At the Villa Rose

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE CAPTAIN OF THE SHIP

  Hanaud walked away from the Villa Rose in the company of Wethermill andRicardo.

  "We will go and lunch," he said.

  "Yes; come to my hotel," said Harry Wethermill. But Hanaud shook hishead.

  "No; come with me to the Villa des Fleurs," he replied. "We may learnsomething 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 withthat remark he walked on silently.

  Mr. Ricardo was in a little doubt as to the exact significance of thewords. But he was too excited to dwell long upon them. Distressedthough he sought to be at his friend's grief, he could not but assumean air of importance. All the artist in him rose joyfully to theoccasion. He looked upon himself from the outside. He fancied withoutthe slightest justification that people were pointing him out. "Thatman has been present at the investigation at the Villa Rose," he seemedto hear people say. "What strange things he could tell us if he would!"

  And suddenly, Mr. Ricardo began to reflect. What, after all, could hehave 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 acorner 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 havebeen impossible for either of his guests to see what he had written,even if they had wished. Ricardo, indeed, did wish. He rather resentedthe secrecy with which the detective, under a show of openness,shrouded his thoughts and acts. Hanaud sent the waiter out to fetch anofficer in plain clothes, who was in attendance at the door, and hehanded the letter to this man. Then he turned with an apology to hisguests.

  "It is necessary that we should find out," he explained, "as soon aspossible, 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--thatis 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 pocketa pencil. He was intensely flattered by the request of Hanaud, and heproposed to do himself justice. "I will make a note here of what Ithink the salient features of the mystery"; and he proceeded totabulate the points in the following way:

  (1) Celia Harland made her entrance into Mme. Dauvray's household undervery doubtful circumstances.

  (2) By methods still more doubtful she acquired an extraordinaryascendency over Mme. Dauvray's mind.

  (3) If proof were needed how complete that ascendency was, a glance atCelia Harland's wardrobe would suffice; for she wore the most expensiveclothes.

  (4) It was Celia Harland who arranged that Servettaz, the chauffeur,should be absent at Chambery on the Tuesday night--the night of themurder.

  (5) It was Celia Harland who bought the cord with which Mme. Dauvraywas strangled and Helene Vauquier bound.

  (6) The footsteps outside the salon show that Celia Harland ran fromthe salon to the motor-car.

  (7) Celia Harland pretended that there should be a seance on theTuesday, but she dressed as though she had in view an appointment witha lover, instead of a spiritualistic seance.

  (8) Celia Harland has disappeared.

  These eight points are strongly suggestive of Celia Harland'scomplicity in the murder. But I have no clue which will enable me toanswer the following questions:

  (a) Who was the man who took part in the crime? (b) Who was the womanwho came to the villa on the evening of the murder with Mme. Dauvrayand 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 spiritwriting 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?

  Mr. Ricardo had a momentary thought of putting down yet anotherquestion. He was inclined to ask whether or no a pot of cold cream haddisappeared from Celia Harland's bedroom; but he remembered that Hanaudhad set no store upon that incident, and he refrained. Moreover, he hadcome to the end of his sheet of paper. He handed it across the table toHanaud and leaned back in his chair, watching the detective with allthe eagerness of a young author submitting his first effort to a critic.

  Hanaud read it through slowly. At the end he nodded his head inapproval.

  "Now we will see what M. Wethermill has to say," he said, and hestretched out the paper towards Harry Wethermill, who throughout theluncheon had not said a word.

  "No, no," cried Ricardo.

  But Harry Wethermill already held the written sheet in his hand. Hesmiled rather wistfully at his friend.

  "It is best that I should know just what you both think," he said, andin his turn he began to read the paper through. He read the first eightpoints, and then beat with his fist upon the table.

  "No no," he cried; "it is not possible! I don't blame you, Ricardo.These are facts, and, as I said, I can face facts. But there will be anexplanation--if only we can discover it."

  He buried his face for a moment in his hands. Then he took up the paperagain.

  "As for the rest, Helene Vauquier lied," he cried violently, and hetossed the paper to Hanaud. "What do you make of it?"

  Hanaud smiled and shook his head.

  "Did you ever go for a voyage on a ship?" he asked.

  "Yes; why?"

