CHAPTER XI
THE UNOPENED LETTER
The hall of the hotel had been cleared of people. At the entrance fromthe corridor a porter barred the way.
"No one can pass," said he.
"I think that I can," said Hanaud, and he produced his card. "From theSurete at Paris."
He was allowed to enter, with Ricardo at his heels. On the ground layMarthe Gobin; the manager of the hotel stood at her side; a doctor wason his knees. Hanaud gave his card to the manager.
"You have sent word to the police?"
"Yes," said the manager.
"And the wound?" asked Hanaud, kneeling on the ground beside thedoctor. It was a very small wound, round and neat and clean, and therewas very little blood. "It was made by a bullet," said Hanaud--"sometiny bullet from an air-pistol."
"No," answered the doctor.
"No knife made it," Hanaud asserted.
"That is true," said the doctor. "Look!" and he took up from the floorby his knee the weapon which had caused Marthe Gobin's death. It wasnothing but an ordinary skewer with a ring at one end and a sharp pointat the other, and a piece of common white firewood for a handle. Thewood had been split, the ring inserted and spliced in position withstrong twine. It was a rough enough weapon, but an effective one. Theproof of its effectiveness lay stretched upon the floor beside them.
Hanaud gave it to the manager of the hotel.
"You must be very careful of this, and give it as it is to the police."
Then he bent once more over Marthe Gobin.
"Did she suffer?" he asked in a low voice.
"No; death must have been instantaneous," said the doctor.
"I am glad of that," said Hanaud, as he rose again to his feet.
In the doorway the driver of the cab was standing.
"What has he to say?" Hanaud asked.
The man stepped forward instantly. He was an old, red-faced, stout man,with a shiny white tall hat, like a thousand drivers of cabs.
"What have I to say, monsieur?" he grumbled in a husky voice. "I takeup the poor woman at the station and I drive her where she bids me, andI find her dead, and my day is lost. Who will pay my fare, monsieur?"
"I will," said Hanaud. "There it is," and he handed the man afive-franc piece. "Now, answer me! Do you tell me that this woman wasmurdered in your cab and that you knew nothing about it?"
"But what should I know? I take her up at the station, and all the wayup the hill her head is every moment out of the window, crying,'Faster, faster!' Oh, the good woman was in a hurry! But for me I takeno notice. The more she shouts, the less I hear; I bury my head betweenmy shoulders, and I look ahead of me and I take no notice. One cannotexpect cab-horses to run up these hills; it is not reasonable."
"So you went at a walk," said Hanaud. He beckoned to Ricardo, andsaid to the manager: "M. Besnard will, no doubt, be here in a fewminutes, and he will send for the Juge d'Instruction. There isnothing that we can do."
He went back to Ricardo's sitting-room and flung himself into a chair.He had been calm enough downstairs in the presence of the doctor andthe body of the victim. Now, with only Ricardo for a witness, he gaveway to distress.
"It is terrible," he said. "The poor woman! It was I who brought her toAix. It was through my carelessness. But who would have thought--?" Hesnatched his hands from his face and stood up. "I should have thought,"he said solemnly. "Extraordinary daring--that was one of the qualitiesof my criminal. I knew it, and I disregarded it. Now we have a secondcrime."
"The skewer may lead you to the criminal," said Mr. Ricardo.
"The skewer!" cried Hanaud. "How will that help us? A knife,yes--perhaps. But a skewer!"
"At the shops--there will not be so many in Aix at which you can buyskewers--they may remember to whom they sold one within the last day orso."
"How do we know it was bought in the last day or so?" cried Hanaudscornfully. "We have not to do with a man who walks into a shop andbuys a single skewer to commit a murder with, and so hands himself overto the police. How often must I say it!"
The violence of his contempt nettled Ricardo.
"If the murderer did not buy it, how did he obtain it?" he askedobstinately.
