“Certainly,” said the Commissaire.
“Yes,” said Mr. Ricardo.
“To be sure, monsieur,” said Perrichet.
As for Harry Wethermill, he made no reply. His burning eyes were fixed upon Hanaud’s face, and that was all. Hanaud, for his part, asked for no reply from him. Indeed, he did not look towards Harry Wethermill’s face at all. Ricardo understood. Hanaud did not mean to be deterred by the suffering written there.
He went down again into the little gay salon lit with flowers and August sunlight, and stood beside the couch gazing at it with troubled eyes. And, as he gazed, he closed his eyes and shivered. He shivered like a man who has taken a sudden chill. Nothing in all this morning’s investigations, not even the rigid body beneath the sheet, nor the strange discovery of the jewels, had so impressed Ricardo. For there he had been confronted with facts, definite and complete; here was a suggestion of unknown horrors, a hint, not a fact, compelling the imagination to dark conjecture. Hanaud shivered. That he had no idea why Hanaud shivered made the action still more significant, still more alarming. And it was not Ricardo alone who was moved by it. A voice of despair rang through the room. The voice was Harry Wethermill’s, and his face was ashy white.
“Monsieur!” he cried, “I do not know what makes you shudder; but I am remembering a few words you used this morning.”
Hanaud turned upon his heel. His face was drawn and grey and his eyes blazed.
“My friend, I also am remembering those words,” he said. Thus the two men stood confronting one another, eye to eye, with awe and fear in both their faces.
Ricardo was wondering to what words they both referred, when the sound of wheels broke in upon the silence. The effect upon Hanaud was magical. He thrust his hands in his pockets.
“Hélène Vauquier’s cab,” he said lightly. He drew out his cigarette-case and lighted a cigarette.
“Let us see that poor woman safely off. It is a closed cab I hope.”
It was a closed landau. It drove past the open door of the salon to the front door of the house. In Hanaud’s wake they all went out into the hall. The nurse came down alone carrying Hélène Vauquier’s bag. She placed it in the cab and waited in the doorway.
“Perhaps Hélène Vauquier has fainted,” she said anxiously: “she does not come.” And she moved towards the stairs.
Hanaud took a singularly swift step forward and stopped her.
“Why should you think that?” he asked, with a queer smile upon his face, and as he spoke a door closed gently upstairs. “See,” he continued, “you are wrong: she is coming.”
Ricardo was puzzled. It had seemed to him that the door which had closed so gently was nearer than Hélène Vauquier’s door. It seemed to him that the door was upon the first, not the second landing. But Hanaud had noticed nothing strange; so it could not be. He greeted Hélène Vauquier with a smile as she came down the stairs.
“You are better, mademoiselle,” he said politely. “One can see that. There is more colour in your cheeks. A day or two, and you will be yourself again.”
He held the door open while she got into the cab. The nurse took her seat beside her; Durette mounted on the box. The cab turned and went down the drive.
“Goodbye, mademoiselle,” cried Hanaud, and he watched until the high shrubs hid the cab from his eyes. Then he behaved in an extraordinary way. He turned and sprang like lightning up the stairs. His agility amazed Ricardo. The others followed upon his heels. He flung himself at Celia’s door and opened it. He burst into the room, stood for a second, then ran to the window. He hid behind the curtain, looking out. With his hand he waved to his companions to keep back. The sound of wheels creaking and rasping rose to their ears. The cab had just come out into the road. Durette upon the box turned and looked towards the house. Just for a moment Hanaud leaned from the window, as Besnard, the Commissaire, had done, and, like Besnard again, he waved his hand. Then he came back into the room and saw, standing in front of him, with his mouth open and his eyes starting out of his head, Perrichet—the intelligent Perrichet.
“Monsieur,” cried Perrichet, “something has been taken from this room.”
Hanaud looked round the room and shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“But yes, monsieur,” Perrichet insisted. “Oh, but yes. See! Upon this dressing-table there was a small pot of cold cream. It stood here, where my finger is, when we were in this room an hour ago. Now it is gone.”
Hanaud burst into a laugh.
“My friend Perrichet,” he said ironically, “I will tell you the newspaper did not do you justice. You are more intelligent. The truth, my excellent friend, lies at the bottom of a well; but you would find it at the bottom of a pot of cold cream. Now let us go. For in this house, gentlemen, we have nothing more to do.”
He passed out of the room. Perrichet stood aside, his face crimson, his attitude one of shame. He had been rebuked by the great M. Hanaud, and justly rebuked. He knew it now. He had wished to display his intelligence—yes, at all costs he must show how intelligent
