THE UNOPENED LETTER
The hall of the hotel had been cleared of people. At the entrance from
the corridor a porter barred the way.
"No one can pass," said he.
"I think that I can," said Hanaud, and he produced his card. "From the
Surete at Paris."
He was allowed to enter, with Ricardo at his heels. On the ground lay
Marthe Gobin; the manager of the hotel stood at her side; a doctor was
on his knees. Hanaud gave his card to the manager.
"You have sent word to the police?"
"Yes," said the manager.
"And the wound?" asked Hanaud, kneeling on the ground beside the
doctor. It was a very small wound, round and neat and clean, and there
was very little blood. "It was made by a bullet," said Hanaud--"some
tiny bullet from an air-pistol."
"No," answered the doctor.
"No knife made it," Hanaud asserted.
"That is true," said the doctor. "Look!" and he took up from the floor
by his knee the weapon which had caused Marthe Gobin's death. It was
nothing but an ordinary skewer with a ring at one end and a sharp point
at the other, and a piece of common white firewood for a handle. The
wood had been split, the ring inserted and spliced in position with
strong twine. It was a rough enough weapon, but an effective one. The
proof of its effectiveness lay stretched upon the floor beside them.
Hanaud gave it to the manager of the hotel.
"You must be very careful of this, and give it as it is to the police."
Then he bent once more over Marthe Gobin.
"Did she suffer?" he asked in a low voice.
"No; death must have been instantaneous," said the doctor.
"I am glad of that," said Hanaud, as he rose again to his feet.
In the doorway the driver of the cab was standing.
"What has he to say?" Hanaud asked.
The man stepped forward instantly. He was an old, red-faced, stout man,
with a shiny white tall hat, like a thousand drivers of cabs.
"What have I to say, monsieur?" he grumbled in a husky voice. "I take
up the poor woman at the station and I drive her where she bids me, and
I find her dead, and my day is lost. Who will pay my fare, monsieur?"
"I will," said Hanaud. "There it is," and he handed the man a
five-franc piece. "Now, answer me! Do you tell me that this woman was
murdered in your cab and that you knew nothing about it?"
"But what should I know? I take her up at the station, and all the way
up the hill her head is every moment out of the window, crying,
'Faster, faster!' Oh, the good woman was in a hurry! But for me I take
no notice. The more she shouts, the less I hear; I bury my head between
my shoulders, and I look ahead of me and I take no notice. One cannot
expect cab-horses to run up these hills; it is not reasonable."
"So you went at a walk," said Hanaud. He beckoned to Ricardo, and
said to the manager: "M. Besnard will, no doubt, be here in a few
minutes, and he will send for the Juge d'Instruction. There is
nothing that we can do."
He went back to Ricardo's sitting-room and flung himself into a chair.
He had been calm enough downstairs in the presence of the doctor and
the body of the victim. Now, with only Ricardo for a witness, he gave
way to distress.
"It is terrible," he said. "The poor woman! It was I who brought her to
Aix. It was through my carelessness. But who would have thought--?" He
snatched his hands from his face and stood up. "I should have thought,"
he said solemnly. "Extraordinary daring--that was one of the qualities
of my criminal. I knew it, and I disregarded it. Now we have a second
crime."
"The skewer may lead you to the criminal," said Mr. Ricardo.
"The skewer!" cried Hanaud. "How will that help us? A knife,
yes--perhaps. But a skewer!"
"At the shops--there will not be so many in Aix at which you can buy
skewers--they may remember to whom they sold one within the last day or
so."
"How do we know it was bought in the last day or so?" cried Hanaud
scornfully. "We have not to do with a man who walks into a shop and
buys a single skewer to commit a murder with, and so hands himself over
to the police. How often must I say it!"
The violence of his contempt nettled Ricardo.
"If the murderer did not buy it, how did he obtain it?" he asked
obstinately.