"Oh, my friend, could he not have stolen it? From this or from anyhotel in Aix? Would the loss of a skewer be noticed, do you think? Howmany people in Aix to-day have had rognons a la brochette for theirluncheon! Besides, it is not merely the death of this poor woman whichtroubles me. We have lost the evidence which she was going to bring tous. She had something to tell us about Celie Harland which now we shallnever hear. We have to begin all over again, and I tell you we have notthe time to begin all over again. No, we have not the time. Time willbe lost, and we have no time to lose." He buried his face again in hishands and groaned aloud. His grief was so violent and so sincere thatRicardo, shocked as he was by the murder of Marthe Gobin, set himselfto console him.
"But you could not have foreseen that at three o'clock in the afternoonat Aix--"
Hanaud brushed the excuse aside.
"It is no extenuation. I OUGHT to have foreseen. Oh, but I will have nopity now," he cried, and as he ended the words abruptly his facechanged. He lifted a trembling forefinger and pointed. There came asudden look of life into his dull and despairing eyes.
He was pointing to a side-table on which were piled Mr. Ricardo'sletters.
"You have not opened them this morning?" he asked.
"No. You came while I was still in bed. I have not thought of them tillnow."
Hanaud crossed to the table, and, looking down at the letters, uttereda cry.
"There's one, the big envelope," he said, his voice shaking like hishand. "It has a Swiss stamp."
He swallowed to moisten his throat. Ricardo sprang across the room andtore open the envelope. There was a long letter enclosed in ahandwriting unknown to him. He read aloud the first lines of the letter:
"I write what I saw and post it to-night, so that no one may be beforeme with the news. I will come over to-morrow for the money."
A low exclamation from Hanaud interrupted the words.
"The signature! Quick!"
Ricardo turned to the end of the letter.
"Marthe Gobin."
"She speaks, then! After all she speaks!" Hanaud whispered in a voiceof awe. He ran to the door of the room, opened it suddenly, and,shutting it again, locked it. "Quick! We cannot bring that poor womanback to life; but we may still--" He did not finish his sentence. Hetook the letter unceremoniously from Ricardo's hand and seated himselfat the table. Over his shoulder Mr. Ricardo, too, read Marthe Gobin'sletter.
It was just the sort of letter, which in Ricardo's view, Marthe Gobinwould have written--a long, straggling letter which never kept to thepoint, which exasperated them one moment by its folly and fired them toexcitement the next.
It was dated from a small suburb of Geneva, on the western side of thelake, and it ran as follows:
"The suburb is but a street close to the lake-side, and a tram runsinto the city. It is quite respectable, you understand, monsieur, witha hotel at the end of it, and really some very good houses. But I donot wish to deceive you about the social position of myself or myhusband. Our house is on the wrong side of the street--definitely--yes.It is a small house, and we do not see the water from any of thewindows because of the better houses opposite. M. Gobin, my husband,who was a clerk in one of the great banks in Geneva, broke down inhealth in the spring, and for the last three months has been compelledto keep indoors. Of course, money has not been plentiful, and I couldnot afford a nurse. Consequently I myself have been compelled to nursehim. Monsieur, if you were a woman, you would know what men are whenthey are ill--how fretful, how difficult. There is not much distractionfor the woman who nurses them. So, as I am in the house most of theday, I find what amusement I can in watching the doings of myneighbours. You will not blame me.
"A month ago the house almost directly opposite to us was takenfurnished for the summer by a Mme. Rossi
gnol. She is a widow, butduring the last fortnight a young gentleman has come several times inthe afternoon to see her, and it is said in the street that he is goingto marry her. But I cannot believe it myself. Monsieur is a young manof perhaps thirty, with smooth, black hair. He wears a moustache, alittle black moustache, and is altogether captivating. Mme. Rossignolis five or six years older, I should think--a tall woman, with red hairand a bold sort of coarse beauty. I was not attracted by her. Sheseemed not quite of the same world as that charming monsieur who wassaid to be going to marry her. No; I was not attracted by AdeleRossignol."
And when he had come to that point Hanaud looked up with a start.
"So the name was Adele," he whispered.
