“And this,” he said, seizing the handle of the door close by, “this is the room of Mademoiselle Tasbruff.”
“Tasborough,” Ricardo corrected him.
“That is what I say, ‘Tasbruff.’ ”
He remained with his hand upon the knob, measuring with his eyes the distance between the two doors.
“This something,” he asked of Ricardo, “which flicked past you last night outside upon the terrace—it was a person? It could not have been a bat or an owl?”
“Oh, no. It was a person. I am sure.”
“But you had no suspicion who it was?”
“None.”
“And it vanished through the window of this room, at the door of which I am standing?”
“Yes.”
“At half-past two in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Good! We have that clear,” and Hanaud turned the handle and for a second time entered Diana Tasborough’s bedroom.
Mr. Ricardo had been awaiting this moment in a fever. He almost pushed Hanaud out of the way in his anxiety to get to that picture on the wall above the bed and pluck its secret from it. He suffered one of the great disappointments of his life. For he found himself staring at one of a myriad copies of Tintoretto’s picture of the Grand Canal of Venice. The gondolas, the pale mass of the Doge’s Palace, the dome of Santa Maria del Salute—Mr. Ricardo had seen them a hundred times on the walls of a hundred bedrooms, had slept under them, he too. There was no secret to be plucked out of that picture, no mystery by its mute agency to be laid bare. Mr. Ricardo gazed reproachfully at the detective who hurried to his side.
“You see nothing there?” Hanaud asked.
“Nothing.”
“It must be then that there is nothing to see.”
Nothing there—no! But there was that curious brightness in Hanaud’s eyes, that curious alertness in his manner, which Ricardo had noticed before in this very spot. Even his voice was vibrant with excitement. Once more this room had had some vital information to give to him. The picture—a joke and not in the best taste. But jokes in bad taste played upon you delightedly were part of the price which you had to pay for the thrills which his friendship was likely to provide. Mr. Ricardo swallowed his grievance and gazed with a frowning brow about the room for just that changed thing which had so encouraged Hanaud. Alas! He could not find it. There was the mirror, the writing-table with the crucifix, the same bottles of perfume on the dressing table—no, Mr. Ricardo was at a loss. He detected Hanaud watching him with the shadow of a grin upon his face.
“It is peculiar, isn’t it?” said Hanaud quickly.
“Very. Very peculiar,” replied Mr. Ricardo, who was not going to be made a mockery and derision if he could help it.
“If you are satisfied, there is one more room which we should visit before our hostess and her manager return. It is not pleasant to find the police poking their noses into little intimate secrets which have nothing to do with them. Yet that, alas, in their wide search the police must do. So let us cause as little annoyance as we can. Moreau, you will ask Monsieur le Commissaire to post someone to watch the road and give us warning of the car’s return.”
Monsieur le Commissaire, however, was disinclined to withdraw the dignity of his tricoloured sash from Hanaud’s investigation. He nodded to Moreau.
“You will find Andrieu Biche in the room we are using. You shall post him at the spot which is most convenient.”
Moreau went reluctantly upon his errand.
“Andrieu Biche has his wits about him,” said the Commissaire to Hanaud. “We are safe from interruption.”
Mr. Ricardo knew Hanaud well enough to realise that he was now in a great hurry. He led the way on to the terrace by the long window in the bow of the turret, passed swiftly along the face of the house, crossed the avenue of trees and came out into the open space of grass upon which the chalet was built. On the edge of this space he halted just for a second. But there was not any movement visible within the chalet, and a screen of trees sheltered the onlookers from the observation of the labourers about the chäis and the vats. Nevertheless Hanaud crossed the plot of grass at a run, flung open the white gate and was at the door of the chalet with a speed which his bulk altogether belied. The door was latched but unlocked. It gave upon a narrow passage with a door on either side, a staircase beyond, and beyond the staircase, through an open doorway, the party caught a glimpse of a kitchen. Hanaud stopped in the passage again for a second with his finger to his lips. But not a sound could be heard.
“The service of the chalet is done from the château,” Hanaud said with a note of relief. “It is empty.”
A hurried step sounded on the gravel behind him. He turned round. The newcomer was Moreau back from his errand to the Commissaire.
“A man is posted on the road,” he said.
“Good!” Hanaud replied. He paid not the slightest attention to the rooms on the ground floor, but sprang quickly up the stairs. A bathroom and a dressing-room stood upon one side, a long bedroom upon the other with a window at either end. Hanaud went at once to the window, which looked out across the grass to the avenue of trees.
“It was here that you saw the light burning?” he asked of Mr. Ricardo.
“Yes.”
The room was lit at night by electricity. A standard lamp stood upon a table by the bed and a couple of brackets were fixed in each of the walls.
“Yes,” Hanaud repeated. But he was not satisfied. A table stood in the centre of the room but in a
