The road curled like a paper ribbon round the shoulder of a hill and
dropped into a shallow valley. To the left a little below the level
of the road, a stream ran swiftly through a narrow meadow of lush
green grass. Beyond the meadow the wall of the valley rose rough
with outcroppings of rock, and with every tuft of its herbage already
brown from the sun. On the right the northern wall rose almost from
the road's edge. The valley was long and curved slowly, and half-way
along to the point where it disappeared a secondary road, the sort of
road which is indicated in the motorist's hand-books by a dotted
line, branched off to the left, crossed the stream by a stone bridge
and vanished in a cleft of the southern wall. Beyond this branching
road grew trees. The stream disappeared under them as though it ran
into a cavern; the slopes on either side were hidden behind
trees--trees so thick that here at this end the valley looked bare in
the strong sunlight, but low trees, as if they had determined to
harmonise with their environment. Indeed, the whole valley had a
sort of doll's-house effect--it was so shallow and narrow and
stunted. It tried to be a valley and succeeded in being a depression.
When the little two-seater car swooped round the shoulder of the hill
and descended, the white ribbon of road was empty but for one tiny
speck at the far end, behind which a stream of dust spurted and
spread like smoke from the funnel of an engine.
"That motor dust is going to smother us when we pass," said Jim.
"We shall do as much for him," said Betty, looking over her shoulder
from the steering wheel. "No, worse!" Behind the car the dust was a
screen. "But I don't mind, do you, Jim?" she asked with a laugh, in
which for the first time, with a heart of thankfulness, Jim heard a
note of gaiety. "To be free of that town if only for an hour! Oh!"
and Betty opened her lungs to the sunlight and the air. "This is my
first hour of liberty for a week!"
Frobisher was glad, too, to be out upon the slopes of the Côte-d'Or.
The city of Dijon was ringing that morning with the murder of Jean
Cladel; you could not pass down a street but you heard his name
mentioned and some sarcasms about the police. He wished to forget
that nightmare of a visit to the street of Gambetta and the dreadful
twisted figure on the floor of the back room.
"You'll be leaving it for good very soon, Betty," he said
significantly.
Betty made a little grimace at him, and laid her hand upon his sleeve.
"Jim!" she said, and the colour rose into her face, and the car
swerved across the road. "You mustn't speak like that to the girl at
the wheel," she said with a laugh as she switched the car back into
its course, "or I shall run down the motor-cyclist and that young
lady in the side-car."
"The young lady," said Jim, "happens to be a port-manteau!"
The motor-cyclist, indeed, was slowing down as he came nearer to the
branching road, like a tourist unacquainted with the country, and
when he actually reached it he stopped altogether and dismounted.
Betty brought her car to a standstill beside him, and glanced at the
clock and the speedometer in front of her.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
The man standing beside the motor-cycle was a young man, slim, dark,
and of a pleasant countenance. He took off his helmet and bowed
politely.
"Madame, I am looking for Dijon," he said in a harsh accent which
struck Frobisher as somehow familiar to his ears.
"Monsieur, you can see the tip of it through that gap across the
valley," Betty returned. In the very centre of the cleft the point
of the soaring spire of the cathedral stood up like a delicate lance.
"But I warn you that that way, though short, is not good."
Through the gradually thinning cloud of dust which hung behind the
car they heard the jug-jug of another motor-cycle.
"The road by which we have come is the better one," she continued.
"But how far is it?" the young man asked.
Betty once more consulted her speedometer.
"Forty kilometres, and we have covered them in forty minutes, so that
you can see the going is good. We started at eleven punctually, and
it is now twenty minutes to twelve."
"Surely we started before eleven?" Jim interposed.
"Yes, but we stopped for a minute or two to tighten the strap of the
tool-box on the edge of the town. And we started from there at
eleven."
The motor-cyclist consulted his wrist-watch.
"Yes, it's twenty minutes to twelve now," he said. "But forty
kilometres! I doubt if I have the essence. I think I must try the
nearer road."
The second motor-cycle came out of the dust like a boat out of a sea
mist and slowed down in turn at the side of them. The rider jumped
out of his saddle, pushed his goggles up on to his forehead and
joined in the conversation.
