“No,” said Hanaud, and he began to fold the sheet of paper.
“What does the nurse report that Madame said to her about me, as soon as the door was closed?” Betty asked, measuring out her words with a slow insistence. “Come, Monsieur! I have a right to know,” and she held out her hand for the paper.
“You shall judge for yourself that it was of no importance,” said Hanaud. “Listen!” and once more he read: “Madame said to me, looking at her clock, ‘It is well that Mademoiselle has gone early. For Dijon is not Paris, and unless you go in time there are no partners for you to dance with.’ It was then ten minutes to nine.”
With a smile Hanaud gave the paper into Betty’s hand; and she bent her head over it swiftly, as though she doubted whether what he had recited was really written on that sheet, as if she rather trembled to think what Mrs. Harlowe had said of her after she had gone from the room. She took only a second or two to glance over the page, but when she handed it back to him, her manner was quite changed.
“Thank you,” she said with a note of bitterness, and her deep eyes gleamed with resentment. Jim understood the change and sympathized with it. Hanaud had spoken of setting a trap when he had set none. For there was no conceivable reason why she should hesitate to admit that she had seen Mrs. Harlowe in the presence of the nurse, and wished her good night before she went to the party. But he had set a real trap a minute afterwards and into that Betty had straightway stumbled. He had tricked her into admitting a dread that Mrs. Harlowe might have spoken of her in disparagement or even in horror after she had left the bedroom.
“You must know, Monsieur Hanaud,” she explained very coldly, “that women are not always very generous to one another, and sometimes have not the imagination — how shall I put it? — to visualize the possible consequences of things they may say with merely the intention to hurt and do a little harm. Jeanne Baudin and I were, so far as I ever knew, good friends, but one is never sure, and when you folded up her statement in a hurry I was naturally very anxious to hear the rest of it.”
“Yes, I agree,” Jim intervened. “It did look as if the nurse might have added something malevolent which could neither be proved nor disproved.”
“It was a misunderstanding, Mademoiselle,” Hanaud replied in a voice of apology. “We will take care that there shall not be any other.” He looked over the nurse’s statement again.
“It is said here that you saw that Madame had her favourite books and her drink beside the bed. That is true.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“What was that drink?”
“A glass of lemonade.”
“It was placed on a table, I suppose, ready for her every night?”
“Every night.”
“And there was no narcotic dissolved in it?”
“None,” Betty replied. “If Mrs. Harlowe was restless, the nurse would give an opium pill and very occasionally a slight injection of morphia.”
“But that was not done on this night?”
“Not to my knowledge. If it was done, it was done after my departure.”
“Very well,” said Hanaud, and he folded the paper and put it away in his pocket. “That is finished with. We have you now out of the house at five minutes to nine in the evening, and Madame in her bed with her health no worse than usual.”
“Yes.”
“Good!” Hanaud changed his attitude. “Now let us go over your evening, Mademoiselle! I take it that you stayed at the house of M. de Pouillac until you returned home.”
“Yes.”
“You remember with whom you danced? If it was necessary, could you give me a list of your partners?”
She rose and, crossing to the writing-table, sat down in front of it. She drew a sheet of paper towards her and took up a pencil. Pausing now and again to jog her memory with the blunt end of the pencil at her lips, she wrote down a list of names.
“These are all, I think,” she said, handing the list to Hanaud. He put it in his pocket.
“Thank you!” He was all contentment now. Although his questions followed without hesitation, one upon the other, it seemed to Jim that he was receiving just the answers which he expected. He had the air of a man engaged upon an inevitable formality and anxious to get it completely accomplished, rather than of one pressing keenly a strict investigation.
“Now, Mademoiselle, at what hour did you arrive home?”
“At twenty minutes past one.”
“You are sure of that exact time? You looked at your watch? Or at the clock in the hall? Or what? How are you sure that you reached the Maison Grenelle exactly at twenty minutes past one?”
