As soon as the door of the house was opened the door of the carriage opened too, and a young lady stepped quickly out on to the pavement. The train of her dress caught in the door, and she turned round, stooped, freed it with her hand, and held it up off the ground. The night was clear, and there was a lamp in the street close by the door of Mme. Rossignol’s house. As she turned I saw her face under the big green hat. It was very pretty and young, and the hair was fair. She wore a white coat, but it was open in front and showed her evening frock of pale green. When she lifted her skirt I saw the buckles sparkling on her satin shoes. It was the young lady for whom you are advertising, I am sure. She remained standing just for a moment without moving, while Mme. Rossignol got out. I was surprised to see a young lady of such distinction in Mme. Rossignol’s company. Then, still holding her skirt up, she ran very lightly and quickly across the pavement into the dark house. I thought, monsieur, that she was very anxious not to be seen. So when I saw your advertisement I was certain that this was the young lady for whom you are searching.
I waited for a few moments and saw the carriage drive off towards the stable at the end of the street. But no light went up in any of the rooms in front of the house. And M. Gobin was so fretful that I dropped the corner of the blind, lit the candle, and gave him his cooling drink. His watch was on the table at the bedside, and I saw that it was five minutes to three. I will send you a telegram tomorrow, as soon as I am sure at what hour I can leave my husband. Accept, monsieur, I beg you, my most distinguished salutations.
Hanaud leant back with an extraordinary look of perplexity upon his face. But to Ricardo the whole story was now clear. Here was an independent witness, without the jealousy or rancours of Hélène Vauquier. Nothing could be more damning than her statement; it corroborated those footmarks upon the soil in front of the glass door of the salon. There was nothing to be done except to set about arresting Mlle. Célie at once.
“The facts work with your theory, M. Hanaud. The young man with the black moustache did not return to the house at Geneva. For somewhere upon the road close to Geneva he met the carriage. He was driving back the car to Aix—” And then another thought struck him: “But no!” he cried. “We are altogether wrong. See! They did not reach home until five minutes to three.”
Five minutes to three! But this demolished the whole of Hanaud’s theory about the motorcar. The murderers had left the villa between eleven and twelve, probably before half-past eleven. The car was a machine of sixty horsepower, and the roads were certain to be clear. Yet the travellers only reached their home at three. Moreover, the car was back in Aix at four. It was evident they did not travel by the car.
“Geneva time is an hour later than French time,” said Hanaud shortly. It seemed as if the corroboration of this letter disappointed him. “A quarter to three in Mme. Gobin’s house would be a quarter to two by our watches here.”
Hanaud folded up the letter, and rose to his feet.
“We will go now, and we will take this letter with us.” Hanaud looked about the room, and picked up a glove lying upon a table. “I left this behind me,” he said, putting it into his pocket. “By the way, where is the telegram from Marthe Gobin?”
“You put it in your letter case.”
“Oh, did I?”
Hanaud took out his letter case and found the telegram within it. His face lightened.
“Good!” he said emphatically. “For, since we have this telegram, there must have been another message sent from Adèle Rossignol to Aix saying that Marthe Gobin, that busybody, that inquisitive neighbour, who had no doubt seen M. Ricardo’s advertisement, was on her way hither. Oh it will not be put as crudely as that, but that is what the message will mean. We shall have him.” And suddenly his face grew very stern. “I must catch him, for Marthe Gobin’s death I cannot forgive. A poor woman meaning no harm, and murdered like a sheep under our noses. No, that I cannot forgive.”
Ricardo wondered whether it was the actual murder of Marthe Gobin or the fact that he had been beaten and outwitted which Hanaud could not forgive. But discretion kept him silent.
“Let us go,” said Hanaud. “By the lift, if you please; it will save time.”
They descended into the hall close by the main door. The body of Marthe Gobin had been removed to the mortuary of the town. The life of the hotel had resumed its course.
“M. Besnard has gone, I suppose?” Hanaud asked of the porter; and, receiving an assent, he walked quickly out of the front door.
“But there is a shorter way,” said Ricardo, running after him: “across the garden at the back and down the steps.”
“It will make no difference now,” said Hanaud.
They hurried along the drive and down the road which circled round the hotel and dipped to the town.
Behind Hanaud’s hotel Ricardo’s car was waiting.
“We must go first to Besnard’s office. The
