and tell me of your own accord.”
“Well,” said Hanaud, laughing, “I will tell you. I was asking myself: ‘Why does a man who owns no motor-car, who hires no motor-car, go out into Aix and buy an automobilist’s road-map? With what object?’ And I found it an interesting question. M. Harry Wethermill was not the man to go upon a walking tour, eh? Oh, I was obtaining evidence. But then came an overwhelming thing — the murder of Marthe Gobin. We know now how he did it. He walked beside the cab, put his head in at the window, asked, ‘Have you come in answer to the advertisement?’ and stabbed her straight to the heart through her dress. The dress and the weapon which he used would save him from being stained with her blood. He was in your room that morning, when we were at the station. As I told you, he left his glove behind. He was searching for a telegram in answer to your advertisement. Or he came to sound you. He had already received his telegram from Hippolyte. He was like a fox in a cage, snapping at every one, twisting vainly this way and that way, risking everything and every one to save his precious neck. Marthe Gobin was in the way. She is killed. Mlle. Celie is a danger. So Mile. Celie must be suppressed. And off goes a telegram to the Geneva paper, handed in by a waiter from the cafe at the station of Chambery before five o’clock. Wethermill went to Chambery that afternoon when we went to Geneva. Once we could get him on the run, once we could so harry and bustle him that he must take risks — why, we had him. And that afternoon he had to take them.”
“So that even before Marthe Gobin was killed you were sure that Wethermill was the murderer?”
Hanaud’s face clouded over.
“You put your finger on a sore place, M. Ricardo. I was sure, but I still wanted evidence to convict. I left him free, hoping for that evidence. I left him free, hoping that he would commit himself. He did, but — well, let us talk of some one else. What of Mlle. Celie?”
Ricardo drew a letter from his pocket.
“I have a sister in London, a widow,” he said. “She is kind. I, too, have been thinking of what will become of Mlle. Celie. I wrote to my sister, and here is her reply. Mlle. Celie will be very welcome.”
Hanaud stretched out his hand and shook Ricardo’s warmly.
“She will not, I think, be for very long a burden. She is young. She will recover from this shock. She is very pretty, very gentle. If — if no one comes forward whom she loves and who loves her — I — yes, I myself, who was her papa for one night, will be her husband forever.”
He laughed inordinately at his own joke; it was a habit of M. Hanaud’s. Then he said gravely:
“But I am glad, M. Ricardo, for Mlle. Celie’s sake that I came to your amusing dinner-party in London.”
Mr. Ricardo was silent for a moment. Then he asked:
“And what will happen to the condemned?”
“To the women? Imprisonment for life.”
“And to the man?”
Hanaud shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps the guillotine. Perhaps New Caledonia. How can I say? I am not the President of the Republic.”
END
The Affair at the Semiramis Hotel (1917)
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
The first edition’s title page
I
MR. RICARDO, WHEN the excitements of the Villa Rose were done with, returned to Grosvenor Square and resumed the busy, unnecessary life of an amateur. But the studios had lost their savour, artists their attractiveness, and even the Russian opera seemed a trifle flat. Life was altogether a disappointment; Fate, like an actress at a restaurant, had taken the wooden pestle in her hand and stirred all the sparkle out of the champagne; Mr. Ricardo languished — until one unforgettable morning.
He was sitting disconsolately at his breakfast-table when the door was burst open and a square, stout man, with the blue, shaven face of a French comedian, flung himself into the room. Ricardo sprang towards the new-comer with a cry of delight.
“My dear Hanaud!”
He seized his visitor by the arm, feeling it to make sure that here, in flesh and blood, stood the man who had introduced him to the acutest sensations of his life. He turned towards his butler, who was still bleating expostulations in the doorway at the unceremonious irruption of the French detective.
“Another place, Burton, at once,” he cried, and as soon as he and Hanaud were alone: “What good wind blows you to London?”
