MME. DAUVRAY'S MOTOR-CAR
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 motor-car 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 any one 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 great-coat 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. "It is Mme. Dauvray's livery."
Harry Wethermill groaned aloud.
"We have lost him. He was within our grasp--he, the murderer!--and he
was allowed to go!"
Perrichet's grief was pitiable.
"Monsieur," he pleaded, "a car slackens its speed and goes on again--it
is not so unusual a thing. I did not know the number of Mme. Dauvray's
car. I did not even know that it had disappeared"; and suddenly tears
of mortification filled his eyes. "But why do I make these excuses?" he
cried. "It is better, M. Hanaud, that I go back to my uniform and stand
at the street corner. I am as foolish as I look."
"Nonsense, my friend," said Hanaud, clapping the disconsolate man upon
the shoulder. "You remembered the car and its number. That is
something--and perhaps a great deal," he added gravely. "As for the
talc mask and the black moustache, that is not much to help us, it is
true." He looked at Ricardo's crestfallen face and smiled. "We might
arrest our good friend M. Ricardo upon that evidence, but no one else
that I know."
Hanaud laughed immoderately at his joke. He alone seemed to feel no
disappointment at Perrichet's oversight. Ricardo was a little touchy on
the subject of his personal appearance, and bridled visibly. Hanaud
turned towards Servettaz.
"Now," he said, "you know how much petrol was taken from the garage?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Can you tell me, by the amount which has been used, how far that car
was driven last night?" Hanaud asked.
Servettaz examined the tank.
"A long way, monsieur. From a hundred and thirty to a hundred and fifty
kilometres, I should say."
"Yes, just about that distance, I should say," cried Hanaud.
His eyes brightened, and a smile, a rather fierce smile, came to his
lips. He opened the door, and examined with a minute scrutiny the floor
of the carriage, and as he looked, the smile faded from his face.
Perplexity returned to it. He took the cushions, looked them over and
shook them out.
"I see no sign--" he began, and then he uttered a little shrill cry of
satisfaction. From the crack of the door by the hinge he picked off a
tiny piece of pale green stuff, which he spread out upon the back of
his hand.
"Tell me, what is this?" he said to Ricardo.
"It is a green fabric," said Ricardo very wisely.
"It is green chiffon," said Hanaud. "And the frock in which Mlle. Celie
went away was of green chiffon over satin. Yes, Mlle. Celie travelled
in this car."
He hurried to the driver's seat. Upon the floor there was some dark
mould. Hanaud cleaned it off with his knife and held some of it in the
palm of his hand. He turned to Servettaz.
"You drove the car on Tuesday morning before you went to Chambery?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Where did you take up Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie?"
"At the front door of the Villa Rose."
"Did you get down from the seat at all?"
"No, monsieur; not after I left the garage."
Hanaud returned to his companions.
"See!" And he opened his hand. "This is black soil--moist from last
night's rain--soil like the soil in front of Mme. Dauvray's salon.
Look, here is even a blade or two of the grass"; and he turned the
mould over in the palm of his hand. Then he took an empty envelope from
his pocket and poured the soil into it and gummed the flap down. He
stood and frowned at the motor-car.
"Listen," he said, "how I am puzzled! There was a man last night at the
Villa Rose. There were a man's blurred footmarks in the mould before
the glass door. That man drove madame's car for a hundred and fifty
kilometres, and he leaves the mould which clung to his boots upon the
floor of his seat. Mlle. Celie and another woman drove away inside the
car. Mlle. Celie leaves a fragment of the chiffon tunic of her frock
which caught in the hinge. But Mlle. Celie made much clearer
impressions in the mould than the man. Yet on the floor of the carriage
there is no trace of her shoes. Again I say there is something here
which I do not understand." And he spread out his hands with an
impulsive gesture of despair.
"It looks as if they had been careful and he careless," said Mr.
Ricardo, with the air of a man solving a very difficult problem.
"What a mind!" cried Hanaud, now clasping his hands together in
admiration. "How quick and how profound!"
There was at times something elephantinely elfish in M. Hanaud's
demeanour, which left Mr. Ricardo at a loss. But he had come to notice
that these undignified manifestations usually took place when Hanaud
had reached a definite opinion upon some point which had perplexed him.
"Yet there is perhaps, another explanation," Hanaud continued. "For
observe, M. Ricardo. We have other evidence to show that the careless
one was Mlle. Celie. It was she who left her footsteps so plainly
visible upon the grass, not the man. However, we will go back to M.
