story true?
(e) What did the torn-up scrap of writing mean? (Probably spirit
writing 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 another
question. He was inclined to ask whether or no a pot of cold cream had
disappeared from Celia Harland's bedroom; but he remembered that Hanaud
had set no store upon that incident, and he refrained. Moreover, he had
come to the end of his sheet of paper. He handed it across the table to
Hanaud and leaned back in his chair, watching the detective with all
the eagerness of a young author submitting his first effort to a critic.
Hanaud read it through slowly. At the end he nodded his head in
approval.
"Now we will see what M. Wethermill has to say," he said, and he
stretched out the paper towards Harry Wethermill, who throughout the
luncheon had not said a word.
"No, no," cried Ricardo.
But Harry Wethermill already held the written sheet in his hand. He
smiled rather wistfully at his friend.
"It is best that I should know just what you both think," he said, and
in his turn he began to read the paper through. He read the first eight
points, 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 an
explanation—if only we can discover it."
He buried his face for a moment in his hands. Then he took up the paper
again.
"As for the rest, Helene Vauquier lied," he cried violently, and he
tossed 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 to
determine the ship's position—the captain, the first officer, and the
second officer. Each writes his observation down, and the captain takes
the three observations and compares them. If the first or second
officer is out in his reckoning, the captain tells him so, but he does
not 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 most
important, which alone can lead us to the truth—how do they come to be
omitted from your list, Mr. Ricardo?"
Hanaud put the question with his most serious air. But Ricardo was none
the less sensible of the raillery behind the solemn manner. He flushed
and made no answer.
"Still," continued Hanaud, "here are undoubtedly some questions. Let us
consider them! Who was the man who took a part in the crime? Ah, if we
only knew that, what a lot of trouble we should save ourselves! Who was
the 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! What
did actually happen in the salon?" And as he quoted that question the
raillery died out of his voice. He leaned his elbows on the table and
bent forward.
"What did actually happen in that little pretty room, just twelve hours
ago?" he repeated. "When no sunlight blazed upon the lawn, and all the
birds were still, and all the windows shuttered and the world dark,
what happened? What dreadful things happened? We have not much to go
upon. Let us formulate what we know. We start with this. The murder was
not 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, no
violence. On each side of the Villa Rose there are other villas; a few
yards away the road runs past. A scream, a cry, the noise of a
struggle—these sounds, or any one of them, might be fatal to success.
Thus the crime was planned; and there WAS no scream, there WAS no
struggle. Not a chair was broken, and only a chair upset.
(e) What did the torn-up scrap of writing mean? (Probably spirit
writing 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 another
question. He was inclined to ask whether or no a pot of cold cream had
disappeared from Celia Harland's bedroom; but he remembered that Hanaud
had set no store upon that incident, and he refrained. Moreover, he had
come to the end of his sheet of paper. He handed it across the table to
Hanaud and leaned back in his chair, watching the detective with all
the eagerness of a young author submitting his first effort to a critic.
Hanaud read it through slowly. At the end he nodded his head in
approval.
"Now we will see what M. Wethermill has to say," he said, and he
stretched out the paper towards Harry Wethermill, who throughout the
luncheon had not said a word.
"No, no," cried Ricardo.
But Harry Wethermill already held the written sheet in his hand. He
smiled rather wistfully at his friend.
"It is best that I should know just what you both think," he said, and
in his turn he began to read the paper through. He read the first eight
points, 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 an
explanation—if only we can discover it."
He buried his face for a moment in his hands. Then he took up the paper
again.
"As for the rest, Helene Vauquier lied," he cried violently, and he
tossed 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 to
determine the ship's position—the captain, the first officer, and the
second officer. Each writes his observation down, and the captain takes
the three observations and compares them. If the first or second
officer is out in his reckoning, the captain tells him so, but he does
not 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 most
important, which alone can lead us to the truth—how do they come to be
omitted from your list, Mr. Ricardo?"
Hanaud put the question with his most serious air. But Ricardo was none
the less sensible of the raillery behind the solemn manner. He flushed
and made no answer.
"Still," continued Hanaud, "here are undoubtedly some questions. Let us
consider them! Who was the man who took a part in the crime? Ah, if we
only knew that, what a lot of trouble we should save ourselves! Who was
the 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! What
did actually happen in the salon?" And as he quoted that question the
raillery died out of his voice. He leaned his elbows on the table and
bent forward.
"What did actually happen in that little pretty room, just twelve hours
ago?" he repeated. "When no sunlight blazed upon the lawn, and all the
birds were still, and all the windows shuttered and the world dark,
what happened? What dreadful things happened? We have not much to go
upon. Let us formulate what we know. We start with this. The murder was
not 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, no
violence. On each side of the Villa Rose there are other villas; a few
yards away the road runs past. A scream, a cry, the noise of a
struggle—these sounds, or any one of them, might be fatal to success.
Thus the crime was planned; and there WAS no scream, there WAS no
struggle. Not a chair was broken, and only a chair upset.
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