At the Villa Rose (15 page)

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 again
to the paper.

"I knew her name was Adele, for often I have heard her servant calling
her 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 monsieur
and madame were not of the same world. But I do not believe that they
are going to be married. I have an instinct about it. Of course, one
never knows with what extraordinary women the nicest men will fall in
love. So that after all these two may get married. But if they do, I do
not think they will be happy.

"Besides the old woman there was another servant, a man, Hippolyte, who
served in the house and drove the carriage when it was wanted—a
respectable man. He always touched his hat when Mme. Rossignol came out
of the house. He slept in the house at night, although the stable was
at 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 upon
his forehead, and he was altogether satisfied with himself and a great
favorite amongst the servants in the street. The carriage and the horse
were 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 the
little black moustache. It was he who drove the motor-car!"

Hanaud held up his hand to check the flow of words, and both read on
again:

"At three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon madame was driven away in the
carriage, and I did not see it return all that evening. Of course, it
may have returned to the stables by another road. But it was not
unusual 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 I
rose 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 in
the middle of the room I heard the sound of carriage wheels in the
silent street. I went to the window, and, raising a corner of the
curtains, looked out. M. Gobin called to me fretfully from the bed to
know why I did not light the candle and get him what he wanted. I have
already told you how fretful sick men can be, always complaining if
just 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 to
raise the blind and look out of the window! For if I had obeyed my
husband I might have lost four thousand francs. And four thousand
francs are not to be sneezed at by a poor woman whose husband lies in
bed.

"I saw the carriage stop at Mme. Rossignol's house. Almost at once the
house door was opened by the old servant, although the hall of the
house and all the windows in the front were dark. That was the first
thing that surprised me. For when madame came home late and the house
was dark, she used to let herself in with a latchkey. Now, in the dark
house, in the early morning, a servant was watching for them. It was
strange.

"As soon as the door of the house was opened the door of the carriage
opened 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. The
night was clear, and there was a lamp in the street close by the door
of Mme. Rossignol's house. As she turned I saw her face under the big
green hat. It was very pretty and young, and the hair was fair. She
wore a white coat, but it was open in front and showed her evening
frock of pale green. When she lifted her skirt I saw the buckles
sparkling on her satin shoes. It was the young lady for whom you are
advertising, I am sure. She remained standing just for a moment without
moving, while Mme. Rossignol got out. I was surprised to see a young
lady of such distinction in Mme. Rossignol's company. Then, still
holding her skirt up, she ran very lightly and quickly across the
pavement into the dark house. I thought, monsieur, that she was very
anxious not to be seen. So when I saw your advertisement I was certain
that this was the young lady for whom you are searching.

"I waited for a few moments and saw the carriage drive off towards the
stable at the end of the street. But no light went up in any of the
rooms in front of the house. And M. Gobin was so fretful that I dropped
the corner of the blind, lit the candle, and gave him his cooling
drink. His watch was on the table at the bedside, and I saw that it was
five minutes to three. I will send you a telegram tomorrow, as soon as
I am sure at what hour I can leave my husband. Accept, monsieur, I beg
you, my most distinguished salutations.

"MARTHE GOBIN."

Hanaud leant back with an extraordinary look of perplexity upon his
face. But to Ricardo the whole story was now clear. Here was an
independent witness, without the jealousy or rancours of Helene
Vauquier. Nothing could be more damning than her statement; it
corroborated those footmarks upon the soil in front of the glass door
of the salon. There was nothing to be done except to set about
arresting Mlle. Celie at once.

"The facts work with your theory, M. Hanaud. The young man with the
black moustache did not return to the house at Geneva. For somewhere
upon the road close to Geneva he met the carriage. He was driving back
the car to Aix—" And then another thought struck him: "But no!" he
cried. "We are altogether wrong. See! They did not reach home until
five minutes to three."

Five minutes to three! But this demolished the whole of Hanaud's theory
about the motor-car. The murderers had left the villa between eleven
and twelve, probably before half-past eleven. The car was a machine of
sixty horse-power, and the roads were certain to be clear. Yet the
travellers only reached their home at three. Moreover, the car was back
in 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. "A
quarter to three in Mme. Gobin's house would be a quarter to two by our
watches here."

Hanaud folded up the letter, and rose to his feet.

"We will go now, and we will take this letter with us." Hanaud looked
about the room, and picked up a glove lying upon a table. "I left this
behind me," he said, putting it into his pocket. "By the way, where is
the 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. His
face lightened.

"Good!" he said emphatically. "For, since we have this telegram, there
must have been another message sent from Adele Rossignol to Aix saying
that Marthe Gobin, that busybody, that inquisitive neighbour, who had
no doubt seen M. Ricardo's advertisement, was on her way hither. Oh it
will not be put as crudely as that, but that is what the message will
mean. We shall have him." And suddenly his face grew very stern. "I
MUST catch him, for Marthe Gobin's death I cannot forgive. A poor woman
meaning no harm, and murdered like a sheep under our noses. No, that I
cannot forgive."

