Complete Works of a E W Mason Read online

  “It is my profession to remember people,” said Hanaud, with a laugh. “You were at that amusing dinner-party of Mr. Ricardo’s in Grosvenor Square.”

  “Monsieur,” said Wethermill, “I have come to ask your help.”

  The note of appeal in his voice was loud. M. Hanaud drew up a chair by the window and motioned to Wethermill to take it. He pointed to another, with a bow of invitation to Mr. Ricardo.

  “Let me hear,” he said gravely.

  “It is the murder of Mme. Dauvray,” said Wethermill.

  Hanaud started.

  “And in what way, monsieur,” he asked, “are you interested in the murder of Mme. Dauvray?”

  “Her companion,” said Wethermill, “the young English girl — she is a great friend of mine.”

  Hanaud’s face grew stern. Then came a sparkle of anger in his eyes.

  “And what do you wish me to do, monsieur?” he asked coldly.

  “You are upon your holiday, M. Hanaud. I wish you — no, I implore you,” Wethermill cried, his voice ringing with passion, “to take up this case, to discover the truth, to find out what has become of Celia.”

  Hanaud leaned back in his chair with his hands upon the arms. He did not take his eyes from Harry Wethermill, but the anger died out of them.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “I do not know what your procedure is in England. But in France a detective does not take up a case or leave it alone according to his pleasure. We are only servants. This affair is in the hands of M. Fleuriot, the Juge d’instruction of Aix.”

  “But if you offered him your help it would be welcomed,” cried Wethermill. “And to me that would mean so much. There would be no bungling. There would be no waste of time. Of that one would be sure.”

  Hanaud shook his head gently. His eyes were softened now by a look of pity. Suddenly he stretched out a forefinger.

  “You have, perhaps, a photograph of the young lady in that card-case in your breast-pocket.”

  Wethermill flushed red, and, drawing out the card-case, handed the portrait to Hanaud. Hanaud looked at it carefully for a few moments.

  “It was taken lately, here?” he asked.

  “Yes; for me,” replied Wethermill quietly.

  “And it is a good likeness?”

  “Very.”

  “How long have you known this Mlle. Celie?” he asked.

  Wethermill looked at Hanaud with a certain defiance.

  “For a fortnight.”

  Hanaud raised his eyebrows.

  “You met her here?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the rooms, I suppose? Not at the house of one of your friends?”

  “That is so,” said Wethermill quietly. “A friend of mine who had met her in Paris introduced me to her at my request.”

  Hanaud handed back the portrait and drew forward his chair nearer to Wethermill. His face had grown friendly. He spoke with a tone of respect.

  “Monsieur, I know something of you. Our friend, Mr. Ricardo, told me your history; I asked him for it when I saw you at his dinner. You are of those about whom one does ask questions, and I know that you are not a romantic boy, but who shall say that he is safe from the appeal of beauty? I have seen women, monsieur, for whose purity of soul I would myself have stood security, condemned for complicity in brutal crimes on evidence that could not be gainsaid; and I have known them turn foul-mouthed, and hideous to look upon, the moment after their just sentence has been pronounced.”

  “No doubt, monsieur,” said Wethermill, with perfect quietude. “But Celia Harland is not one of those women.”

  “I do not now say that she is,” said Hanaud. “But the Juge d’Instruction here has already sent to me to ask for my assistance, and I refused. I replied that I was just a good bourgeois enjoying his holiday. Still it is difficult quite to forget one’s profession. It was the Commissaire of Police who came to me, and naturally I talked with him for a little while. The case is dark, monsieur, I warn you.”

  “How dark?” asked Harry Wethermill.

  “I will tell you,” said Hanaud, drawing his chair still closer to the young man. “Understand this in the first place. There was an accomplice within the villa. Some one let the murderers in. There is no sign of an entrance being forced; no lock was picked, there is no mark of a thumb on any panel, no sign of a bolt being forced. There was an accomplice within the house. We start from that.”

  Wethermill nodded his head sullenly. Ricardo drew his chair up towards the others. But Hanaud was not at that moment interested in Ricardo.