"That little road, Monsieur. It is not one of the national highways.
That shows itself at a glance. But it is not so bad. From the stone
bridge one can be at the Hôtel de Ville of Dijon in twenty-five
minutes."
"I thank you," said the young man. "You will pardon me. I have been
here for seven minutes, and I am expected."
He replaced his helmet, mounted his machine, and with a splutter and
half a dozen explosions ran down into the bed of the valley.
The second cyclist readjusted his goggles.
"Will you go first, Madame?" he suggested. "Otherwise I give you my
dust."
"Thank you!" said Betty with a smile, and she slipped in the clutch
and started.
Beyond the little forest and the curve the ground rose and the valley
flattened out. Across their road a broad highway set with kilometre
stones ran north and south.
"The road to Paris," said Betty as she stopped the car in front of a
little inn with a tangled garden at the angle. She looked along the
road Pariswards. "Air!" she said, and drew a breath of longing,
whilst her eyes kindled and her white strong teeth clicked as though
she was biting a sweet fruit.
"Soon, Betty," said Jim. "Very soon!"
Betty drove the car into a little yard at the side of the river.
"We will lunch here, in the garden," she said, "all amongst the
earwigs and the roses."
An omelet, a cutlet perfectly cooked and piping hot, with a salad and
a bottle of Clos du Prince of the 1904 vintage brought the glowing
city of Paris immeasurably nearer to them. They sat in the open
under the shade of a tall hedge; they had the tangled garden to
themselves; they laughed and made merry in the golden May, and
visions of wonder trembled and opened before Jim Frobisher's eyes.
Betty swept them away, however, when he had lit a cigar and she a
cigarette; and their coffee steamed from the little cups in front of
them.
"Let us be practical, Jim," she said. "I want to talk to you."
The sparkle of gaiety had left her face.
"Yes!" he asked.
"About Ann." Her eyes swept round and rested on Jim's face. "She
ought to go."
"Run away!" cried Jim with a start.
"Yes, at once and as secretly as possible."
Jim turned the proposal over in his mind whilst Betty waited in
suspense.
"It couldn't be managed," he objected.
"It could."
"Even if it could, would she consent?"
"She does."
"Of course it's pleading guilty," he said slowly.
"Oh, it isn't, Jim. She wants time, that's all. Time for my
necklace to be traced, time for the murderer of Jean Cladel to be
discovered. You remember what I told you about Hanaud? He must have
his victim. You wouldn't believe me, but it's true. He has got to
go back to Paris and say, 'You see, they sent from Dijon for me, and
five minutes! That's all I needed! Five little minutes and there's
your murderess, all tied up and safe!' He tried to fix it on me
first."
"No."
"He did, Jim. And now that has failed he has turned on Ann. She'll
have to go. Since he can't get me he'll take my friend--yes, and
manufacture the evidence into the bargain."
"Betty! Hanaud wouldn't do that!" Frobisher protested.
"But, Jim, he has done it," she said.
"When?"
"When he put that Edinburgh man's book about the arrow poison back
upon the bookshelf in the library."
Jim was utterly taken back.
"Did you know that he had done that?"
"I couldn't help knowing," she answered. "The moment he took the
book down it was clear to me. He knew it from end to end, as if it
was a primer. He could put his finger on the plates, on the history
of my uncle's arrow, on the effect of the poison, on the solution
that could be made of it in an instant. He pretended that he had
learnt all that in the half-hour he waited for us. It wasn't
possible. He had found that book the afternoon before somewhere and
had taken it away with him secretly and sat up half the night over
it. That's what he had done."
Jim Frobisher was sunk in confusion. He had been guessing first this
person, then that, and in the end had had to be told the truth;
whereas Betty had reached it in a flash by using her wits. He felt
that he had been just one minute and a half in the bull-ring.
Betty added in a hot scorn:
"Then when he had learnt it all up by heart he puts it back secretly
in the bookshelf and accuses us."
"But he admits he put it back," said Jim slowly.
Betty was startled.
"When did he admit it?"
"Last night. To me," replied Jim, and Betty laughed bitterly. She
would hear no good of Hanaud.
"Yes, now that he has something better to go upon."