Wethermill's room at the Hotel Majestic and talk this matter over. We
know something now. Yes, we know--what do we know, monsieur?" he asked,
suddenly turning with a smile to Ricardo, and, as Ricardo paused:
"Think it over while we walk down to M. Wethermill's apartment in the
Hotel Majestic."
"We know that the murderer has escaped," replied Ricardo hotly.
"The murderer is not now the most important object of our search. He is
very likely at Marseilles by now. We shall lay our hands on him, never
fear," replied Hanaud, with a superb gesture of disdain. "But it was
thoughtful of you to remind me of him. I might so easily have clean
forgotten him, and then indeed my reputation would have suffered an
eclipse." He made a low, ironical bow to Ricardo and walked quickly
down the road.
"For a cumbersome man he is extraordinarily active," said Mr. Ricardo
to Harry Wethermill, trying to laugh, without much success. "A heavy,
clever, middle-aged man, liable to become a little gutter-boy at a
moment's notice."
Thus he described the great detective, and the description is quoted.
For it was Ricardo's best effort in the whole of this business.
The three men went straight to Harry Wethermill's apartment, which
consisted of a sitting-room and a bedroom on the first floor. A balcony
ran along outside. Hanaud stepped out on to it, looked about him, and
returned.
"It is as well to know that we cannot be overheard," he said.
Harry Wethermill meanwhile had thrown himself into a chair. The mask he
had worn had slipped from its fastenings for a moment. There was a look
of infinite suffering upon his face. It was the face of a man tortured
by misery to the snapping-point.
Hanaud, on the other hand, was particularly alert. The discovery of the
motor-car had raised his spirits. He sat at the table.
"I will tell you what we have learnt," he said, "and it is of
importance. The three of them--the man, the woman with the red hair,
and Mlle. Celie--all drove yesterday night to Geneva. That is only one
thing we have learnt."
"Then you still cling to Geneva?" said Ricardo.
"More than ever," said Hanaud.
He turned in his chair towards Wethermill.
"Ah, my poor friend!" he said, when he saw the young man's distress.
Harry Wethermill sprang up with a gesture as though to sweep the need
of sympathy away.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"You have a road map, perhaps?" said Hanaud.
"Yes," said Wethermill, "mine is here. There it is"; and crossing the
room he brought it from a sidetable and placed it in front of Hanaud.
Hanaud took a pencil from his pocket.
"One hundred and fifty kilometres was about the distance which the car
had travelled. Measure the distances here, and you will see that Geneva
is the likely place. It is a good city to hide in. Moreover the car
appears at the corner at daylight. How does it appear there? What road
is it which comes out at that corner? The road from Geneva. I am not
sorry that it is Geneva, for the Chef de la Surete is a friend of mine."
"And what else do we know?" asked Ricardo.
"This," said Hanaud. He paused impressively. "Bring up your chair to
the table, M. Wethermill, and consider whether I am right or wrong";
and he waited until Harry Wethermill had obeyed. Then he laughed in a
friendly way at himself.
"I cannot help it," he said; "I have an eye for dramatic effects. I
must prepare for them when I know they are coming. And one, I tell you,
is coming now."
He shook his finger at his companions. Ricardo shifted and shuffled in
his chair. Harry Wethermill kept his eyes fixed on Hanaud's face, but
he was quiet, as he had been throughout the long inquiry.
Hanaud lit a cigarette and took his time.
"What I think is this. The man who drove the car into Geneva drove it
back, because--he meant to leave it again in the garage of the Villa
Rose."
"Good heavens!" cried Ricardo, flinging himself back. The theory so
calmly enunciated took his breath away.
"Would he have dared?" asked Harry Wethermill.
Hanaud leaned across and tapped his fingers on the table to emphasise
his answer.
"All through this crime there are two things visible--brains and
daring; clever brains and extraordinary daring. Would he have dared? He
dared to be at the corner close to the Villa Rose at daylight. Why else
should he have returned except to put back the car? Consider! The
petrol is taken from tins which Servettaz might never have touched for
a fortnight, and by that time he might, as he said, have forgotten
whether he had not used them himself. I had this possibility in my mind
when I put the questions to Servettaz about the petrol which the
Commissaire thought so stupid. The utmost care is taken that there
shall be no mould left on the floor of the carriage. The scrap of
chiffon was torn off, no doubt, when the women finally left the car,
and therefore not noticed, or that, too, would have been removed. That
the exterior of the car was dirty betrayed nothing, for Servettaz had
left it uncleaned."