  “Well, then, let us see who there are in Mme. Dauvray’s household. The list is not a long one. It was Mme. Dauvray’s habit to take her luncheon and her dinner at the restaurants, and her maid was all that she required to get ready her ‘petit dejeuner’ in the morning and her ‘sirop’ at night. Let us take the members of the household one by one. There is first the chauffeur, Henri Servettaz. He was not at the villa last night. He came back to it early this morning.”

  “Ah!” said Ricardo, in a significant exclamation. Wethermill did not stir. He sat still as a stone, with a face deadly white and eyes burning upon Hanaud’s face.

  “But wait,” said Hanaud, holding up a warning hand to Ricardo. “Servettaz was in Chambery, where his parents live. He travelled to Chambery by the two o’clock train yesterday. He was with them in the afternoon. He went with them to a cafe in the evening. Moreover, early this morning the maid, Helene Vauquier, was able to speak a few words in answer to a question. She said Servettaz was in Chambery. She gave his address. A telephone message was sent to the police in that town, and Servettaz was found in bed. I do not say that it is impossible that Servettaz was concerned in the crime. That we shall see. But it is quite clear, I think, that it was not he who opened the house to the murderers, for he was at Chambery in the evening, and the murder was already discovered here by midnight. Moreover — it is a small point — he lives, not in the house, but over the garage in a corner of the garden. Then besides the chauffeur there was a charwoman, a woman of Aix, who came each morning at seven and left in the evening at seven or eight. Sometimes she would stay later if the maid was alone in the house, for the maid is nervous. But she left last night before nine — there is evidence of that — and the murder did not take place until afterwards. That is also a fact, not a conjecture. We can leave the charwoman, who for the rest has the best of characters, out of our calculations. There remain then, the maid, Helene Vauquier, and” — he shrugged his shoulders— “Mlle. Celie.”

  Hanaud reached out for the matches and lit a cigarette.

  “Let us take first the maid, Helene Vauquier. Forty years old, a Normandy peasant woman — they are not bad people, the Normandy peasants, monsieur — avaricious, no doubt, but on the whole honest and most respectable. We know something of Helene Vauquier, monsieur. See!” and he took up a sheet of paper from the table. The paper was folded lengthwise, written upon only on the inside. “I have some details here. Our police system is, I think, a little more complete than yours in England. Helene Vauquier has served Mme. Dauvray for seven years. She has been the confidential friend rather than the maid. And mark this, M. Wethermill! During those seven years how many opportunities has she had of conniving at last night’s crime? She was found chloroformed and bound. There is no doubt that she was chloroformed. Upon that point Dr. Peytin is quite, quite certain. He saw her before she recovered consciousness. She was violently sick on awakening. She sank again into unconsciousness. She is only now in a natural sleep. Besides those people, there is Mlle. Celie. Of her, monsieur, nothing is known. You yourself know nothing of her. She comes suddenly to Aix as the companion of Mme. Dauvray — a young and pretty English girl. How did she become the companion of Mme. Dauvray?”

  Wethermill stirred uneasily in his seat. His face flushed. To Mr. Ricardo that had been from the beginning the most interesting problem of the case. Was he to have the answer now?

  “I do not know,” answered Wethermill, with some hesita
tion, and then it seemed that he was at once ashamed of his hesitation. His accent gathered strength, and in a low but ringing voice, he added: “But I say this. You have told me, M. Hanaud, of women who looked innocent and were guilty. But you know also of women and girls who can live untainted and unspoilt amidst surroundings which are suspicious.”

  Hanaud listened, but he neither agreed nor denied. He took up a second slip of paper.

  “I shall tell you something now of Mme. Dauvray,” he said. “We will not take up her early history. It might not be edifying and, poor woman, she is dead. Let us not go back beyond her marriage seventeen years ago to a wealthy manufacturer of Nancy, whom she had met in Paris. Seven years ago M. Dauvray died, leaving his widow a very rich woman. She had a passion for jewellery, which she was now able to gratify. She collected jewels. A famous necklace, a well-known stone — she was not, as you say, happy till she got it. She had a fortune in precious stones — oh, but a large fortune! By the ostentation of her jewels she paraded her wealth here, at Monte Carlo, in Paris. Besides that, she was kind-hearted and most impressionable. Finally, she was, like so many of her class, superstitious to the degree of folly.”

