At the Villa Rose

by A. E. W. Mason

  Ricardo leaned forward eagerly.

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

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

  There was so much pain and misery in his voice that Ricardo was moved as he had seldom been. Wethermill buried his face in his hands. Hanaud shook his head and gazed across the table at Ricardo with an expression which the latter was at no loss to understand. Lovers were impracticable people. But he—Hanaud—he knew the world. Women had fooled men before today.

  Wethermill snatched his hands away from before his face.

  "We talk theories," he cried desperately, "of what may have happened at the villa. But we are not by one inch nearer to the man and woman who committed 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. He has left no trace. Look at this town of Aix, where people come and go like a crowd about the baccarat-table! He may be at Marseilles today. He may be in this very room where we are taking our luncheon. How shall we 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 looked up with a sudden interest. "All the time that we have been lunching here the intelligent Perrichet has been making inquiries. Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie left the Villa Rose at five, and returned on foot soon after nine with the strange woman. And there I see Perrichet himself waiting to be summoned."

  Hanaud beckoned towards the sergent-de-ville.

  "Perrichet will make an excellent detective," he said; "for he looks more 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 she bought the cord. But a few minutes later, in the Rue du Casino, she and Mme. Dauvray were seen together, walking slowly in the direction of the villa. No other woman was with them."

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

  "You see, we shall find out nothing—nothing," said Wethermill, with a groan.

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

  "True," exclaimed Ricardo. "We have Helene Vauquier's description of her. 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 of self-reproach. "Why did not such a fine idea occur to me, fool that I am! 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 that little table over there! I kept it for them. But monsieur knows well"—and the waiter looked towards Harry Wethermill—"for monsieur was often with them."

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

  "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 in the 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 the Majestic."

  "You reached your hotel at ten," Hanaud repeated. "Did you walk straight 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 have been here last night," Hanaud agreed, and sat for a moment silent. Then he 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 in amazement. 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 Vauquier described her. She was sallow; her eyes, her hair, were dark."

  Hanaud turned with a smile to Harry Wethermill.

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

  "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 I have taken the trouble to find out, is grey. It is therefore from the head of our unknown woman. And I will tell you more. This woman with the red hair—she is in Geneva."

  A startled exclamation burst from Ricardo. Harry Wethermill sat slowly down. For the first time that day there had come some colour into his cheeks, 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 was obviously 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 do not show you my observation." Ricardo was disappointed. Harry Wethermill, however, started to his feet.

  "We must search Geneva, then," he cried. "It is there that we should be, 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 is not easy to search Geneva and find, when we know nothing about the woman for whom we are searching, except that her hair is red, and that probably a young girl last night was with her. It is rather here, I think—in Aix—that we must keep our eyes wide open."

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

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

  Hanaud pointed to a messenger who was walking towards them. The man handed 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 hand upon his sleeve.

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

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

  "Again," he said gravely, "I am to remind you that I am captain of the ship 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 Villa des Fl
eurs together.

  Chapter IX - Mme Dauvray's Motor-Car

  *

  They got into a cab outside the door. Perrichet mounted the box, and the cab was driven along the upward-winding road past the Hotel Bernascon. A hundred yards beyond the hotel the cab stopped opposite to a villa. A hedge separated the garden of the villa from the road, and above the hedge rose a board with the words "To Let" upon it. At the gate a gendarme was standing, and just within the gate Ricardo saw Louis Besnard, the Commissaire, and Servettaz, Mme. Dauvray's chauffeur.

  "It is here," said Besnard, as the party descended from the cab, "in the coach-house of this empty villa."

  "Here?" cried Ricardo in amazement.

  The discovery upset all his theories. He had expected to hear that it had been found fifty leagues away; but here, within a couple of miles of the Villa Rose itself—the idea seemed absurd! Why take it away at all—unless it was taken away as a blind? That supposition found its way into Ricardo's mind, and gathered strength as he thought upon it; for Hanaud had seemed to lean to the belief that one of the murderers might be still in Aix. Indeed, a glance at him showed that he was not discomposed by their discovery.