"Yes," said Ricardo. "Helene Vauquier spoke the truth."
Hanaud nodded with a queer smile upon his lips.
"Yes, there she spoke the truth. I thought she did."
"But she said Adele's hair was black," interposed Mr. Ricardo.
"Yes, there she didn't," said Hanaud drily, and his eyes dropped againto the paper.
"I knew her name was Adele, for often I have heard her servant callingher so, and without any 'Madame' in front of the name. That is strange,is it not, to hear an elderly servant-woman calling after her mistress,'Adele,' just simple 'Adele'? It was that which made me think monsieurand madame were not of the same world. But I do not believe that theyare going to be married. I have an instinct about it. Of course, onenever knows with what extraordinary women the nicest men will fall inlove. So that after all these two may get married. But if they do, I donot think they will be happy.
"Besides the old woman there was another servant, a man, Hippolyte, whoserved in the house and drove the carriage when it was wanted--arespectable man. He always touched his hat when Mme. Rossignol came outof the house. He slept in the house at night, although the stable wasat the end of the street. I thought he was probably the son of Jeanne,the servant-woman. He was young, and his hair was plastered down uponhis forehead, and he was altogether satisfied with himself and a greatfavorite amongst the servants in the street. The carriage and the horsewere hired from Geneva. That is the household of Mme. Rossignol."
So far, Mr. Ricardo read in silence. Then he broke out again.
"But we have them! The red-haired woman called Adele; the man with thelittle black moustache. It was he who drove the motor-car!"
Hanaud held up his hand to check the flow of words, and both read onagain:
"At three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon madame was driven away in thecarriage, and I did not see it return all that evening. Of course, itmay have returned to the stables by another road. But it was notunusual for the carriage to take her into Geneva and wait a long time.I went to bed at eleven, but in the night M. Gobin was restless, and Irose to get him some medicine. We slept in the front of the house,monsieur, and while I was searching for the matches upon the table inthe middle of the room I heard the sound of carriage wheels in thesilent street. I went to the window, and, raising a corner of thecurtains, looked out. M. Gobin called to me fretfully from the bed toknow why I did not light the candle and get him what he wanted. I havealready told you how fretful sick men can be, always complaining ifjust for a minute one distracts oneself by looking out of the window.But there! One can do nothing to please them. Yet how right I was toraise the blind and look out of the window! For if I had obeyed myhusband I might have lost four thousand francs. And four thousandfrancs are not to be sneezed at by a poor woman whose husband lies inbed.
"I saw the carriage stop at Mme. Rossignol's house. Almost at once thehouse door was opened by the old servant, although the hall of thehouse and all the windows in the front were dark. That was the firstthing that surprised me. For when madame came home late and the housewas dark, she used to let herself in with a latchkey. Now, in the darkhouse, in the early morning, a servant was watching for them. It wasstrange.
"As soon as the door of the house was opened the door of the carriageopened too, and a young lady stepped quickly out on to the pavement.The train of her dress caught in the door, and she turned round,stooped, freed it with her hand, and held it up off the ground. Thenight was clear, and there was a lamp in the street close by the doorof Mme. Rossignol's house. As she turned I saw her face under the biggreen hat. It was very pretty and young, and the hair was fair. Shewore a white coat, but it was open in front and showed her eveningfrock of pale green. When she lifted her skirt I saw the bucklessparkling on her satin shoes. It was the young lady for whom you areadvertising, I am sure. She remained standing just for a moment withoutmoving, while Mme. Rossignol got out. I was surprised to see a younglady of such distinction in Mme. Rossignol's company. Then, stillholding her skirt up, she ran very lightly and quickly across thepavement into the dark house. I thought, monsieur, that she was veryanxious not to be seen. So when I saw your advertisement I was certainthat this was the young lady for whom you are searching.
