“I went at once to the Prefecture from the aerodrome,” Dennis Blackett continued, “and found this gentleman there who is in charge of the case. I speak very little French, and I understand from Mr. Hanaud that though his knowledge of English is much wider than his countrymen usually possess, there might be an idiom or two used with which he was not familiar—” Dennis Blackett stopped and looked about the room to discover the reason for the stupefaction which overspread Ricardo’s face.
Mr. Ricardo, indeed, nearly fell off his chair; so overwhelmed was he by such an amazing confession on the part of his friend. “Your idioms! I know him!” How often had he suffered under that phrase, and still more under the dreadful distortion of the English language which invariably followed! Yet here was Hanaud admitting his inadequacy! It seemed incredible. It was incredible, and abruptly Ricardo realised why the admission had been made. It was an act of friendship. It was the only possible excuse which Hanaud could offer for Ricardo’s presence at this interview. He was keeping his dear Mr. Ricardo along with himself in the very thick of the mystery. Ricardo directed towards the detective a look of recognition and gratitude; and Dennis Blackett resumed:
“He mentioned that you were his friend, and since I don’t wish what I have to say to go further than is necessary, I was grateful to accept his suggestion that you should act as interpreter.”
He took the chair at the table to which he had pointed. Mr. Ricardo’s stupefaction at Hanaud’s amazing exhibition of modesty was transferred to Dennis Blackett. There was not a trace of any feeling either in his voice or in his face. He might have been speaking of some not very important deal in shares instead of about the brutal murder of his daughter. Ricardo had to force himself to realise that this man had started off at no more than the notice of an hour or so upon his long aeroplane journey to Bordeaux.
Hanaud drew up a third chair to the table.
“I have not one expectation of what Mr. Blackett is to tell us. But I promise him now that, apart from us three and Monsieur Tidon, the examining magistrate, no one shall know anything except what in the interests of Justice must be known. So!” And he turned to Dennis Blackett, who resumed at once:
“You have heard, I understand, what Miss Tasborough knew of the estrangement between my daughter and myself. But neither she nor anybody else in the world, except my daughter and myself, knew the whole truth. I was never and am not now concerned to defend myself against any charge of harshness, and she for her own sake would be certain to keep her mouth shut. I am breaking this long silence because I want her murderer brought to justice and execution”—though there was no break in the flow of his grating voice, a faint tinge of colour crept into his white face, and his lips tightened—“and what I have to tell you, for all I know, may help.”
He paused for a few moments to arrange the order of his sentences. Mr. Ricardo hitched his chair closer to the table, the epicurean of sensations in him savouring the moment and rejoicing in its retardation. Hanaud sat like stone, his eyes upon Dennis Blackett’s face.
“From the day of my daughter’s birth”—and it was noticeable that never once would he pronounce her name—“I began to collect pearls, so that she might have a string of them worth having upon her twenty-first birthday. I took a great deal of trouble in their selection. I bought four or five a year, and when that birthday party assembled in Morven, on the Sound of Mull, I had in the house a very valuable string for her, consisting of a hundred and twenty large pearls, carefully graduated in size and of a purity and a lustre which could hardly be equalled even amongst the treasures of the great reigning Houses. I had made no secret of my intention so far as my daughter was concerned. She knew of it. She knew that I meant to give it to her on the morning of her birthday. But the night before”—he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue—“she stole it. When she and her lover sailed down the Sound and across Loch Linnhe to Oban, she took that necklace with her.”
Dennis Blackett looked down at his hands which rested on the table in front of him, loosely clasped together; and Mr. Ricardo, following the direction of his eyes, had for the second time the opportunity of observing what traitors the hands can be. Not an inflection of Blackett’s voice, not an expression upon his face, conveyed anything more than that he was putting a fairly interesting proposition before a couple of business associates. But his hands betrayed him. They were ever so slightly trembling.
“I said nothing aloud,” he resumed. “But I whispered in private to the dealers in Hatton Garden and the jewellers. Pearls of value are known. A good pearl can no more get away from its history and colour and weight than one of Monsieur Hanaud’s clients can get away from his fingerprints and his previous convictions. I was pretty sure that this string would, sooner or later, and sooner rather than later, come into the market; and I didn’t want anyone—else—ever to wear it. It was twenty-one years of my life. But don’t misunderstand me, please!” and he lifted his eyes from his hands to the faces of the two men who were listening.
Both of them were sitting, careful not by a gesture or a change of attitude to interrupt the curious story. They were spellbound by this calm, smooth revelation of himself by a man
