At the Villa Rose (2 page)

"Well, Celie, are you ready to go home?"

The girl looked up with a start.

"Of course, madame," she said, with a certain submissiveness which
surprised Ricardo. "I hope I have not kept you waiting."

She ran to the cloak-room, and came back again with her cloak.

"Good-bye, Harry," she said, dwelling upon his name and looking out
upon him with soft and smiling eyes.

"I shall see you tomorrow evening," he said, holding her hand. Again
she let it stay within his keeping, but she frowned, and a sudden
gravity settled like a cloud upon her face. She turned to the elder
woman with a sort of appeal.

"No, I do not think we shall be here, tomorrow, shall we, madame?" she
said reluctantly.

"Of course not," said madame briskly. "You have not forgotten what we
have planned? No, we shall not be here tomorrow; but the night
after—yes."

Celia turned back again to Wethermill.

"Yes, we have plans for tomorrow," she said, with a very wistful note
of regret in her voice; and seeing that madame was already at the door,
she bent forward and said timidly, "But the night after I shall want
you."

"I shall thank you for wanting me," Wethermill rejoined; and the girl
tore her hand away and ran up the steps.

Harry Wethermill returned to the rooms. Mr. Ricardo did not follow him.
He was too busy with the little problem which had been presented to him
that night. What could that girl, he asked himself, have in common with
the raddled woman she addressed so respectfully? Indeed, there had been
a note of more than respect in her voice. There had been something of
affection. Again Mr. Ricardo found himself wondering in what street in
Bohemia Celia dwelt—and as he walked up to the hotel there came yet
other questions to amuse him.

"Why," he asked, "could neither Celia nor madame come to the Villa des
Fleurs tomorrow night? What are the plans they have made? And what was
it in those plans which had brought the sudden gravity and reluctance
into Celia's face?"

Ricardo had reason to remember those questions during the next few
days, though he only idled with them now.

It was on a Monday evening that Ricardo saw Harry Wethermill and the
girl Celia together. On the Tuesday he saw Wethermill in the rooms
alone and had some talk with him.

Wethermill was not playing that night, and about ten o'clock the two
men left the Villa des Fleurs together.

"Which way do you go?" asked Wethermill.

"Up the hill to the Hotel Majestic," said Ricardo.

"We go together, then. I, too, am staying there," said the young man,
and they climbed the steep streets together. Ricardo was dying to put
some questions about Wethermill's young friend of the night before, but
discretion kept him reluctantly silent. They chatted for a few moments
in the hall upon indifferent topics and so separated for the night. Mr.
Ricardo, however, was to learn something more of Celia the next
morning; for while he was fixing his tie before the mirror Wethermill
burst into his dressing-room. Mr. Ricardo forgot his curiosity in the
surge of his indignation. Such an invasion was an unprecedented outrage
upon the gentle tenor of his life. The business of the morning toilette
was sacred. To interrupt it carried a subtle suggestion of anarchy.
Where was his valet? Where was Charles, who should have guarded the
door like the custodian of a chapel?

"I cannot speak to you for at least another half-hour," said Mr.
Ricardo, sternly.

But Harry Wethermill was out of breath and shaking with agitation.

"I can't wait," he cried, with a passionate appeal. "I have got to see
you. You must help me, Mr. Ricardo—you must, indeed!"

Ricardo spun round upon his heel. At first he had thought that the help
wanted was the help usually wanted at Aix-les-Bains. A glance at
Wethermills face, however, and the ringing note of anguish in his
voice, told him that the thought was wrong. Mr. Ricardo slipped out of
his affectations as out of a loose coat. "What has happened?" he asked
quietly.

"Something terrible." With shaking fingers Wethermill held out a
newspaper. "Read it," he said.

It was a special edition of a local newspaper, Le Journal de Savoie,
and it bore the date of that morning.

"They are crying it in the streets," said Wethermill. "Read!"

A short paragraph was printed in large black letters on the first page,
and leaped to the eyes.

"Late last night," it ran, "an appalling murder was committed at the
Villa Rose, on the road to Lac Bourget. Mme. Camille Dauvray, an
elderly, rich woman who was well known at Aix, and had occupied the
villa every summer for the last few years, was discovered on the floor
of her salon, fully dressed and brutally strangled, while upstairs, her
maid, Helene Vauquier, was found in bed, chloroformed, with her hands
tied securely behind her back. At the time of going to press she had
not recovered consciousness, but the doctor, Emile Peytin, is in
attendance upon her, and it is hoped that she will be able shortly to
throw some light on this dastardly affair. The police are properly
reticent as to the details of the crime, but the following statement
may be accepted without hesitation:

"The murder was discovered at twelve o'clock at night by the
sergent-de-ville Perrichet, to whose intelligence more than a word of
praise is due, and it is obvious from the absence of all marks upon the
door and windows that the murderer was admitted from within the villa.
Meanwhile Mme. Dauvray's motor-car has disappeared, and with it a young
Englishwoman who came to Aix with her as her companion. The motive of
the crime leaps to the eyes. Mme. Dauvray was famous in Aix for her
jewels, which she wore with too little prudence. The condition of the
house shows that a careful search was made for them, and they have
disappeared. It is anticipated that a description of the young
Englishwoman, with a reward for her apprehension, will be issued
immediately. And it is not too much to hope that the citizens of Aix,
and indeed of Prance, will be cleared of all participation in so cruel
and sinister a crime."