Hanaud hitched his chair a little more forward, but he had not to wait a second for the answer.
“There is no clock in the hall and I had no watch with me,” Betty replied. “I don’t like those wrist-watches which some girls wear. I hate things round my wrists,” and she shook her arm impatiently, as though she imagined the constriction of a bracelet. “And I did not put my watch in my hand-bag because I am so liable to leave that behind. So I had nothing to tell me the time when I reached home. I was not sure that I had not kept Georges — the chauffeur — out a little later than he cared for. So I made him my excuse, explaining that I didn’t really know how late I was.”
“I see. It was Georges who told you the time at the actual moment of your arrival?”
“Yes.”
“And Georges is no doubt the chauffeur whom I saw at work as I crossed the courtyard?”
“Yes. He told me that he was glad to see me have a little gaiety, and he took out his watch and showed it to me with a laugh.”
“This happened at the front door, or at those big iron gates, Mademoiselle?” Hanaud asked.
“At the front door. There is no lodge-keeper and the gates are left open when anyone is out.”
“And how did you get into the house?”
“I used my latchkey.”
“Good! All this is very clear.”
Betty, however, was not mollified by Hanaud’s satisfaction with her replies. Although she answered him without delay, her answers were given mutinously. Jim began to be a little troubled. She should have met Hanaud half-way; she was imprudently petulant.
“She’ll make an enemy of this man before she has done,” he reflected uneasily. But he glanced at the detective and was relieved. For Hanaud was watching her with a smile which would have disarmed any less offended young lady — a smile half friendliness and half amusement. Jim took a turn upon himself.
“After all,” he argued, “this very imprudence pleads for her better than any calculation. The guilty don’t behave like that.” And he waited for the next stage in the examination with an easy mind.
“Now we have got you back home and within the Maison Grenelle before half-past one in the morning,” resumed Hanaud. “What did you do then?”
“I went straight upstairs to my bedroom,” said Betty.
“Was your maid waiting up for you, Mademoiselle?”
“No; I had told her that I should be late and that I could undress myself.”
“You are considerate, Mademoiselle. No wonder that your servants were pleased that you should have a little gaiety.”
Even that advance did not appease the offended girl.
“Yes?” she asked with a sort of silky sweetness which was more hostile than any acid rejoinder. But it did not stir Hanaud to any resentment.
“When, then, did you first hear of Madame Harlowe’s death?” he asked.
“The next morning my maid Francine came running into my room at seven o’clock. The nurse, Jeanne, had just discovered it. I slipped on my dressing-gown and ran downstairs. As soon as I saw that it was true, I rang up the two doctors who were in the habit of attending here.”
“Did you notice the glass of lemonade?”
“Yes. It was empty.”
“Your maid is still with you?”
“Yes — Francine Rollard. She is at your disposal.”
Hanaud shrugged his shoulders and smiled doubtfully.
“That, if it is necessary at all, can come later. We have the story of your movements now from you, Mademoiselle, and that is what is important.”
He rose from his chair. “I have been, I am afraid, a very troublesome person, Mademoiselle Harlowe,” he said with a bow. “But it is very necessary for your own sake that no obscurities should be left for the world’s suspicions to play with. And we are very close to the end of this ordeal.”
Jim had nursed a hope the moment Hanaud rose that this wearing interview had already ended. Betty, for her part, was indifferent.
“That is for you to say, Monsieur,” she said implacably.
“Just two points then, and I think, upon reflection, you will understand that I have asked you no question which is unfair.”
Betty bowed. “Your two points, Monsieur.”
“First, then. You inherit, I believe, the whole fortune of Madame?”
“Yes.”
“Did you expect to inherit it all? Did you know of her will?”
“No. I expected that a good deal of the money would be left to Monsieur Boris. But I don’t remember that she ever told me so. I expected it, because Monsieur Boris so continually repeated that it was so.”
