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."
"Yes, something," said Adele. "A necklace—a good one—some good rings,
and bracelets. And we shall find out where the rest is hid—from her."
And she nodded at Celia.
The three people ate their supper, and, while they ate it, discussed
Celia's fate. She was lying with her head bowed upon her arms at the
same table, within a foot of them. But they made no more of her
presence than if she had been an old shoe. Only once did one of them
speak to her.
"Stop your whimpering," said Hippolyte roughly. "We can hardly hear
ourselves talk."
He was for finishing with the business altogether to-night.
"It's a mistake," he said. "There's been a bungle, and the sooner we
are rid of it the better. There's a boat at the bottom of the garden."
Celia listened and shuddered. He would have no more compunction over
drowning her than he would have had over drowning a blind kitten.
"It's cursed luck," he said. "But we have got the necklace—that's
something. That's our share, do you see? The young spark can look for
the rest."
But Helene Vauquier's wish prevailed. She was the leader. They would
keep the girl until she came to Geneva.
They took her upstairs into the big bedroom overlooking the lake. Adele
opened the door of the closet, where a truckle-bed stood, and thrust
the girl in.
"This is my room," she said warningly, pointing to the bedroom. "Take
care I hear no noise. You might shout yourself hoarse, my pretty one;
no one else would hear you. But I should, and afterwards—we should no
longer be able to call you 'my pretty one,' eh?"
And with a horrible playfulness she pinched the girl's cheek.
Then with old Jeanne's help she stripped Celia and told her to get into
bed.
"I'll give her something to keep her quiet," said Adele, and she
fetched her morphia-needle and injected a dose into Celia's arm.
Then they took her clothes away and left her in the darkness. She heard
the key turn in the lock, and a moment after the sound of the bedstead
being drawn across the doorway. But she heard no more, for almost
immediately she fell asleep.
She was awakened some time the next day by the door opening. Old Jeanne
Tace brought her in a jug of water and a roll of bread, and locked her
up again. And a long time afterwards she brought her another supply.
Yet another day had gone, but in that dark cupboard Celia had no means
of judging time. In the afternoon the newspaper came out with the
announcement that Mme. Dauvray's jewellery had been discovered under
the boards. Hippolyte brought in the newspaper, and, cursing their
stupidity, they sat down to decide upon Celia's fate. That, however,
was soon arranged. They would dress her in everything which she wore
when she came, so that no trace of her might be discovered. They would
give her another dose of morphia, sew her up in a sack as soon as she
was unconscious, row her far out on to the lake, and sink her with a
weight attached. They dragged her out from the cupboard, always with
the threat of that bright aluminium flask before her eyes. She fell
upon her knees, imploring their pity with the tears running down her
cheeks; but they sewed the strip of sacking over her face so that she
should see nothing of their preparations. They flung her on the sofa,
secured her as Hanaud had found her, and, leaving her in the old
woman's charge, sent down Adele for her needle and Hippolyte to get
ready the boat. As Hippolyte opened the door he saw the launch of the
Chef de la Surete glide along the bank.
This is the story as Mr. Ricardo wrote it out from the statement of
Celia herself and the confession of Adele Rossignol. Obscurities which
had puzzled him were made clear. But he was still unaware how Hanaud
had worked out the solution.
"You promised me that you would explain," he said, when they were both
together after the trial was over at Aix. The two men had just finished
luncheon at the Cercle and were sitting over their coffee. Hanaud
lighted a cigar.
"There were difficulties, of course," he said; "the crime was so
carefully planned. The little details, such as the footprints, the
absence of any mud from the girl's shoes in the carriage of the
motor-car, the dinner at Annecy, the purchase of the cord, the want of
any sign of a struggle in the little salon, were all carefully thought
out. Had not one little accident happened, and one little mistake been
made in consequence, I doubt if we should have laid our hands upon one
of the gang. We might have suspected Wethermill; we should hardly have
secured him, and we should very likely never have known of the Tace
family. That mistake was, as you no doubt are fully aware—"
"The failure of Wethermill to discover Mme. Dauvray's jewels," said
Ricardo at once.
"No, my friend," answered Hanaud. "That made them keep Mlle. Celie
alive. It enabled us to save her when we had discovered the whereabouts
of the gang. It did not help us very much to lay our hands upon them.
No; the little accident which happened was the entrance of our friend
Perrichet into the garden while the murderers were still in the room.
Imagine that scene, M. Ricardo. The rage of the murderers at their
inability to discover the plunder for which they had risked their
necks, the old woman crumpled up on the floor against the wall, the
girl writing laboriously with fettered arms 'I do not know' under
threats of torture, and then in the stillness of the night the clear,
tiny click of the gate and the measured, relentless footsteps. No
wonder they were terrified in that dark room. What would be their one
thought? Why, to get away—to come back perhaps later, when Mlle. Celie
should have told them what, by the way, she did not know, but in any
case to get away now. So they made their little mistake, and in their
hurry they left the light burning in the room of Helene Vauquier, and
the murder was discovered seven hours too soon for them."
"Seven hours!" said Mr. Ricardo.
"Yes. The household did not rise early. It was not until seven that the
charwoman came. It was she who was meant to discover the crime. By that
time the motor-car would have been back three hours ago in its garage.
Servettaz, the chauffeur, would have returned from Chambery some time
in the morning, he would have cleaned the car, he would have noticed
that there was very little petrol in the tank, as there had been when
he had left it on the day before. He would not have noticed that some
of his many tins which had been full yesterday were empty to-day. We
should not have discovered that about four in the morning the car was
close to the Villa Rose and that it had travelled, between midnight and
five in the morning, a hundred and fifty kilometres."
"But you had already guessed 'Geneva,'" said Ricardo. "At luncheon,
before the news came that the car was found, you had guessed it."
"It was a shot," said Hanaud. "The absence of the car helped me to make
it. It is a large city and not very far away, a likely place for people
with the police at their heels to run to earth in. But if the car had
been discovered in the garage I should not have made that shot. Even
then I had no particular conviction about Geneva. I really wished to
see how Wethermill would take it. He was wonderful."
"He sprang up."
"He betrayed nothing but surprise. You showed no less surprise than he
did, my good friend. What I was looking for was one glance of fear. I
did not get it."
"Yet you suspected him—even then you spoke of brains and audacity. You
told him enough to hinder him from communicating with the red-haired
woman in Geneva. You isolated him. Yes, you suspected him."
"Let us take the case from the beginning. When you first came to me, as
I told you, the Commissaire had already been with me. There was an
interesting piece of evidence already in his possession. Adolphe
Ruel—who saw Wethermill and Vauquier together close by the Casino and
overheard that cry of Wethermill's, 'It is true: I must have
money!'—had already been with his story to the Commissaire. I knew it
when Harry Wethermill came into the room to ask me to take up the case.
That was a bold stroke, my friend. The chances were a hundred to one
that I should not interrupt my holiday to take up a case because of
your little dinner-party in London. Indeed, I should not have
interrupted it had I not known Adolphe Ruel's story. As it was I could
not resist. Wethermill's very audacity charmed me. Oh yes, I felt that
I must pit myself against him. So few criminals have spirit, M.
Ricardo. It is deplorable how few. But Wethermill! See in what a fine
position he would have been if only I had refused. He himself had been
the first to call upon the first detective in France. And his argument!
He loved Mlle. Celie. Therefore she must be innocent! How he stuck to
it! People would have said, 'Love is blind,' and all the more they
would have suspected Mile. Celie. Yes, but they love the blind lover.
Therefore all the more would it have been impossible for them to
believe Harry Wethermill had any share in that grim crime."