"Something better?"
"The disappearance of my necklace. Oh, Jim, Ann has got to go. If
she could get to England they couldn't bring her back, could they?
They haven't evidence enough. It's only suspicion and suspicion and
suspicion. But here in France it's different, isn't it? They can
hold people on suspicion, keep them shut up by themselves and
question them again and again. Oh, yesterday afternoon in the
hall--don't you remember, Jim?--I thought Hanaud was going to arrest
her there and then."
Jim Frobisher nodded.
"I thought so, too."
He had been a little shocked by Betty's proposal, but the more
familiar he became with it, the more it appealed to him. There was
an overpowering argument in its favour of which neither he nor Hanaud
had told Betty a word. The shaft of the arrow had been discovered in
Ann Upcott's room, and the dart in the house of Jean Cladel. These
were overpowering facts. On the whole, it was better that Ann should
go, now, whilst there was still time--if, that is, Hanaud did
undoubtedly believe her to be guilty.
"But it is evident that he does," cried Betty.
Jim answered slowly:
"I suppose he does. We can make sure, anyway. I had a doubt last
night. So I asked him point-blank."
"And he answered you?" Betty asked with a gasp.
"Yes and no. He gave me the strangest answer."
"What did he say?"
"He told me to visit the Church of Notre Dame. If I did, I should
read upon the façade whether Ann was innocent or not."
Slowly every tinge of colour ebbed out of Betty's face. Her eyes
stared at him horror-stricken. She sat, a figure of ice--except for
her eyes which blazed.
"That's terrible," she said with a low voice, and again "That's
terrible!" Then with a cry she stood erect "You shall see! Come!"
and she ran towards the motorcar.
The sunlit day was spoilt for both of them. Betty drove homewards,
bending over the wheel, her eyes fixed ahead. But Frobisher wondered
whether she saw anything at all of that white road which the car
devoured. Once as they dropped from the highland and the forests to
the plains, she said:
"We shall abide by what we see?"
"Yes."
"If Hanaud thinks her innocent, she should stay. If he thinks her
guilty, she must go."
"Yes," said Frobisher.
Betty guided the car through the streets of the city, and into a wide
square. A great church of the Renaissance type, with octagonal
cupolas upon its two towers and another little cupola surmounted by a
loggia above its porch, confronted them. Betty stopped the car and
led Frobisher into the porch. Above the door was a great bas-relief
of the Last Judgment, God amongst the clouds, angels blowing
trumpets, and the damned rising from their graves to undergo their
torments. Both Betty and Frobisher gazed at the representation for a
while in silence. To Frobisher it was a cruel and brutal piece of
work which well matched Hanaud's revelation of his true belief.
"Yes, the message is easy to read," he said: and they drove back in a
melancholy silence to the Maison Grenelle.
The chauffeur, Georges, came forward from the garage to take charge
of the car. Betty ran inside the house and waited for Jim Frobisher
to join her.
"I am so sorry," she said in a broken voice. "I kept a hope
somewhere that we were all mistaken ... I mean as to the danger Ann
was in.... I don't believe for a moment in her guilt, of course.
But she must go--that's clear."
She went slowly up the stairs, and Jim saw no more of her until
dinner was served long after its usual hour. Ann Upcott he had not
seen at all that day, nor did he even see her then. Betty came to
him in the library a few minutes before nine.
"We are very late, I am afraid. There are just the two of us, Jim,"
she said with a smile, and she led the way into the dining-room.
Through the meal she was anxious and preoccupied, nodding her assent
to anything that he said, with her thoughts far away and answering
him at random, or not answering him at all. She was listening,
Frobisher fancied, for some sound in the hall, an expected sound
which was overdue. For her eyes went continually to the clock, and a
flurry and agitation, very strange in one naturally so still, became
more and more evident in her manner. At length, just before ten
o'clock, they both heard the horn of a motor-car in the quiet street.
The car stopped, as it seemed to Frobisher, just outside the gates,
and upon that there followed the sound for which Betty had so
anxiously been listening--the closing of a heavy door by some one
careful to close it quietly. Betty shot a quick glance at Jim
Frobisher and coloured when he intercepted it. A few seconds
afterwards the car moved on, and Betty drew a long breath. Jim
Frobisher leaned forward to Betty. Though they were alone in the
room, he spoke in a low voice of surprise:
"Ann Upcott has gone then?"