  "Because every day at noon three officers take an observation todetermine the ship's position--the captain, the first officer, and thesecond officer. Each writes his observation down, and the captain takesthe three observations and compares them. If the first or secondofficer is out in his reckoning, the captain tells him so, but he doesnot show his own. For at times, no doubt, he is wrong too. So,gentlemen, I criticise your observations, but I do not show you mine."

  He took up Ricardo's paper and read it through again.

  "Yes," he said pleasantly. "But the two questions which are mostimportant, which alone can lead us to the truth--how do they come to beomitted from your list, Mr. Ricardo?"

  Hanaud put the question with his most serious air. But Ricardo was nonethe less sensible of the raillery behind the solemn manner. He flushedand made no answer.

  "Still," continued Hanaud, "here are undoubtedly some questions. Let usconsider them! Who was the man who took a part in the crime? Ah, if weonly knew that, what a lot of trouble we should save ourselves! Who wasthe woman? What a good thing it would be to know that too! How clearly,after all, Mr. Ricardo puts his finger on the important points! Whatdid actually happen in the salon?" And as he quoted that question theraillery died out of his voice. He leaned his elbows on the table andbent forward.

  "What did actually happen in that little pretty room, just twelve hoursago?" he repeated. "When no sunlight blazed upon the lawn, and all thebirds were still, and all the windows shuttered and the world dark,what happened? What dreadful things happened? We have not much to goupon. Let us formulate what we know. We start with this. The murder wasnot the work of a moment. It was planned with great care and cunning,and carried out to the letter of the plan. There must be no noise, noviolence. On each side of the Villa Rose there are other villas; a fewyards away the road runs past. A scream, a cry, the noise of astruggle--these sounds, or any one of them, might be fatal to success.Thus the crime was planned; and there WAS no scream, there WAS nostruggle. Not a chair was broken, and only a chair upset. Yes, therewere brains behind that murder. We know that. But what do we know ofthe plan? How far can we build it up? Let us see. First, there was anaccomplice in the house--perhaps two."

  "No!" cried Harry Wethermill.

  Hanaud took n
o notice of the interruption.

  "Secondly the woman came to the house with Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celiebetween nine and half-past nine. Thirdly, the man came afterwards, butbefore eleven, set open the gate, and was admitted into the salon,unperceived by Mme. Dauvray. That also we can safely assume. But whathappened in the salon? Ah! There is the question." Then he shrugged hisshoulders and said with the note of raillery once more in his voice:

  "But why should we trouble our heads to puzzle out this mystery, sinceM. Ricardo knows?"

  "I?" cried Ricardo in amazement.

  "To be sure," replied Hanaud calmly. "For I look at another of yourquestions. 'WHAT DID THE TORN-UP SCRAP OF WRITING MEAN?' and you add:'Probably spirit-writing.' Then there was a seance held last night inthe little salon! Is that so?"

  Harry Wethermill started. Mr. Ricardo was at a loss.

  "I had not followed my suggestion to its conclusion," he admittedhumbly.

  "No," said Hanaud. "But I ask myself in sober earnest, 'Was there aseance held in the salon last night?' Did the tambourine rattle in thedarkness on the wall?"

  "But if Helene Vauquier's story is all untrue?" cried Wethermill, againin exasperation.

  "Patience, my friend. Her story was not all untrue. I say there werebrains behind this crime; yes, but brains, even the cleverest, wouldnot have invented this queer, strange story of the seances and of Mme.de Montespan. That is truth. But yet, if there were a seance held, ifthe scrap of paper were spirit-writing in answer to some awkwardquestion, why--and here I come to my first question, which M. Ricardohas omitted--why did Mlle. Celie dress herself with so much elegancelast night? What Vauquier said is true. Her dress was not suited to aseance. A light-coloured, rustling frock, which would be visible in adim light, or even in the dark, which would certainly be heard at everymovement she made, however lightly she stepped, and a big hat--no no! Itell you, gentlemen, we shall not get to the bottom of this mysteryuntil we know why Mlle. Celie dressed herself as she did last night."