  Suddenly Mr. Ricardo started in his chair. Superstitious! The word was a sudden light upon his darkness. Now he knew what had perplexed him during the last two days. Clearly — too clearly — he remembered where he had seen Celia Harland, and when. A picture rose before his eyes, and it seemed to strengthen like a film in a developing-dish as Hanaud continued:

  “Very well! take Mme. Dauvray as we find her — rich, ostentatious, easily taken by a new face, generous, and foolishly superstitious — and you have in her a living provocation to every rogue. By a hundred instances she proclaimed herself a dupe. She threw down a challenge to every criminal to come and rob her. For seven years Helene Vauquier stands at her elbow and protects her from serious trouble. Suddenly there is added to her — your young friend, and she is robbed and murdered. And, follow this, M. Wethermill, our thieves are, I think, more brutal to their victims than is the case with you.”

  Wethermill shut his eyes in a spasm of pain and the pallor of his face increased.

  “Suppose that Celia were one of the victims?” he cried in a stifled voice.

  Hanaud glanced at him with a look of commiseration.

  “That perhaps we shall see,” he said. “But what I meant was this. A stranger like Mlle. Celie might be the accomplice in such a crime as the crime of the Villa Rose, meaning only robbery. A stranger might only have discovered too late that murder would be added to the theft.”

  Meanwhile, in strong, clear colours, Ricardo’s picture stood out before his eyes. He was startled by hearing Wethermill say, in a firm voice:

  “My friend Ricardo has something to add to what you have said.”

  “I!” exclaimed Ricardo. How in the world could Wethermill know of that clear picture in his mind?

  “Yes. You saw Celia Harland on the evening before the murder.”

  Ricardo stared at his friend. It seemed to him that Harry Wethermill had gone out of his mind. Here he was corroborating the suspicions of the police by facts — damning and incontrovertible facts.

  “On the night before the murder,” continued Wethermill quietly, “Celia Harland lost money at the baccarat-table. Ricardo saw her in the garden behind the rooms, and she was hysterical. Later on that same night he saw her again with me, and he heard what she said. I asked her to come to the rooms on the next evening — yesterday, the night of the crime — and her face changed, and she said, ‘No, we have other plans for to-morrow. But the night after I shall want you.’”

  Hanaud sprang up from his chair.

  “And YOU tell me these two things!” he cried.

  “Yes,” said Wethermill. “You were kind enough to say to me I was not a romantic boy. I am not. I can face facts.”

  Hanaud stared at his companion for a few moments. Then, with a remarkable air of consideration, he bowed.

  “You have won, monsieur,” he said. “I will take up this case. But,” and his face grew stern and he brought his fist down upon the table with a bang, “I shall follow it to the end now, be the consequences bitter as death to you.”

  “That is what I wish, monsieur,” said Wethermill.

  Hanaud locked up the slips of paper in his lettercase. Then he went out of the room and returned in a few minutes.

  “We will begin at the beginning,” he said briskly. “I have telephoned to the Depot. Perrichet, the sergent-de-ville who discovered the crime, will be here at once. We will walk down to the villa with him, and on the way he shall tell us exactly what he discovered and how he discovered it. At the villa we shall find Monsieur Fleuriot, the Juge d’instruction, who has already begun his examination, and the Commissaire of Police. In company with them we will inspect the villa. Except for the removal of Mme. Dauvray’s body from the salon to her bedroom and the opening of the windows, the house remains exactly as it was.”

  “We may come with you?” cried Harry Wethermill eagerly.

  “Yes, on one condition — that you ask no questions, and answer none unless I put them to you. Listen, watch, examine — but no interruptions!”

  Hanaud’s manner had altogether changed. It was now authoritative and alert. He turned to Ricardo.

  “You will swear to what you saw in the garden and to the words you heard?” he asked. “They are important.”

  “Yes,” said Ricardo.

  But he kept silence about that clear picture in his mind which to him seemed no less important, no less suggestive.

