Yes, there
were brains behind that murder. We know that. But what do we know of
the plan? How far can we build it up? Let us see. First, there was an
accomplice in the house—perhaps two."
"No!" cried Harry Wethermill.
Hanaud took no notice of the interruption.
"Secondly the woman came to the house with Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie
between nine and half-past nine. Thirdly, the man came afterwards, but
before eleven, set open the gate, and was admitted into the salon,
unperceived by Mme. Dauvray. That also we can safely assume. But what
happened in the salon? Ah! There is the question." Then he shrugged his
shoulders and said with the note of raillery once more in his voice:
"But why should we trouble our heads to puzzle out this mystery, since
M. Ricardo knows?"
"I?" cried Ricardo in amazement.
"To be sure," replied Hanaud calmly. "For I look at another of your
questions. 'WHAT DID THE TORN-UP SCRAP OF WRITING MEAN?' and you add:
'Probably spirit-writing.' Then there was a seance held last night in
the little salon! Is that so?"
Harry Wethermill started. Mr. Ricardo was at a loss.
"I had not followed my suggestion to its conclusion," he admitted
humbly.
"No," said Hanaud. "But I ask myself in sober earnest, 'Was there a
seance held in the salon last night?' Did the tambourine rattle in the
darkness on the wall?"
"But if Helene Vauquier's story is all untrue?" cried Wethermill, again
in exasperation.
"Patience, my friend. Her story was not all untrue. I say there were
brains behind this crime; yes, but brains, even the cleverest, would
not have invented this queer, strange story of the seances and of Mme.
de Montespan. That is truth. But yet, if there were a seance held, if
the scrap of paper were spirit-writing in answer to some awkward
question, why—and here I come to my first question, which M. Ricardo
has omitted—why did Mlle. Celie dress herself with so much elegance
last night? What Vauquier said is true. Her dress was not suited to a
seance. A light-coloured, rustling frock, which would be visible in a
dim light, or even in the dark, which would certainly be heard at every
movement she made, however lightly she stepped, and a big hat—no no! I
tell you, gentlemen, we shall not get to the bottom of this mystery
until we know why Mlle. Celie dressed herself as she did last night."
"Yes," Ricardo admitted. "I overlooked that point." "Did she—" Hanaud
broke off and bowed to Wethermill with a grace and a respect which
condoned his words. "You must bear with me, my young friend, while I
consider all these points. Did she expect to join that night a lover—a
man with the brains to devise this crime? But if so—and here I come to
the second question omitted from M. Ricardo's list—why, on the patch
of grass outside the door of the salon, were the footsteps of the man
and woman so carefully erased, and the footsteps of Mlle. Celie—those
little footsteps so easily identified—left for all the world to see
and recognise?"
Ricardo felt like a child in the presence of his schoolmaster. He was
convicted of presumption. He had set down his questions with the belief
that they covered the ground. And here were two of the utmost
importance, not forgotten, but never even thought of.
"Did she go, before the murder, to join a lover? Or after it? At some
time, you will remember, according to Vauquier's story, she must have
run upstairs to fetch her coat. Was the murder committed during the
interval when she was upstairs? Was the salon dark when she came down
again? Did she run through it quickly, eagerly, noticing nothing amiss?
And, indeed, how should she notice anything if the salon were dark, and
Mme. Dauvray's body lay under the windows at the side?"
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
were brains behind that murder. We know that. But what do we know of
the plan? How far can we build it up? Let us see. First, there was an
accomplice in the house—perhaps two."
"No!" cried Harry Wethermill.
Hanaud took no notice of the interruption.
"Secondly the woman came to the house with Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie
between nine and half-past nine. Thirdly, the man came afterwards, but
before eleven, set open the gate, and was admitted into the salon,
unperceived by Mme. Dauvray. That also we can safely assume. But what
happened in the salon? Ah! There is the question." Then he shrugged his
shoulders and said with the note of raillery once more in his voice:
"But why should we trouble our heads to puzzle out this mystery, since
M. Ricardo knows?"
"I?" cried Ricardo in amazement.
"To be sure," replied Hanaud calmly. "For I look at another of your
questions. 'WHAT DID THE TORN-UP SCRAP OF WRITING MEAN?' and you add:
'Probably spirit-writing.' Then there was a seance held last night in
the little salon! Is that so?"
Harry Wethermill started. Mr. Ricardo was at a loss.
"I had not followed my suggestion to its conclusion," he admitted
humbly.
"No," said Hanaud. "But I ask myself in sober earnest, 'Was there a
seance held in the salon last night?' Did the tambourine rattle in the
darkness on the wall?"
"But if Helene Vauquier's story is all untrue?" cried Wethermill, again
in exasperation.
"Patience, my friend. Her story was not all untrue. I say there were
brains behind this crime; yes, but brains, even the cleverest, would
not have invented this queer, strange story of the seances and of Mme.
de Montespan. That is truth. But yet, if there were a seance held, if
the scrap of paper were spirit-writing in answer to some awkward
question, why—and here I come to my first question, which M. Ricardo
has omitted—why did Mlle. Celie dress herself with so much elegance
last night? What Vauquier said is true. Her dress was not suited to a
seance. A light-coloured, rustling frock, which would be visible in a
dim light, or even in the dark, which would certainly be heard at every
movement she made, however lightly she stepped, and a big hat—no no! I
tell you, gentlemen, we shall not get to the bottom of this mystery
until we know why Mlle. Celie dressed herself as she did last night."
"Yes," Ricardo admitted. "I overlooked that point." "Did she—" Hanaud
broke off and bowed to Wethermill with a grace and a respect which
condoned his words. "You must bear with me, my young friend, while I
consider all these points. Did she expect to join that night a lover—a
man with the brains to devise this crime? But if so—and here I come to
the second question omitted from M. Ricardo's list—why, on the patch
of grass outside the door of the salon, were the footsteps of the man
and woman so carefully erased, and the footsteps of Mlle. Celie—those
little footsteps so easily identified—left for all the world to see
and recognise?"
Ricardo felt like a child in the presence of his schoolmaster. He was
convicted of presumption. He had set down his questions with the belief
that they covered the ground. And here were two of the utmost
importance, not forgotten, but never even thought of.
"Did she go, before the murder, to join a lover? Or after it? At some
time, you will remember, according to Vauquier's story, she must have
run upstairs to fetch her coat. Was the murder committed during the
interval when she was upstairs? Was the salon dark when she came down
again? Did she run through it quickly, eagerly, noticing nothing amiss?
And, indeed, how should she notice anything if the salon were dark, and
Mme. Dauvray's body lay under the windows at the side?"
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
Similar Books