  "When was it found?" Hanaud asked.

  "This morning. A gardener comes to the villa on two days a week to keep the grounds in order. Fortunately Wednesday is one of his days. Fortunately, too, there was rain yesterday evening. He noticed the tracks of the wheels which you can see on the gravel, and since the villa is empty he was surprised. He found the coach-house door forced and the motor-car inside it. When he went to his luncheon he brought the news of his discovery to the depot."

  The party followed the Commissaire along the drive to the coach-house.

  "We will have the car brought out," said Hanaud to Servettaz.

  It was a big and powerful machine with a limousine body, luxuriously fitted and cushioned in the shade of light grey. The outside panels of the car were painted a dark grey. The car had hardly been brought out into the sunlight before a cry of stupefaction burst from the lips of Perrichet.

  "Oh!" he cried, in utter abasement. "I shall never forgive myself—never, never!"

  "Why?" Hanaud asked, turning sharply as he spoke.

  Perrichet was standing with his round eyes staring and his mouth agape.

  "Because, monsieur, I saw that car—at four o'clock this morning—at the corner of the road—not fifty yards from the Villa Rose."

  "What!" cried Ricardo.

  "You saw it!" exclaimed Wethermill.

  Upon their faces was reflected now the stupefaction of Perrichet.

  "But you must have made a mistake," said the Commissaire.

  "No, no, monsieur," Perrichet insisted. "It was that car. It was that number. It was just after daylight. I was standing outside the gate of the villa on duty where M. le Commissaire had placed me. The car appeared at the corner and slackened speed. It seemed to me that it was going to turn into the road and come down past me. But instead the driver, as if he were now sure of his way, put the car at its top speed and went on into Aix."

  "Was any one inside the car?" asked Hanaud.

  "No, monsieur; it was empty."

  "But you saw the driver!" exclaimed Wethermill.

  "Yes; what was he like?" cried the Commissaire.

  Perrichet shook his head mournfully.

  "He wore a talc mask over the upper part of his face, and had a little black moustache, and was dressed in a heavy great-coat of blue with a white collar."

  "That is my coat, monsieur," said Servettaz, and as he spoke he lifted it up from the chauffeur's seat. "It is Mme. Dauvray's livery."

  Harry Wethermill groaned aloud.

  "We have lost him. He was within our grasp—he, the murderer!—and he was allowed to go!"

  Perrichet's grief was pitiable.

  "Monsieur," he pleaded, "a car slackens its speed and goes on again—it is not so unusual a thing. I did not know the number of Mme. Dauvray's car. I did not even know that it had disappeared"; and suddenly tears of mortification filled his eyes. "But why do I make these excuses?" he cried. "It is better, M. Hanaud, that I go back to my uniform and stand at the street corner. I am as foolish as I look."

  "Nonsense, my friend," said Hanaud, clapping the disconsolate man upon the shoulder. "You remembered the car and its number. That is something—and perhaps a great deal," he added gravely. "As for the talc mask and the black moustache, that is not much to help us, it is true." He looked at Ricardo's crestfallen face and smiled. "We might arrest our good friend M. Ricardo upon that evidence, but no one else that I know."

  Hanaud laughed immoderately at his joke. He alone seemed to feel no disappointment at Perrichet's oversight. Ricardo was a little touchy on the subject of his personal appearance, and bridled visibly. Hanaud turned towards Servettaz.

  "Now," he said, "you know how much petrol was taken from the garage?"

  "Yes, monsieur."

  "Can you tell me, by the amount which has been used, how far that car was driven last night?" Hanaud asked.

  Servettaz examined the tank.

  "A long way, monsieur. From a hundred and thirty to a hundred and fifty kilometers, I should say."

  "Yes, just about that distance, I should say," cried Hanaud.

  His eyes brightened, and a smile, a rather fierce smile, came to his lips. He opened the door, and examined with a minute scrutiny the floor of the carriage, and as he looked, the smile faded from his face. Perplexity returned to it. He took the cushions, looked them over and shook them out.