  The Assembly Hall at Leamington, a crowded audience chiefly of ladies, a platform at one end on which a black cabinet stood. A man, erect and with something of the soldier in his bearing, led forward a girl, pretty and fair-haired, who wore a black velvet dress with a long, sweeping train. She moved like one in a dream. Some half-dozen people from the audience climbed on to the platform, tied the girl’s hands with tape behind her back, and sealed the tape. She was led to the cabinet, and in full view of the audience fastened to a bench. Then the door of the cabinet was closed, the people upon the platform descended into the body of the hall, and the lights were turned very low. The audience sat in suspense, and then abruptly in the silence and the darkness there came the rattle of a tambourine from the empty platform. Rappings and knockings seemed to flicker round the panels of the hall, and in the place where the door of the cabinet should be there appeared a splash of misty whiteness. The whiteness shaped itself dimly into the figure of a woman, a face dark and Eastern became visible, and a deep voice spoke in a chant of the Nile and Antony. Then the vision faded, the tambourines and cymbals rattled again. The lights were turned up, the door of the cabinet thrown open, and the girl in the black velvet dress was seen fastened upon the bench within.

  It was a spiritualistic performance at which Julius Ricardo had been present two years ago. The young, fair-haired girl in black velvet, the medium, was Celia Harland.

  That was the picture which was in Ricardo’s mind, and Hanaud’s description of Mme. Dauvray made a terrible commentary upon it. “Easily taken by a new face, generous, and foolishly superstitious, a living provocation to every rogue.” Those were the words, and here was a beautiful girl of twenty versed in those very tricks of imposture which would make Mme. Dauvray her natural prey!

  Ricardo looked at Wethermill, doubtful whether he should tell what he knew of Celia Harland or not. But before he had decided a knock came upon the door.

  “Here is Perrichet,” said Hanaud, taking up his hat. “We will go down to the Villa Rose.”

  CHAPTER III

  PERRICHET’S STORY

  PERRICHET WAS A young, thick-set man, with a red, fair face, and a moustache and hair so pale in colour that they were almost silver. He came into the room with an air of importance.

  “Aha!” said Hanaud, with a malicious smile. “You went to bed late last night, my friend. Yet you were up early enough to read the newspaper. Well, I a
m to have the honour of being associated with you in this case.”

  Perrichet twirled his cap awkwardly and blushed.

  “Monsieur is pleased to laugh at me,” he said. “But it was not I who called myself intelligent. Though indeed I would like to be so, for the good God knows I do not look it.”

  Hanaud clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Then congratulate yourself! It is a great advantage to be intelligent and not to look it. We shall get on famously. Come!”

  The four men descended the stairs, and as they walked towards the villa Perrichet related, concisely and clearly, his experience of the night.

  “I passed the gate of the villa about half-past nine,” he said. “The gate was closed. Above the wall and bushes of the garden I saw a bright light in the room upon the first floor which faces the road at the south-western comer of the villa. The lower windows I could not see. More than an hour afterwards I came back, and as I passed the villa again I noticed that there was now no light in the room upon the first floor, but that the gate was open. I thereupon went into the garden, and, pulling the gate, let it swing to and latch. But it occurred to me as I did so that there might be visitors at the villa who had not yet left, and for whom the gate had been set open. I accordingly followed the drive which winds round to the front door. The front door is not on the side of the villa which faces the road, but at the back. When I came to the open space where the carriages turn, I saw that the house was in complete darkness. There were wooden latticed doors to the long windows on the ground floor, and these were closed. I tried one to make certain, and found the fastenings secure. The other windows upon that floor were shuttered. No light gleamed anywhere. I then left the garden, closing the gate behind me. I heard a clock strike the hour a few minutes afterwards, so that I can be sure of the time. It was now eleven o’clock. I came round a third time an hour after, and to my astonishment I found the gate once more open. I had left it closed and the house shut up and dark. Now it stood open! I looked up to the windows and I saw that in a room on the second floor, close beneath the roof, a light was burning brightly. That room had been dark an hour before. I stood and watched the light for a few minutes, thinking that I should see it suddenly go out. But it did not: it burned quite steadily. This light and the gate opened and reopened aroused my suspicions. I went again into the garden, but this time with greater caution. It was a clear night, and, although there was no moon, I could see without the aid of my lantern. I stole quietly along the drive. When I came round to the front door, I noticed immediately that the shutters of one of the ground-floor windows were swung back, and that the inside glass window which descended to the ground stood open. The sight gave me a shock. Within the house those shutters had been opened. I felt the blood turn to ice in my veins and a chill crept along my spine. I thought of that solitary light burning steadily under the roof. I was convinced that something terrible had happened.”