Ricardo read through the paragraph with a growing consternation, and
laid the paper upon his dressing-table.

"It is infamous," cried Wethermill passionately.

"The young Englishwoman is, I suppose, your friend Miss Celia?" said
Ricardo slowly.

Wethermill started forward.

"You know her, then?" he cried in amazement.

"No; but I saw her with you in the rooms. I heard you call her by that
name."

"You saw us together?" exclaimed Wethermill. "Then you can understand
how infamous the suggestion is."

But Ricardo had seen the girl half an hour before he had seen her with
Harry Wethermill. He could not but vividly remember the picture of her
as she flung herself on to the bench in the garden in a moment of
hysteria, and petulantly kicked a satin slipper backwards and forwards
against the stones. She was young, she was pretty, she had a charm of
freshness, but—but—strive against it as he would, this picture in the
recollection began more and more to wear a sinister aspect. He
remembered some words spoken by a stranger. "She is pretty, that little
one. It is regrettable that she has lost."

Mr. Ricardo arranged his tie with even a greater deliberation than he
usually employed.

"And Mme. Dauvray?" he asked. "She was the stout woman with whom your
young friend went away?"

"Yes," said Wethermill.

Ricardo turned round from the mirror.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Hanaud is at Aix. He is the cleverest of the French detectives. You
know him. He dined with you once."

It was Mr. Ricardo's practice to collect celebrities round his
dinner-table, and at one such gathering Hanaud and Wethermill had been
present together.

"You wish me to approach him?"

"At once."

"It is a delicate position," said Ricardo. "Here is a man in charge of
a case of murder, and we are quietly to go to him—"

To his relief Wethermill interrupted him.

"No, no," he cried; "he is not in charge of the case. He is on his
holiday. I read of his arrival two days ago in the newspaper. It was
stated that he came for rest. What I want is that he should take charge
of the case."

The superb confidence of Wethermill shook Mr. Ricardo for a moment, but
his recollections were too clear.

"You are going out of your way to launch the acutest of French
detectives in search of this girl. Are you wise, Wethermill?"

Wethermill sprang up from his chair in desperation.

"You, too, think her guilty! You have seen her. You think her
guilty—like this detestable newspaper, like the police."

"Like the police?" asked Ricardo sharply.

"Yes," said Harry Wethermill sullenly. "As soon as I saw that rag I ran
down to the villa. The police are in possession. They would not let me
into the garden. But I talked with one of them. They, too, think that
she let in the murderers."

Ricardo took a turn across the room. Then he came to a stop in front of
Wethermill.

"Listen to me," he said solemnly. "I saw this girl half an hour before
I saw you. She rushed out into the garden. She flung herself on to a
bench. She could not sit still. She was hysterical. You know what that
means. She had been losing. That's point number one."

Mr. Ricardo ticked it off upon his finger.

"She ran back into the rooms. You asked her to share the winnings of
your bank. She consented eagerly. And you lost. That's point number
two. A little later, as she was going away, you asked her whether she
would be in the rooms the next night—yesterday night—the night when
the murder was committed. Her face clouded over. She hesitated. She
became more than grave. There was a distinct impression as though she
shrank from the contemplation of what it was proposed she should do on
the next night. And then she answered you, 'No, we have other plans.'
That's number three." And Mr. Ricardo ticked off his third point.

"Now," he asked, "do you still ask me to launch Hanaud upon the case?"

"Yes, and at once," cried Wethermill.

Ricardo called for his hat and his stick.

"You know where Hanaud is staying?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Wethermill, and he led Ricardo to an unpretentious
little hotel in the centre of the town. Ricardo sent in his name, and
the two visitors were immediately shown into a small sitting-room,
where M. Hanaud was enjoying his morning chocolate. He was stout and
broad-shouldered, with a full and almost heavy face. In his morning
suit at his breakfast-table he looked like a prosperous comedian.

He came forward with a smile of welcome, extending both his hands to
Mr. Ricardo.

"Ah, my good friend," he said, "it is pleasant to see you. And Mr.
Wethermill," he exclaimed, holding a hand out to the young inventor.

"You remember me, then?" said Wethermill gladly.

"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'lnstruction 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."