"Oh, my friend, could he not have stolen it? From this or from any
hotel in Aix? Would the loss of a skewer be noticed, do you think? How
many people in Aix to-day have had rognons a la brochette for their
luncheon! Besides, it is not merely the death of this poor woman which
troubles me. We have lost the evidence which she was going to bring to
us. She had something to tell us about Celie Harland which now we shall
never hear. We have to begin all over again, and I tell you we have not
the time to begin all over again. No, we have not the time. Time will
be lost, and we have no time to lose." He buried his face again in his
hands and groaned aloud. His grief was so violent and so sincere that
Ricardo, shocked as he was by the murder of Marthe Gobin, set himself
to console him.
"But you could not have foreseen that at three o'clock in the afternoon
at Aix--"
Hanaud brushed the excuse aside.
"It is no extenuation. I OUGHT to have foreseen. Oh, but I will have no
pity now," he cried, and as he ended the words abruptly his face
changed. He lifted a trembling forefinger and pointed. There came a
sudden look of life into his dull and despairing eyes.
He was pointing to a side-table on which were piled Mr. Ricardo's
letters.
"You have not opened them this morning?" he asked.
"No. You came while I was still in bed. I have not thought of them till
now."
Hanaud crossed to the table, and, looking down at the letters, uttered
a cry.
"There's one, the big envelope," he said, his voice shaking like his
hand. "It has a Swiss stamp."
He swallowed to moisten his throat. Ricardo sprang across the room and
tore open the envelope. There was a long letter enclosed in a
handwriting unknown to him. He read aloud the first lines of the letter:
"I write what I saw and post it to-night, so that no one may be before
me with the news. I will come over to-morrow for the money."
A low exclamation from Hanaud interrupted the words.
"The signature! Quick!"
Ricardo turned to the end of the letter.
"Marthe Gobin."
"She speaks, then! After all she speaks!" Hanaud whispered in a voice
of awe. He ran to the door of the room, opened it suddenly, and,
shutting it again, locked it. "Quick! We cannot bring that poor woman
back to life; but we may still--" He did not finish his sentence. He
took the letter unceremoniously from Ricardo's hand and seated himself
at the table. Over his shoulder Mr. Ricardo, too, read Marthe Gobin's
letter.
It was just the sort of letter, which in Ricardo's view, Marthe Gobin
would have written--a long, straggling letter which never kept to the
point, which exasperated them one moment by its folly and fired them to
excitement the next.
It was dated from a small suburb of Geneva, on the western side of the
lake, and it ran as follows:
"The suburb is but a street close to the lake-side, and a tram runs
into the city. It is quite respectable, you understand, monsieur, with
a hotel at the end of it, and really some very good houses. But I do
not wish to deceive you about the social position of myself or my
husband. Our house is on the wrong side of the street--definitely--yes.
It is a small house, and we do not see the water from any of the
windows because of the better houses opposite. M. Gobin, my husband,
who was a clerk in one of the great banks in Geneva, broke down in
health in the spring, and for the last three months has been compelled
to keep indoors. Of course, money has not been plentiful, and I could
not afford a nurse. Consequently I myself have been compelled to nurse
him. Monsieur, if you were a woman, you would know what men are when
they are ill--how fretful, how difficult. There is not much distraction
for the woman who nurses them. So, as I am in the house most of the
day, I find what amusement I can in watching the doings of my
neighbours. You will not blame me.
"A month ago the house almost directly opposite to us was taken
furnished for the summer by a Mme. Rossignol. She is a widow, but
during the last fortnight a young gentleman has come several times in
the afternoon to see her, and it is said in the street that he is going
to marry her. But I cannot believe it myself. Monsieur is a young man
of perhaps thirty, with smooth, black hair. He wears a moustache, a
little black moustache, and is altogether captivating. Mme. Rossignol
is five or six years older, I should think--a tall woman, with red hair
and a bold sort of coarse beauty. I was not attracted by her. She
seemed not quite of the same world as that charming monsieur who was
said to be going to marry her. No; I was not attracted by Adele
Rossignol."
