“I should say,” said the Commissaire, “that Célie Harland went away wearing a new pair of shoes made on the very same last as those.”
As those she had left carelessly lying on the floor of her room for the first person to notice, thought Ricardo! It seemed as if the girl had gone out of her way to make the weight of evidence against her as heavy as possible. Yet, after all, it was just through inattention to the small details, so insignificant at the red moment of crime, so terribly instructive the next day, that guilt was generally brought home.
Hanaud rose to his feet and handed the shoes back to the officer.
“Yes,” he said, “so it seems. The shoemaker can help us here. I see the shoes were made in Aix.”
Besnard looked at the name stamped in gold letters upon the lining of the shoes.
“I will have inquiries made,” he said.
Hanaud nodded, took a measure from his pocket and measured the ground between the window and the first footstep, and between the first footstep and the other two.
“How tall is Mlle. Célie?” he asked, and he addressed the question to Wethermill. It struck Ricardo as one of the strangest details in all this strange affair that the detective should ask with confidence for information which might help to bring Celia Harland to the guillotine from the man who had staked his happiness upon her innocence.
“About five feet seven,” he answered.
Hanaud replaced his measure in his pocket. He turned with a grave face to Wethermill.
“I warned you fairly, didn’t I?” he said.
Wethermill’s white face twitched.
“Yes,” he said. “I am not afraid.” But there was more of anxiety in his voice than there had been before.
Hanaud pointed solemnly to the ground.
“Read the story those footprints write in the mould there. A young and active girl of about Mlle. Célie’s height, and wearing a new pair of Mlle. Célie’s shoes, springs from that room where the murder was committed, where the body of the murdered woman lies. She is running. She is wearing a long gown. At the second step the hem of the gown catches beneath the point of her shoe. She stumbles. To save herself from falling she brings up the other foot sharply and stamps the heel down into the ground. She recovers her balance. She steps on to the drive. It is true the gravel here is hard and takes no mark, but you will see that some of the mould which has clung to her shoes has dropped off. She mounts into the motorcar with the man and the other woman and drives off—some time between eleven and twelve.”
“Between eleven and twelve? Is that sure?” asked Besnard.
“Certainly,” replied Hanaud. “The gate is open at eleven, and Perrichet closes it. It is open again at twelve. Therefore the murderers had not gone before eleven. No; the gate was open for them to go, but they had not gone. Else why should the gate again be open at midnight?”
Besnard nodded in assent, and suddenly Perrichet started forward, with his eyes full of horror.
“Then, when I first closed the gate,” he cried, “and came into the garden and up to the house they were here—in that room? Oh, my God!” He stared at the window, with his mouth open.
“I am afraid, my friend, that is so,” said Hanaud gravely.
“But I knocked upon the wooden door, I tried the bolts; and they were within—in the darkness within, holding their breath not three yards from me.”
He stood transfixed.
“That we shall see,” said Hanaud.
He stepped in Perrichet’s footsteps to the sill of the room. He examined the green wooden doors which opened outwards, and the glass doors which opened inwards, taking a magnifying-glass from his pocket. He called Besnard to his side.
“See!” he said, pointing to the woodwork.
“Fingermarks!” asked Besnard eagerly.
“Yes; of hands in gloves,” returned Hanaud. “We shall learn nothing from these marks except that the assassins knew their trade.”
Then he stooped down to the sill, where some traces of steps were visible. He rose with a gesture of resignation.
“Rubber shoes,” he said, and so stepped into the room, followed by Wethermill and the others. They found themselves in a small recess which was panelled with wood painted white, and here and there delicately carved into festoons of flowers. The recess ended in an arch, supported by two slender pillars, and on the inner side of the arch thick curtains of pink silk were hung. These were drawn back carelessly, and through the opening between them the party looked down the length of the room beyond. They passed within.
V
In the Salon
Julius Ricardo pushed aside the curtains with a thrill of excitement. He found himself standing within a small oblong room which was prettily, even daintily, furnished. On his left, close by the recess, was a small fireplace with the ashes of a burnt-out fire in the grate. Beyond the grate a long settee covered in pink damask, with a crumpled cushion at each end, stood a foot or two away from the wall, and beyond the settee the door of the room opened into the hall. At the end a long mirror was let into the panelling, and a writing-table stood by the mirror. On the right were the three windows, and between the two nearest to Mr. Ricardo was the switch of the electric light. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, an electric lamp stood upon the writing-table, a couple of electric candles on the mantelshelf. A round satinwood table stood under the windows, with three chairs about it, of which one was overturned, one was placed with its back to the electric switch, and the third on the opposite side facing it.
Ricardo could hardly believe that he stood actually upon the spot where, within twelve hours, a cruel and sinister tragedy had taken place. There was so little disorder. The three windows on his right showed him the blue