“No doubt,” said Hanaud lightly. “As to yourself, was Madame generous to you during her life?”
The hard look disappeared from Betty’s face. It softened to sorrow and regret.
“Very,” she answered in a low voice. “I had one thousand pounds a year as a regular allowance, and a thousand pounds goes a long way in Dijon. Besides, if I wanted more, I had only to ask for it.”
Betty’s voice broke in a sob suddenly and Hanaud turned away with a delicacy for which Jim was not prepared. He began to look at the books upon the shelves, that she might have time to control her sorrow, taking down one here, one there, and speaking of them in a casual tone.
“It is easy to see that this was the library of Monsieur Simon Harlowe,” he said, and was suddenly brought to a stop. For the door was thrown open and a girl broke into the room.
“Betty,” she began, and stood staring from one to another of Betty’s visitors.
“Ann, this is Monsieur Hanaud,” said Betty with a careless wave of her hand, and Ann went white as a sheet.
Ann! Then this girl was Ann Upcott, thought Jim Frobisher, the girl who had written to him, the girl, all acquaintanceship with whom he had twice denied, and he had sat side by side with her, he had even spoken to her. She swept across the room to him.
“So you have come!” she cried. “But I knew that you would!”
Jim was conscious of a mist of shining yellow hair, a pair of sapphire eyes, and of a face impertinently lovely and most delicate in its colour.
“Of course I have come,” he said feebly, and Hanaud looked on with a smile. He had an eye on Betty Harlowe, and the smile said as clearly as words could say, “That young man is going to have a deal of trouble before he gets out of Dijon.”
CHAPTER 6
JIM CHANGES HIS LODGING
THE LIBRARY WAS a big oblong room with two tall windows looking into the court, and the observation window thrown out at the end over the footway of the street. A door in the inner wall close to this window led to a room behind, and a big open fireplace faced the windows on the court. For the rest, the walls were lined with high bookshelves filled with books, except for a vacant space here and there where a volume had been removed. Hanaud put back in its place the book which he had been holding in his hand.
“One can easily see that this is the library of Simon Harlowe, the collector,” he said. “I have always thought that if one only had the time to study and compare the books which a man buys and reads, one would more surely get the truth of him than in any other way. But alas! one never has the time.” He turned towards Jim Frobisher regretfully, “Come and stand with me, Monsieur Frobisher. For even a glance at the backs of them tells one something.”
Jim took his place by Hanaud’s side. “Look, here is a book on Old English Gold Plate, and another — pronounce that title for me, if you please.”
Jim read the title of the book on which Hanaud’s finger was placed. “Marks and Monograms on Pottery and Porcelain.”
Hanaud repeated the inscription and moved along. From a shelf at the level of his breast and just to the left of the window in which Betty was sitting, he took a large, thinnish volume, in a paper cover, and turned over the plates. It was a brochure upon Battersea Enamel.
“There should be a second volume,” said Jim Frobisher with a glance at the bookshelf. It was the idlest of remarks. He was not paying any attention to the paper-covered book upon Battersea Enamel. For he was really engaged in speculating why Hanaud had called him to his side. Was it on the chance that he might detect some swift look of understanding as it was exchanged by the two girls, some sign that they were in a collusion? If so, he was to be disappointed. For though Betty and Ann were now free from Hanaud’s vigilant eye, neither of them moved, neither of them signalled to the other. Hanaud, however, seemed entirely interested in his book. He answered Jim’s suggestion.
“Yes, one would suppose that there were a second volume. But this is complete,” he said, and he put back the book in its place. There was room next to it for another quarto book, so long as it was no thicker, and Hanaud rested his finger in the vacant place on the shelf, with his thoughts clearly far away.
Betty recalled him to his surroundings.
“Monsieur Hanaud,” she said in her quiet voice from her seat in the window, “there was a second point, you said, on which you would like to ask me a question.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, I had not forgotten it.” He turned with a curiously swift movement and stood so that he had both girls in front of him, Betty on his left in the window, Ann Upcott standing a little apart upon his right, gazing at him with a look of awe.