And when he had come to that point Hanaud looked up with a start.
"So the name was Adele," he whispered.
"Yes," said Ricardo. "Helene Vauquier spoke the truth."
Hanaud nodded with a queer smile upon his lips.
"Yes, there she spoke the truth. I thought she did."
"But she said Adele's hair was black," interposed Mr. Ricardo.
"Yes, there she didn't," said Hanaud drily, and his eyes dropped again
to the paper.
"I knew her name was Adele, for often I have heard her servant calling
her so, and without any 'Madame' in front of the name. That is strange,
is it not, to hear an elderly servant-woman calling after her mistress,
'Adele,' just simple 'Adele'? It was that which made me think monsieur
and madame were not of the same world. But I do not believe that they
are going to be married. I have an instinct about it. Of course, one
never knows with what extraordinary women the nicest men will fall in
love. So that after all these two may get married. But if they do, I do
not think they will be happy.
"Besides the old woman there was another servant, a man, Hippolyte, who
served in the house and drove the carriage when it was wanted--a
respectable man. He always touched his hat when Mme. Rossignol came out
of the house. He slept in the house at night, although the stable was
at the end of the street. I thought he was probably the son of Jeanne,
the servant-woman. He was young, and his hair was plastered down upon
his forehead, and he was altogether satisfied with himself and a great
favorite amongst the servants in the street. The carriage and the horse
were hired from Geneva. That is the household of Mme. Rossignol."
So far, Mr. Ricardo read in silence. Then he broke out again.
"But we have them! The red-haired woman called Adele; the man with the
little black moustache. It was he who drove the motor-car!"
Hanaud held up his hand to check the flow of words, and both read on
again:
"At three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon madame was driven away in the
carriage, and I did not see it return all that evening. Of course, it
may have returned to the stables by another road. But it was not
unusual for the carriage to take her into Geneva and wait a long time.
I went to bed at eleven, but in the night M. Gobin was restless, and I
rose to get him some medicine. We slept in the front of the house,
monsieur, and while I was searching for the matches upon the table in
the middle of the room I heard the sound of carriage wheels in the
silent street. I went to the window, and, raising a corner of the
curtains, looked out. M. Gobin called to me fretfully from the bed to
know why I did not light the candle and get him what he wanted. I have
already told you how fretful sick men can be, always complaining if
just for a minute one distracts oneself by looking out of the window.
But there! One can do nothing to please them. Yet how right I was to
raise the blind and look out of the window! For if I had obeyed my
husband I might have lost four thousand francs. And four thousand
francs are not to be sneezed at by a poor woman whose husband lies in
bed.
"I saw the carriage stop at Mme. Rossignol's house. Almost at once the
house door was opened by the old servant, although the hall of the
house and all the windows in the front were dark. That was the first
thing that surprised me. For when madame came home late and the house
was dark, she used to let herself in with a latchkey. Now, in the dark
house, in the early morning, a servant was watching for them. It was
strange.
"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 to-morrow, as soon as
I am sure at what hour I can leave my husband. Accept, monsieur, I beg
you, my most distinguished salutations.
"MARTHE GOBIN."
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 Helene
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. Celie 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 motor-car. The murderers had left the villa between eleven
and twelve, probably before half-past eleven. The car was a machine of
sixty horse-power, 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 Adele 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 poor man will be at his
wits' end to know who was Mme. Gobin and what brought her to Aix.
Besides, I wish to send a message over the telephone."
Hanaud descended and spent a quarter of an hour with the Commissaire.
As he came out he looked at his watch.
"We shall be in time, I think," he said. He climbed into the car. "The
murder of Marthe Gobin on her way from the station will put our friends
at their ease. It will be published, no doubt, in the evening papers,
and those good people over there in Geneva will read it with amusement.
They do not know that Marthe Gobin wrote a letter yesterday night.
Come, let us go!"
"Where to?" asked Ricardo.
"Where to?" exclaimed Hanaud. "Why, of course, to Geneva."