Hanaud leaned back and, step by step, related the journey of the car.
"The man leaves the gate open; he drives into Geneva the two women, who
are careful that their shoes shall leave no marks upon the floor. At
Geneva they get out. The man returns. If he can only leave the car in
the garage he covers all traces of the course he and his friends have
taken. No one would suspect that the car had ever left the garage. At
the corner of the road, just as he is turning down to the villa, he
sees a sergent-de-ville at the gate. He knows that the murder is
discovered. He puts on full speed and goes straight out of the town.
What is he to do? He is driving a car for which the police in an hour
or two, if not now already, will be surely watching. He is driving it
in broad daylight. He must get rid of it, and at once, before people
are about to see it, and to see him in it. Imagine his feelings! It is
almost enough to make one pity him. Here he is in a car which convicts
him as a murderer, and he has nowhere to leave it. He drives through
Aix. Then on the outskirts of the town he finds an empty villa. He
drives in at the gate, forces the door of the coach-house, and leaves
his car there. Now, observe! It is no longer any use for him to pretend
that he and his friends did not disappear in that car. The murder is
already discovered, and with the murder the disappearance of the car.
So he no longer troubles his head about it. He does not remove the
traces of mould from the place where his feet rested, which otherwise,
no doubt, he would have done. It no longer matters. He has to run to
earth now before he is seen. That is all his business. And so the state
of the car is explained. It was a bold step to bring that car
back--yes, a bold and desperate step. But a clever one. For, if it had
succeeded, we should have known nothing of their movements--oh, but
nothing--nothing. Ah! I tell you this is no ordinary blundering affair.
They are clever people who devised this crime--clever, and of an
audacity which is surprising."
Then Hanaud lit another cigarette.
Mr. Ricardo, on the other hand, could hardly continue to smoke for
excitement.
"I cannot understand your calmness," he exclaimed.
"No?" said Hanaud. "Yet it is so obvious. You are the amateur, I am the
professional--that is all."
He looked at his watch and rose to his feet.
"I must go" he said and as he turned towards the door a cry sprang from
Mr. Ricardo's lips "It is true. I am the amateur. Yet I have knowledge,
Monsieur Hanaud which the professional would do well to obtain."
Hanaud turned a guarded face towards Ricardo. There was no longer any
raillery in his manner. He spoke slowly, coldly.
"Let me have it then!"
"I have driven in my motor-car from Geneva to Aix," Ricardo cried
excitedly. "A bridge crosses a ravine high up amongst the mountains. At
the bridge there is a Custom House. There--at the Pont de la
Caille--your car is stopped. It is searched. You must sign your name in
a book. And there is no way round. You would find sure and certain
proof whether or no Madame Dauvray's car travelled last night to
Geneva. Not so many travellers pass along that road at night. You would
find certain proof too of how many people were in the car. For they
search carefully at the Pont de la Caille."
A dark flush overspread Hanaud's face. Ricardo was in the seventh
Heaven. He had at last contributed something to the history of this
crime. He had repaired an omission. He had supplied knowledge to the
omniscient. Wethermill looked up drearily like one who has lost heart.
"Yes, you must not neglect that clue," he said.
Hanaud replied testily:
"It is not a clue. M. Ricardo tells that he travelled from Geneva into
France and that his car was searched. Well, we know already that the
officers are particular at the Custom Houses of France. But travelling
from France into Switzerland is a very different affair. In
Switzerland, hardly a glance, hardly a word." That was true. M. Ricardo
crestfallen recognized the truth. But his spirits rose again at once.
"But the car came back from Geneva into France!" he cried.
"Yes, but when the car came back, the man was alone in it," Hanaud
answered. "I have more important things to attend to. For instance I
must know whether by any chance they have caught our man at
Marseilles." He laid his hand on Wethermill's shoulder. "And you, my
friend, I should counsel you to get some sleep. We may need all our
strength to-morrow. I hope so." He was speaking very bravely. "Yes, I
hope so."
Wethermill nodded.
"I shall try," he said.
"That's better," said Hanaud cheerfully. "You will both stay here this
evening; for if I have news, I can then ring you up."
Both men agreed, and Hanaud went away. He left Mr. Ricardo profoundly
disturbed. "That man will take advice from no one," he declared. "His
vanity is colossal. It is true they are not particular at the Swiss
Frontier. Still the car would have to stop there. At the Custom House
they would know something. Hanaud ought to make inquiries." But neither
Ricardo nor Harry Wethermill heard a word more from Hanaud that night.