Ricardo wondered whether it was the actual murder of Marthe Gobin or
the fact that he had been beaten and outwitted which Hanaud could not
forgive. But discretion kept him silent.

"Let us go," said Hanaud. "By the lift, if you please; it will save
time."

They descended into the hall close by the main door. The body of Marthe
Gobin had been removed to the mortuary of the town. The life of the
hotel 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: "across
the 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 the
hotel 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 his
wits' 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. "The
murder of Marthe Gobin on her way from the station will put our friends
at 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."

"I have telephoned to Lemerre, the Chef de la Surete at Geneva," said
Hanaud, as the car sped out of Aix along the road to Annecy. "He will
have the house watched. We shall be in time. They will do nothing until
dark."

But though he spoke confidently there was a note of anxiety in his
voice, and he sat forward in the car, as though he were already
straining his eyes to see Geneva.

Ricardo was a trifle disappointed. They were on the great journey to
Geneva. They were going to arrest Mlle. Celie and her accomplices. And
Hanaud had not come disguised. Hanaud, in Ricardo's eyes, was hardly
living up to the dramatic expedition on which they had set out. It
seemed to him that there was something incorrect in the great detective
coming out on the chase without a false beard.

"But, my dear friend, why shouldn't I?" pleaded Hanaud. "We are going
to dine together at the Restaurant du Nord, over the lake, until it
grows dark. It is not pleasant to eat one's soup in a false beard. Have
you tried it? Besides, everybody stares so, seeing perfectly well that
it is false. Now, I do not want tonight that people should know me for
a detective; so I do not go disguised."

"Humorist!" said Mr. Ricardo.

"There! you have found me out!" cried Hanaud, in mock alarm. "Besides,
I told you this morning that that is precisely what I am."

Beyond Annecy, they came to the bridge over the ravine. At the far end
of it, the car stopped. A question, a hurried glance into the body of
the car, and the officers of the Customs stood aside.

"You see how perfunctory it is," said Hanaud and with a jerk the car
moved on. The jerk threw Hanaud against Mr. Ricardo. Something hard in
the detective's pocket knocked against his companion.

"You have got them?" he whispered.

"What?"

"The handcuffs."

Another disappointment awaited Ricardo. A detective without a false
beard was bad enough, but that was nothing to a detective without
handcuffs. The paraphernalia of justice were sadly lacking. However,
Hanaud consoled Mr. Ricardo by showing him the hard thing; it was
almost as thrilling as the handcuffs, for it was a loaded revolver.

"There will be danger, then?" said Ricardo, with a tremor of
excitement. "I should have brought mine."

"There would have been danger, my friend," Hanaud objected gravely, "if
you had brought yours."

They reached Geneva as the dusk was falling, and drove straight to the
restaurant by the side of the lake and mounted to the balcony on the
first floor. A small, stout man sat at a table alone in a corner of the
balcony. He rose and held out his hands.

"My friend, M. Lemerre, the Chef de la Surete of Geneva," said Hanaud,
presenting the little man to his companion.

There were as yet only two couples dining in the restaurant, and Hanaud
spoke so that neither could overhear him. He sat down at the table.

"What news?" he asked.

"None," said Lemerre. "No one has come out of the house, no one has
gone in."

"And if anything happens while we dine?"

"We shall know," said Lemerre. "Look, there is a man loitering under
the trees there. He will strike a match to light his pipe."

The hurried conversation was ended.

"Good," said Hanaud. "We will dine, then, and be gay."

He called to the waiter and ordered dinner. It was after seven when
they sat down to dinner, and they dined while the dusk deepened. In the
street below the lights flashed out, throwing a sheen on the foliage of
the trees at the water's side. Upon the dark lake the reflections of
lamps rippled and shook. A boat in which musicians sang to music,
passed by with a cool splash of oars. The green and red lights of the
launches glided backwards and forwards. Hanaud alone of the party on
the balcony tried to keep the conversation upon a light and general
level. But it was plain that even he was overdoing his gaiety. There
were moments when a sudden contraction of the muscles would clench his
hands and give a spasmodic jerk to his shoulders. He was waiting
uneasily, uncomfortably, until darkness should come.

"Eat," he cried—"eat, my friends," playing with his own barely tasted
food.

And then, at a sentence from Lemerre, his knife and fork clattered on
his plate, and he sat with a face suddenly grown white.

For Lemerre said, as though it was no more than a matter of ordinary
comment:

"So Mme. Dauvray's jewels were, after all, never stolen?"