Servettaz glanced from one to another of the grave faces which confronted him.
“It was Mlle. Célie,” he said, “who told me.”
“Oh!” said Hanaud, slowly. “It was Mlle. Célie. When did she tell you?”
“On Monday morning, monsieur. I was cleaning the car. She came to the garage with some flowers in her hand which she had been cutting in the garden, and she said: ‘I was right, Alphonse. Madame has a kind heart. You can go tomorrow by the train which leaves Aix at 1:52 and arrives at Chambéry at nine minutes after two.’ ”
Hanaud started.
“ ‘I was right, Alphonse.’ Were those her words? And Madame has a kind heart.’ Come, come, what is all this?” He lifted a warning finger and said gravely, “Be very careful, Servettaz.”
“Those were her words, monsieur.”
“ ‘I was right, Alphonse. Madame has a kind heart’?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Then Mlle. Célie had spoken to you before about this visit of yours to Chambéry,” said Hanaud, with his eyes fixed steadily upon the chauffeur’s face. The distress upon Servettaz’s face increased. Suddenly Hanaud’s voice rang sharply. “You hesitate. Begin at the beginning. Speak the truth, Servettaz!”
“Monsieur, I am speaking the truth,” said the chauffeur. “It is true I hesitate … I have heard this morning what people are saying … I do not know what to think. Mlle. Célie was always kind and thoughtful for me … But it is true”—and with a kind of desperation he went on—“yes, it is true that it was Mlle. Célie who first suggested to me that I should ask for a day to go to Chambéry.”
“When did she suggest it?”
“On the Saturday.”
To Mr. Ricardo the words were startling. He glanced with pity towards Wethermill. Wethermill, however, had made up his mind for good and all. He stood with a dogged look upon his face, his chin thrust forward, his eyes upon the chauffeur. Besnard, the Commissaire, had made up his mind, too. He merely shrugged his shoulders. Hanaud stepped forward and laid his hand gently on the chauffeur’s arm.
“Come, my friend,” he said, “let us hear exactly how this happened!”
“Mlle. Célie,” said Servettaz, with genuine compunction in his voice, “came to the garage on Saturday morning and ordered the car for the afternoon. She stayed and talked to me for a little while, as she often did. She said that she had been told that my parents lived at Chambéry, and since I was so near I ought to ask for a holiday. For it would not be kind if I did not go and see them.”
“That was all?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Very well.” And the detective resumed at once his brisk voice and alert manner. He seemed to dismiss Servettaz’s admission from his mind. Ricardo had the impression of a man tying up an important document which for the moment he has done with, and putting it away ticketed in some pigeonhole in his desk. “Let us see the garage!”
They followed the road between the bushes until a turn showed them the garage with its doors open.
“The doors were found unlocked?”
“Just as you see them.”
Hanaud nodded. He spoke again to Servettaz. “What did you do with the key on Tuesday?”
“I gave it to Hélène Vauquier, monsieur, after I had locked up the garage. And she hung it on a nail in the kitchen.”
“I see,” said Hanaud. “So anyone could easily, have found it last night?”
“Yes, monsieur—if one knew where to look for it.”
At the back of the garage a row of petrol-tins stood against the brick wall.
“Was any petrol taken?” asked Hanaud.
“Yes, monsieur; there was very little petrol in the car when I went away. More was taken, but it was taken from the middle tins—these.” And he touched the tins.
“I see,” said Hanaud, and he raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. The Commissaire moved with impatience.
“From the middle or from the end—what does it matter?” he exclaimed. “The petrol was taken.”
Hanaud, however, did not dismiss the point so lightly.
“But it is very possible that it does matter,” he said gently. “For example, if Servettaz had had no reason to examine his tins it might have been some while before he found out that the petrol had been taken.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Servettaz. “I might even have forgotten that I had not used it myself.”
“Quite so,” said Hanaud, and he turned to Besnard. “I think that may be important. I do not know,” he said.
“But since the car is gone,” cried Besnard, “how could the chauffeur not look immediately at his tins?”
The question had occurred to Ricardo, and he wondered in what way Hanaud meant to answer it. Hanaud, however, did not mean to answer it. He took little notice of it at all. He put it aside with a superb indifference to the opinion which his companions might form of him.
“Ah, yes,” he said, carelessly. “Since the car is gone, as you say, that is so.” And he turned again to Servettaz.
“It was a powerful car?” he asked.
“Sixty horsepower,” said Servettaz.
Hanaud turned to the Commissaire.
“You have the number and description, I suppose? It will be as well to advertise for it. It may have been seen; it must be somewhere.”
The Commissaire replied that the description had already been printed, and Hanaud, with a nod of approval, examined the ground. In front of the garage there was a small stone courtyard, but on its surface there was no trace of a footstep.
“Yet the gravel was wet,” he said, shaking his head. “The man who fetched that car fetched it carefully.”
He turned and walked back with his eyes upon the ground. Then he ran to the grass border between the gravel and the bushes.
“Look!” he said to Wethermill; “a foot has pressed the blades of grass down here, but very lightly—yes, and there again. Someone ran along the border here on his toes. Yes, he was very careful.”
They turned again into the main drive, and, following it for a few yards, came suddenly upon a space in front of the villa. It was a small toy pleasure-house,