“Business, my friend. The disappearance of bullion somewhere on the line between Paris and London. But it is finished. Yes, I take a holiday.”
A light had suddenly flashed in Mr. Ricardo’s eyes, and was now no less suddenly extinguished. Hanaud paid no attention whatever to his friend’s disappointment. He pounced upon a piece of silver which adorned the tablecloth and took it over to the window.
“Everything is as it should be, my friend,” he exclaimed, with a grin. “Grosvenor Square, the Times open at the money column, and a false antique upon the table. Thus I have dreamed of you. All Mr. Ricardo is in that sentence.”
Ricardo laughed nervously. Recollection made him wary of Hanaud’s sarcasms. He was shy even to protest the genuineness of his silver. But, indeed, he had not the time. For the door opened again and once more the butler appeared. On this occasion, however, he was alone.
“Mr. Calladine would like to speak to you, sir,” he said.
“Calladine!” cried Ricardo in an extreme surprise. “That is the most extraordinary thing.” He looked at the clock upon his mantelpiece. It was barely half-past eight. “At this hour, too?”
“Mr. Calladine is still wearing evening dress,” the butler remarked.
Ricardo started in his chair. He began to dream of possibilities; and here was Hanaud miraculously at his side.
“Where is Mr. Calladine?” he asked.
“I have shown him into the library.”
“Good,” said Mr. Ricardo. “I will come to him.”
But he was in no hurry. He sat and let his thoughts play with this incident of Calladine’s early visit.
“It is very odd,” he said. “I have not seen Calladine for months — no, nor has anyone. Yet, a little while ago, no one was more often seen.”
He fell apparently into a muse, but he was merely seeking to provoke Hanaud’s curiosity. In this attempt, however, he failed. Hanaud continued placidly to eat his breakfast, so that Mr. Ricardo was compelled to volunteer the story which he was burning to tell.
“Drink your coffee, Hanaud, and you shall hear about Calladine.”
Hanaud grunted with resignation, and Mr. Ricardo flowed on:
“Calladine was one of England’s young men. Everybody said so. He was going to do very wonderful things as soon as he had made up his mind exactly what sort of wonderful things he was going to do. Meanwhile, you met him in Scotland, at Newmarket, at Ascot, at Cowes, in the box of some great lady at the Opera — not before half-past ten in the evening there — in any fine house where the candles that night happened to be lit. He went everywhere, and then a day came and he went nowhere. There was no scandal, no trouble, not a whisper against his good name. He simply vanished. For a little while a few people asked: ‘What
has become of Calladine?’ But there never was any answer, and London has no time for unanswered questions. Other promising young men dined in his place. Calladine had joined the huge legion of the Come-to-nothings. No one even seemed to pass him in the street. Now unexpectedly, at half-past eight in the morning, and in evening dress, he calls upon me. ‘Why?’ I ask myself.”
Mr. Ricardo sank once more into a reverie. Hanaud watched him with a broadening smile of pure enjoyment.
“And in time, I suppose,” he remarked casually, “you will perhaps ask him?”
Mr. Ricardo sprang out of his pose to his feet.
“Before I discuss serious things with an acquaintance,” he said with a scathing dignity, “I make it a rule to revive my impressions of his personality. The cigarettes are in the crystal box.”
“They would be,” said Hanaud, unabashed, as Ricardo stalked from the room. But in five minutes Mr. Ricardo came running back, all his composure gone.
“It is the greatest good fortune that you, my friend, should have chosen this morning to visit me,” he cried, and Hanaud nodded with a little grimace of resignation.
“There goes my holiday. You shall command me now and always. I will make the acquaintance of your young friend.”
He rose up and followed Ricardo into his study, where a young man was nervously pacing the floor.
“Mr. Calladine,” said Ricardo. “This is Mr. Hanaud.”
The young man turned eagerly. He was tall, with a noticeable elegance and distinction, and the face which he showed to Hanaud was, in spite of its agitation, remarkably handsome.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 23