"Yes."
"So soon? You had everything already arranged then?"
"It was all arranged yesterday evening. She should be in Paris
to-morrow morning, England to-morrow night. If only all goes well!"
Even in the stress of her anxiety Betty had been sensitive to a tiny
note of discontent in Jim Frobisher's questions. He had been left
out of the counsels of the two girls, their arrangements had been
made without his participation, he had only been told of them at the
last minute, just as if he was a babbler not to be trusted and an
incompetent whose advice would only have been a waste of time. Betty
made her excuses.
"It would have been better, of course, if we had got you to help us,
Jim. But Ann wouldn't have it. She insisted that you had come out
here on my account, and that you mustn't be dragged into such an
affair as her flight and escape at all. She made it a condition, so
I had to give way. But you can help me now tremendously."
Jim was appeased. Betty at all events had wanted him, was still
alarmed lest their plan undertaken without his advice might miscarry.
"How can I help?"
"You can go to that cinema and keep Monsieur Hanaud engaged. It's
important that he should know nothing about Ann's flight until late
to-morrow."
Jim laughed at the futility of Hanaud's devices to hide himself. It
was obviously all over the town that he spent his evenings in the
Grande Taverne.
"Yes, I'll go," he returned. "I'll go now."
But Hanaud was not that night in his accustomed place, and Jim sat
there alone until half-past ten. Then a man strolled out from one of
the billiard-rooms, and standing behind Jim with his eyes upon the
screen, said in a whisper:
"Do not look at me, Monsieur! It is Moreau. I go outside. Will you
please to follow."
He strolled away. Jim gave him a couple of minutes' grace. He had
remembered Hanaud's advice and had paid for his Bock when it had been
brought to him. The little saucer was turned upside down to show
that he owed nothing. When two minutes had elapsed he sauntered out
and, looking neither to the right nor to the left, strolled
indolently along the Rue de la Gare. When he reached the Place Darcy
Nicolas Moreau passed him without a sign of recognition and struck
off to the right along the Rue de la Liberté. Frobisher followed him
with a sinking heart. It was folly of course to imagine that Hanaud
could be so easily eluded. No doubt that motor-car had been stopped.
No doubt Ann Upcott was already under lock and key! Why, the last
words he had heard Hanaud speak were "I must be quick!"
Moreau turned off into the Boulevard Sevigne and, doubling back to
the station square, slipped into one of the small hotels which
cluster in that quarter. The lobby was empty; a staircase narrow and
steep led from it to the upper stories. Moreau now ascended it with
Frobisher at his heels, and opened a door. Frobisher looked into a
small and dingy sitting-room at the back of the house. The windows
were open, but the shutters were closed. A single pendant in the
centre of the room gave it light, and at a table under the pendant
Hanaud sat poring over a map.
The map was marked with red ink in a curious way. A sort of hoop,
very much the shape of a tennis racket without its handle, was
described upon it and from the butt to the top of the hoop an
irregular line was drawn, separating the hoop roughly into two
semi-circles. Moreau left Jim Frobisher standing there, and in a
moment or two Hanaud looked up.
"Did you know, my friend," he asked very gravely, "that Ann Upcott
has gone to-night to Madame Le Vay's fancy dress ball?"
Frobisher was taken completely by surprise.
"No, I see that you didn't," Hanaud went on. He took up his pen and
placed a red spot at the edge of the hoop close by the butt.
Jim recovered from his surprise. Madame Le Vay's ball was the spot
from which the start was to be made. The plan after all was not so
ill-devised, if only Ann could have got to the ball unnoticed.
Masked and in fancy dress, amongst a throng of people similarly
accoutred, in a house with a garden, no doubt thrown open upon this
hot night and lit only by lanterns discreetly dim--she had thus her
best chance of escape. But the chance was already lost. For Hanaud
laid down his pen again and said in ominous tones:
"The water-lily, eh? That pretty water-lily, my friend, will not
dance very gaily to-night."