  "Yes," Ricardo admitted. "I overlooked that point." "Did she--" Hanaudbroke off and bowed to Wethermill with a grace and a respect whichcondoned his words. "You must bear with me, my young friend, while Iconsider all these points. Did she expect to join that night a lover--aman with the brains to devise this crime? But if so--and here I come tothe second question omitted from M. Ricardo's list--why, on the patchof grass outside the door of the salon, were the footsteps of the manand woman so carefully erased, and the footsteps of Mlle. Celie--thoselittle footsteps so easily identified--left for all the world to seeand recognise?"

  Ricardo felt like a child in the presence of his schoolmaster. He wasconvicted of presumption. He had set down his questions with the beliefthat they covered the ground. And here were two of the utmostimportance, not forgotten, but never even thought of.

  "Did she go, before the murder, to join a lover? Or after it? At sometime, you will remember, according to Vauquier's story, she must haverun upstairs to fetch her coat. Was the murder committed during theinterval when she was upstairs? Was the salon dark when she came downagain? Did she run through it quickly, eagerly, noticing nothing amiss?And, indeed, how should she notice anything if the salon were dark, andMme. Dauvray's body lay under the windows at the side?"

  Ricardo leaned forward eagerly.

  "That must be the truth," he cried; and Wethermill's voice brokehastily in:

  "It is not the truth and I will tell you why. Celia Harland was to havemarried me this week."

  There was so much pain and misery in his voice that Ricardo was movedas he had seldom been. Wethermill buried his face in his hands. Hanaudshook his head and gazed across the table at Ricardo with an expressionwhich the latter was at no loss to understand. Lovers wereimpracticable people. But he--Hanaud--he knew the world. Women hadfooled men before to-day.

  Wethermill snatched his hands away from before his face.

  "We talk theories," he cried desperately, "of what may have happened atthe villa. But we are not by one inch nearer to the man and woman whocommitted the crime. It is for them we have to search."

  "Yes; but except by asking ourselves questions, how shall we find them,M. Wethermill?" said Hanaud. "Take the man! We know nothing of him. Hehas left no trace. Look at this town of Aix, where people come and golike a crowd about the baccarat-table! He may be at Marseilles to-day.He may be in this very room where we are taking our luncheon. How shallwe find him?"

  Wethermill nodded his head in a despairing assent.

  "I know. But it is so hard to sit still and do nothing," he cried.

  "Yes, but we are not sitting still," said Hanaud; and Wethermill lookedup with a sudden interest. "All the time that we have been lunchinghere the intelligent Perrichet has been making inquiries. Mme. Dauvrayand Mlle. Celie left the Villa Rose at five, and returned on foot soonafter nine with the strange woman. And there I see Perrichet himselfwaiting to be summoned."

  Hanaud beckoned towards the sergent-de-ville.

  "Perrichet will make an excellent detective," he said; "for he looksmore bovine and foolish in plain clothes than he does in uniform."

  Perrichet advanced in his mufti to the table.

  "Speak, my friend," said Hanaud.

  "I went to the shop of M. Corval. Mlle. Celie was quite alone when shebought the cord. But a few minutes later, in the Rue du Casino, she andMme. Dauvray were seen together, walking slowly in the direction of thevilla. No other woman was with them."

  "That is a pity," said Hanaud quietly, and with a gesture he dismissedPerrichet.

  "You see, we shall find out nothing--nothing," said Wethermill, with agroan.

  "We must not yet lose heart, for we know a little more about the womanthan we do about the man," said Hanaud consolingly.

  "True," exclaimed Ricardo. "We have Helene Vauquier's description ofher. We must advertise it."

  Hanaud smiled.

  "But that is a fine suggestion," he cried. "We must think over that,"and he clapped his hand to his forehead with a gesture ofself-reproach. "Why did not such a fine idea occur to me, fool that Iam! However, we will call the head waiter."

  The head waiter was sent for and appeared before them.

  "You knew Mme. Dauvray?" Hanaud asked.

  "Yes, monsieur--oh, the poor woman! And he flung up his hands.

  "And you knew her young companion?"

  "Oh yes, monsieur. They generally had their meals here. See, at thatlittle table over there! I kept it for them. But monsieur knowswell"--and the waiter looked towards Harry Wethermill--"for monsieurwas often with them."

  "Yes," said Hanaud. "Did Mme. Dauvray dine at that little table lastnight?"

  "No, monsieur. She was not here last night."

  "Nor Mlle. Celie?"