  "I see no sign—" he began, and then he uttered a little shrill cry of satisfaction. From the crack of the door by the hinge he picked off a tiny piece of pale green stuff, which he spread out upon the back of his hand.

  "Tell me, what is this?" he said to Ricardo.

  "It is a green fabric," said Ricardo very wisely.

  "It is green chiffon," said Hanaud. "And the frock in which Mlle. Celie went away was of green chiffon over satin. Yes, Mlle. Celie travelled in this car."

  He hurried to the driver's seat. Upon the floor there was some dark mould. Hanaud cleaned it off with his knife and held some of it in the palm of his hand. He turned to Servettaz.

  "You drove the car on Tuesday morning before you went to Chambery?"

  "Yes, monsieur."

  "Where did you take up Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie?"

  "At the front door of the Villa Rose."

  "Did you get down from the seat at all?"

  "No, monsieur; not after I left the garage."

  Hanaud returned to his companions.

  "See!" And he opened his hand. "This is black soil—moist from last night's rain—soil like the soil in front of Mme. Dauvray's salon. Look, here is even a blade or two of the grass"; and he turned the mould over in the palm of his hand. Then he took an empty envelope from his pocket and poured the soil into it and gummed the flap down. He stood and frowned at the motor-car.

  "Listen," he said, "how I am puzzled! There was a man last night at the Villa Rose. There were a man's blurred footmarks in the mould before the glass door. That man drove madame's car for a hundred and fifty kilometers, and he leaves the mould which clung to his boots upon the floor of his seat. Mlle. Celie and another woman drove away inside the car. Mlle. Celie leaves a fragment of the chiffon tunic of her frock which caught in the hinge. But Mlle. Celie made much clearer impressions in the mould than the man. Yet on the floor of the carriage there is no trace of her shoes. Again I say there is something here which I do not understand." And he spread out his hands with an impulsive gesture of despair.

  "It looks as if they had been careful and he careless," said Mr. Ricardo, with the air of a man solving a very difficult problem.

  "What a mind!" cried Hanaud, now clasping his hands together in admiration. "How quick and how profound!"

  There was at times something elephantinely elfish in M. Hanaud's demeanour, which left Mr. Ricardo at a loss. But he had come to notice that these undignified ma
nifestations usually took place when Hanaud had reached a definite opinion upon some point which had perplexed him.

  "Yet there is perhaps, another explanation," Hanaud continued. "For observe, M. Ricardo. We have other evidence to show that the careless one was Mlle. Celie. It was she who left her footsteps so plainly visible upon the grass, not the man. However, we will go back to M. Wethermill's room at the Hotel Majestic and talk this matter over. We know something now. Yes, we know—what do we know, monsieur?" he asked, suddenly turning with a smile to Ricardo, and, as Ricardo paused: "Think it over while we walk down to M. Wethermill's apartment in the Hotel Majestic."

  "We know that the murderer has escaped," replied Ricardo hotly.

  "The murderer is not now the most important object of our search. He is very likely at Marseilles by now. We shall lay our hands on him, never fear," replied Hanaud, with a superb gesture of disdain. "But it was thoughtful of you to remind me of him. I might so easily have clean forgotten him, and then indeed my reputation would have suffered an eclipse." He made a low, ironical bow to Ricardo and walked quickly down the road.

  "For a cumbersome man he is extraordinarily active," said Mr. Ricardo to Harry Wethermill, trying to laugh, without much success. "A heavy, clever, middle-aged man, liable to become a little gutter-boy at a moment's notice."

  Thus he described the great detective, and the description is quoted. For it was Ricardo's best effort in the whole of this business.

  The three men went straight to Harry Wethermill's apartment, which consisted of a sitting-room and a bedroom on the first floor. A balcony ran along outside. Hanaud stepped out on to it, looked about him, and returned.

  "It is as well to know that we cannot be overheard," he said.

  Harry Wethermill meanwhile had thrown himself into a chair. The mask he had worn had slipped from its fastenings for a moment. There was a look of infinite suffering upon his face. It was the face of a man tortured by misery to the snapping-point.