"I waited for a few moments and saw the carriage drive off towards thestable at the end of the street. But no light went up in any of therooms in front of the house. And M. Gobin was so fretful that I droppedthe corner of the blind, lit the candle, and gave him his coolingdrink. His watch was on the table at the bedside, and I saw that it wasfive minutes to three. I will send you a telegram to-morrow, as soon asI am sure at what hour I can leave my husband. Accept, monsieur, I begyou, my most distinguished salutations.
"MARTHE GOBIN."
Hanaud leant back with an extraordinary look of perplexity upon hisface. But to Ricardo the whole story was now clear. Here was anindependent witness, without the jealousy or rancours of HeleneVauquier. Nothing could be more damning than her statement; itcorroborated those footmarks upon the soil in front of the glass doorof the salon. There was nothing to be done except to set aboutarresting Mlle. Celie at once.
"The facts work with your theory, M. Hanaud. The young man with theblack moustache did not return to the house at Geneva. For somewhereupon the road close to Geneva he met the carriage. He was driving backthe car to Aix--" And then another thought struck him: "But no!" hecried. "We are altogether wrong. See! They did not reach home untilfive minutes to three."
Five minutes to three! But this demolished the whole of Hanaud's theoryabout the motor-car. The murderers had left the villa between elevenand twelve, probably before half-past eleven. The car was a machine ofsixty horse-power, and the roads were certain to be clear. Yet thetravellers only reached their home at three. Moreover, the car was backin Aix at four. It was evident they did not travel by the car.
"Geneva time is an hour later than French time," said Hanaud shortly.It seemed as if the corroboration of this letter disappointed him. "Aquarter to three in Mme. Gobin's house would be a quarter to two by ourwatches here."
Hanaud folded up the letter, and rose to his feet.
"We will go now, and we will take this letter with us." Hanaud lookedabout the room, and picked up a glove lying upon a table. "I left thisbehind me," he said, putting it into his pocket. "By the way, where isthe telegram from Marthe Gobin?"
"You put it in your letter-case."
"Oh, did I?"
Hanaud took out his letter-case and found the telegram within it. Hisface lightened.
"Good!" he said emphatically. "For, since we have this telegram, theremust have been another message sent from Adele Rossignol to Aix sayingthat Marthe Gobin, that busybody, that inquisitive neighbour, who hadno doubt seen M. Ricardo's advertisement, was on her way hither. Oh itwill not be put as crudely as that, but that is what the message willmean. We shall have him." And suddenly his face grew very stern. "IMUST catch him, for Marthe Gobin's death I cannot forgive. A poor womanmeaning no harm, and murdered like a sheep under our noses. No, that Icannot forgive."
Ricardo wondered whether it was the actual murder of Marthe Gobin orthe fact that he had been beaten and outwitted which Hanaud could notforgive. But discretion kept him silent.
"Let us go," said Hanaud. "By the lift, if you please; it will savetime." br />
They descended into the hall close by the main door. The body of MartheGobin had been removed to the mortuary of the town. The life of thehotel had resumed its course.
"M. Besnard has gone, I suppose?" Hanaud asked of the porter; and,receiving an assent, he walked quickly out of the front door.
"But there is a shorter way," said Ricardo, running after him: "acrossthe garden at the back and down the steps."
"It will make no difference now," said Hanaud.
They hurried along the drive and down the road which circled round thehotel and dipped to the town.
Behind Hanaud's hotel Ricardo's car was waiting.
"We must go first to Besnard's office. The poor man will be at hiswits' end to know who was Mme. Gobin and what brought her to Aix.Besides, I wish to send a message over the telephone."
Hanaud descended and spent a quarter of an hour with the Commissaire.As he came out he looked at his watch.
"We shall be in time, I think," he said. He climbed into the car. "Themurder of Marthe Gobin on her way from the station will put our friendsat their ease. It will be published, no doubt, in the evening papers,and those good people over there in Geneva will read it with amusement.They do not know that Marthe Gobin wrote a letter yesterday night.Come, let us go!"
"Where to?" asked Ricardo.
"Where to?" exclaimed Hanaud. "Why, of course, to Geneva."