  "No, monsieur! I do not think they were in the Villa des Fleurs at all."

  "We know they were not," exclaimed Ricardo. "Wethermill and I were inthe rooms and we did not see them."

  "But perhaps you left early," objected Hanaud.

  "No," said Ricardo. "It was just ten o'clock when we reached theMajestic."

  "You reached your hotel at ten," Hanaud repeated. "Did you walkstraight from here?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you left here about a quarter to ten. And we know that Mme.Dauvray was back at the villa soon after nine. Yes--they could not havebeen here last night," Hanaud agreed, and sat for a moment silent. Thenhe turned to the head waiter.

  "Have you noticed any woman with Mme. Dauvray and her companion lately?"

  "No, monsieur. I do not think so."

  "Think! A woman, for instance, with red hair."

  Harry Wethermill started forward. Mr. Ricardo stared at Hanaud inamazement. The waiter reflected.

  "No, monsieur. I have seen no woman with red hair."

  "Thank you," said Hanaud, and the waiter moved away.

  "A woman with red hair!" cried Wethermill. "But Helene Vauquierdescribed her. She was sallow; her eyes, her hair, were dark."

  Hanaud turned with a smil
e to Harry Wethermill.

  "Did Helene Vauquier, then, speak the truth?" he asked. "No; the womanwho was in the salon last night, who returned home with Mme. Dauvrayand Mlle. Celie, was not a woman with black hair and bright black eyes.Look!" And, fetching his pocket-book from his pocket, he unfolded asheet of paper and showed them, lying upon its white surface a long redhair.

  "I picked that up on the table--the round satinwood table in the salon.It was easy not to see it, but I did see it. Now, that is not Mlle.Celie's hair, which is fair; nor Mme. Dauvray's, which is dyed brown;nor Helene Vauquier's, which is black; nor the charwoman's, which, as Ihave taken the trouble to find out, is grey. It is therefore from thehead of our unknown woman. And I will tell you more. This woman withthe red hair--she is in Geneva."

  A startled exclamation burst from Ricardo. Harry Wethermill sat slowlydown. For the first time that day there had come some colour into hischeeks, a sparkle into his eye.

  "But that is wonderful!" he cried. "How did you find that out?"

  Hanaud leaned back in his chair and took a pull at his cigar. He wasobviously pleased with Wethermill's admiration.

  "Yes, how did you find it out?" Ricardo repeated.

  Hanaud smiled.

  "As to that," he said, "remember I am the captain of the ship, and I donot show you my observation." Ricardo was disappointed. HarryWethermill, however, started to his feet.

  "We must search Geneva, then," he cried. "It is there that we shouldbe, not here drinking our coffee at the Villa des Fleurs."

  Hanaud raised his hand.

  "The search is not being overlooked. But Geneva is a big city. It isnot easy to search Geneva and find, when we know nothing about thewoman for whom we are searching, except that her hair is red, and thatprobably a young girl last night was with her. It is rather here, Ithink--in Aix--that we must keep our eyes wide open."

  "Here!" cried Wethermill in exasperation. He stared at Hanaud as thoughhe were mad.

  "Yes, here; at the post office--at the telephone exchange. Suppose thatthe man is in Aix, as he may well be; some time he will wish to send aletter, or a telegram, or a message over the telephone. That, I tellyou, is our chance. But here is news for us."

  Hanaud pointed to a messenger who was walking towards them. The manhanded Hanaud an envelope.

  "From M. le Commissaire," he said; and he saluted and retired. "From M.le Commissaire?" cried Ricardo excitedly.

  But before Hanaud could open the envelope Harry Wethermill laid a handupon his sleeve.

  "Before we pass to something new, M. Hanaud," he said, "I should bevery glad if you would tell me what made you shiver in the salon thismorning. It has distressed me ever since. What was it that those twocushions had to tell you?"

  There was a note of anguish in his voice difficult to resist. ButHanaud resisted it. He shook his head.

  "Again," he said gravely, "I am to remind you that I am captain of theship and do not show my observation."

  He tore open the envelope and sprang up from his seat.

  "Mme. Dauvray's motor-car has been found," he cried. "Let us go!"

  Hanaud called for the bill and paid it. The three men left the Villades Fleurs together.