"But that is astounding," said Besnard, in an awe-struck voice.
"Then she was never robbed after all?" cried Ricardo.
Hanaud rose to his feet.
"What a piece of irony!" he whispered. "The poor woman is murdered for
her jewels, the room's turned upside down, and nothing is found. For
all the while they lay safe in this cache. Nothing is taken except what
she wore. Let us see what she wore."
"Only a few rings, Helene Vauquier thought," said Besnard. "But she was
not sure."
"Ah!" said Hanaud. "Well, let us make sure!" and, taking the list from
the safe, he compared it with the jewellery in the cases on the floor,
ticking off the items one by one. When he had finished he knelt down
again, and, thrusting his hand into the hole, felt carefully about.
"There is a pearl necklace missing," he said. "A valuable necklace,
from the description in the list and some rings. She must have been
wearing them;" and he sat back upon his heels. "We will send the
intelligent Perrichet for a bag," he said, "and we will counsel the
intelligent Perrichet not to breathe a word to any living soul of what
he has seen in this room. Then we will seal up in the bag the jewels,
and we will hand it over to M. le Commissaire, who will convey it with
the greatest secrecy out of this villa. For the list—I will keep it,"
and he placed it carefully in his pocket-book.
He unlocked the door and went out himself on to the landing. He looked
down the stairs and up the stairs; then he beckoned Perrichet to him.
"Go!" he whispered. "Be quick, and when you come back hide the bag
carefully under your coat."
Perrichet went down the stairs with pride written upon his face. Was he
not assisting the great M. Hanaud from the Surete in Paris? Hanaud
returned into Mme. Dauvray's room and closed the door. He looked into
the eyes of his companions.
"Can't you see the scene?" he asked with a queer smile of excitement.
He had forgotten Wethermill; he had forgotten even the dead woman
shrouded beneath the sheet. He was absorbed. His eyes were bright, his
whole face vivid with life. Ricardo saw the real man at this
moment—and feared for the happiness of Harry Wethermill. For nothing
would Hanaud now turn aside until he had reached the truth and set his
hands upon the quarry. Of that Ricardo felt sure. He was trying now to
make his companions visualise just what he saw and understood.
"Can't you see it? The old woman locking up her jewels in this safe
every night before the eyes of her maid or her companion, and then, as
soon as she was alone, taking them stealthily out of the safe and
hiding them in this secret place. But I tell you—this is human. Yes,
it is interesting just because it is so human. Then picture to
yourselves last night, the murderers opening this safe and finding
nothing—oh, but nothing!—and ransacking the room in deadly haste,
kicking up the rugs, forcing open the drawers, and always finding
nothing—nothing—nothing. Think of their rage, their stupefaction, and
finally their fear! They must go, and with one pearl necklace, when
they had hoped to reap a great fortune. Oh, but this is
interesting—yes, I tell you—I, who have seen many strange
things—this is interesting."
Perrichet returned with a canvas bag, into which Hanaud placed the
jewel-cases. He sealed the bag in the presence of the four men and
handed it to Besnard. He replaced the block of wood in the floor,
covered it over again with the rug, and rose to his feet.
"Listen!" he said, in a low voice, and with a gravity which impressed
them all. "There is something in this house which I do not understand.
I have told you so. I tell you something more now. I am afraid—I am
afraid." And the word startled his hearers like a thunderclap, though
it was breathed no louder than a whisper, "Yes, my friends," he
repeated, nodding his head, "terribly afraid." And upon the others fell
a discomfort, an awe, as though something sinister and dangerous were
present in the room and close to them. So vivid was the feeling,
instinctively they drew nearer together. "Now, I warn you solemnly.
There must be no whisper that these jewels have been discovered; no
newspaper must publish a hint of it; no one must suspect that here in
this room we have found them. Is that understood?"
"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.
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?