“Have you, Mademoiselle,” he asked, “been pestered, since Boris Waberski brought his accusation, with any of these anonymous letters which seem to be flying about Dijon?”
“I have received one,” answered Betty, and Ann Upcott raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It came on Sunday morning. It was very slanderous, of course, and I should have taken no notice of it but for one thing. It told me that you, Monsieur Hanaud, were coming from Paris to take up the case.”
“Oho!” said Hanaud softly. “And you received this letter on the Sunday morning? Can you show it to me, Mademoiselle?”
Betty shook her head. “No, Monsieur.”
Hanaud smiled. “Of course not. You destroyed it, as such letter should be destroyed.”
“No, I didn’t,” Betty answered. “I kept it. I put it away in a drawer of my writing-table in my own sitting-room. But that room is sealed up, Monsieur Hanaud. The letter is in the drawer still.”
Hanaud received the statement with a frank satisfaction.
“It cannot run away, then, Mademoiselle,” he said contentedly. But the contentment passed. “So the Commissaire of Police actually sealed up your private sitting-room. That, to be sure, was going a little far.”
Betty shrugged her shoulders. “It was mine, you see, where I keep my private things. And after all I was accused!” she said bitterly; but Ann Upcott was not satisfied to leave the matter there. She drew a step nearer to Betty and then looked at Hanaud.
“But that is not all the truth,” she said. “Betty’s room belongs to that suite of rooms in which Madame Harlowe’s bedroom was arranged. It is the last room of the suite opening on to the hall, and for that reason, as the Commissaire said with an apology, it was necessary to seal it up with the others.”
“I thank you, Mademoiselle,” said Hanaud with a smile. “Yes, that of course softens his action.” He looked whimsically at Betty in the window-seat. “It has been my misfortune, I am afraid, to offend Mademoiselle Harlowe. Will you help me to get all these troublesome dates now clear? Madame Harlowe was buried, I understand, on
the Saturday morning twelve days ago!”
“Yes, Monsieur,” said Ann Upcott.
“And after the funeral, on your return to this house, the notary opened and read the will?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“And in Boris Waberski’s presence?”
“Yes.”
“Then exactly a week later, on Saturday, the 7th of May, he goes off quickly to the Prefecture of Police?”
“Yes.”
“And on Sunday morning by the post comes the anonymous letter?”
Hanaud turned away to Betty, who bowed her head in answer.
“And a little later on the same morning comes the Commissaire, who seals the doors?”
“At eleven o’clock, to be exact,” replied Ann Upcott.
Hanaud bowed low. “You are both wonderful young ladies. You notice the precise hour at which things happen. It is a rare gift, and very useful to people like myself.”
Ann Upcott had been growing easier and easier in her manner with each answer that she gave. Now she could laugh outright. “I do, at all events, Monsieur Hanaud,” she said. “But alas! I was born to be an old maid. A chair out of place, a book disarranged, a clock not keeping time, or even a pin on the carpet — I cannot bear these things. I notice them at once and I must put them straight. Yes, it was precisely eleven o’clock when the Commissaire of Police rang the bell.”
“Did he search the rooms before he sealed them?” Hanaud asked.
“No. We both of us thought his negligence strange,” Ann replied, “until he informed us that the examining magistrate wanted everything left just as it was.”
Hanaud laughed genially. “That was on my account,” he explained. “Who could tell what wonderful things Hanaud might not discover with his magnifying-glass when he arrived from Paris? What fatal finger-prints! Oh! Ho! ho! What scraps of burnt letter! Ah! Ha! ha! But I tell you, Mademoiselle, that if a crime has been committed in this house, even Hanaud would not expect to make any startling discoveries in rooms which had been open to the whole household for a fortnight since the crime. However,” and he moved towards the door, “since I am here now—”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 34