“But that is wonderful!” he cried. “How did you find that out?”
Hanaud leaned back in his chair and took a pull at his cigar. He was obviously pleased with Wethermill’s admiration.
“Yes, how did you find it out?” Ricardo repeated.
Hanaud smiled.
“As to that,” he said, “remember I am the captain of the ship, and I do not show you my observation.” Ricardo was disappointed. Harry Wethermill, however, started to his feet.
“We must search Geneva, then,” he cried. “It is there that we should be, not here drinking our coffee at the Villa des Fleurs.”
Hanaud raised his hand.
“The search is not being overlooked. But Geneva is a big city. It is not easy to search Geneva and find, when we know nothing about the woman for whom we are searching, except that her hair is red, and that probably a young girl last night was with her. It is rather here, I think—in Aix—that we must keep our eyes wide open.”
“Here!” cried Wethermill in exasperation. He stared at Hanaud as though he were mad.
“Yes, here; at the post office—at the telephone exchange. Suppose that the man is in Aix, as he may well be; some time he will wish to send a letter, or a telegram, or a message over the telephone. That, I tell you, is our chance. But here is news for us.”
Hanaud pointed to a messenger who was walking towards them. The man handed Hanaud an envelope.
“From M. le Commissaire,” he said; and he saluted and retired. “From M. le Commissaire?” cried Ricardo excitedly.
But before Hanaud could open the envelope Harry Wethermill laid a hand upon his sleeve.
“Before we pass to something new, M. Hanaud,” he said, “I should be very glad if you would tell me what made you shiver in the salon this morning. It has distressed me ever since. What was it that those two cushions had to tell you?”
There was a note of anguish in his voice difficult to resist. But Hanaud resisted it. He shook his head.
“Again,” he said gravely, “I am to remind you that I am captain of the ship and do not show my observation.”
He tore open the envelope and sprang up from his seat.
“Mme. Dauvray’s motorcar has been found,” he cried. “Let us go!”
Hanaud called for the bill and paid it. The three men left the Villa des Fleurs together.
IX
Mme. Dauvray’s Motorcar
They got into a cab outside the door. Perrichet mounted the box, and the cab was driven along the upward-winding road past the Hotel Bernascon. A hundred yards beyond the hotel the cab stopped opposite to a villa. A hedge separated the garden of the villa from the road, and above the hedge rose a board with the words “To Let” upon it. At the gate a gendarme was standing, and just within the gate Ricardo saw Louis Besnard, the Commissaire, and Servettaz, Mme. Dauvray’s chauffeur.
“It is here,” said Besnard, as the party descended from the cab, “in the coach-house of this empty villa.”
“Here?” cried Ricardo in amazement.
The discovery upset all his theories. He had expected to hear that it had been found fifty leagues away; but here, within a couple of miles of the Villa Rose itself—the idea seemed absurd! Why take it away at all—unless it was taken away as a blind? That supposition found its way into Ricardo’s mind, and gathered strength as he thought upon it; for Hanaud had seemed to lean to the belief that one of the murderers might be still in Aix. Indeed, a glance at him showed that he was not discomposed by their discovery.
“When was it found?” Hanaud asked.
“This morning. A gardener comes to the villa on two days a week to keep the grounds in order. Fortunately Wednesday is one of his days. Fortunately, too, there was rain yesterday evening. He noticed the tracks of the wheels which you can see on the gravel, and since the villa is empty he was surprised. He found the coach-house door forced and the motorcar inside it. When he went to his luncheon he brought the news of his discovery to the depot.”
The party followed the Commissaire along the drive to the coach-house.
“We will have the car brought out,” said Hanaud to Servettaz.
It was a big and powerful machine with a limousine body, luxuriously fitted and cushioned in the shade of light grey. The outside panels of the car were painted a dark grey. The car had hardly been brought out into the sunlight before a cry of stupefaction burst from the lips of Perrichet.
“Oh!” he cried, in utter abasement. “I shall never forgive myself—never, never!”
“Why?” Hanaud asked, turning sharply as he spoke.
Perrichet was standing with his round eyes staring and his mouth agape.
“Because, monsieur, I saw that car—at four o’clock this morning—at the corner of the road—not fifty yards from the Villa Rose.”
“What!” cried Ricardo.
“You saw it!” exclaimed Wethermill.
Upon their faces was reflected now the stupefaction of Perrichet.
“But you must have made a mistake,” said the Commissaire.
“No, no, monsieur,” Perrichet insisted. “It was that car. It was that number. It was just after daylight. I was standing outside the gate of the villa on duty where M. le Commissaire had placed me. The car appeared at the corner and slackened speed. It seemed to me that it was going to turn into the road and come down past me. But instead the driver, as if he were now sure of his way, put the car at its top speed and went on into Aix.”
“Was anyone inside the car?” asked Hanaud.
“No, monsieur; it was empty.”
“But you saw the driver!” exclaimed Wethermill.
“Yes; what was he like?” cried the Commissaire.
Perrichet shook his head mournfully.
“He wore a talc mask over the upper part of his face, and had a little black moustache, and was dressed in a heavy greatcoat of blue with a white collar.”
“That is my coat, monsieur,” said Servettaz, and as he spoke he lifted it up from the chauffeur’s seat.
