CHAPTER II
A CRY FOR HELP
It was on a Monday evening that Ricardo saw Harry Wethermill and thegirl Celia together. On the Tuesday he saw Wethermill in the roomsalone and had some talk with him.
Wethermill was not playing that night, and about ten o'clock the twomen left the Villa des Fleurs together.
"Which way do you go?" asked Wethermill.
"Up the hill to the Hotel Majestic," said Ricardo.
"We go together, then. I, too, am staying there," said the young man,and they climbed the steep streets together. Ricardo was dying to putsome questions about Wethermill's young friend of the night before, butdiscretion kept him reluctantly silent. They chatted for a few momentsin the hall upon indifferent topics and so separated for the night. Mr.Ricardo, however, was to learn something more of Celia the nextmorning; for while he was fixing his tie before the mirror Wethermillburst into his dressing-room. Mr. Ricardo forgot his curiosity in thesurge of his indignation. Such an invasion was an unprecedented outrageupon the gentle tenor of his life. The business of the morning toilettewas sacred. To interrupt it carried a subtle suggestion of anarchy.Where was his valet? Where was Charles, who should have guarded thedoor like the custodian of a chapel?
"I cannot speak to you for at least another half-hour," said Mr.Ricardo, sternly.
But Harry Wethermill was out of breath and shaking with agitation.
"I can't wait," he cried, with a passionate appeal. "I have got to seeyou. You must help me, Mr. Ricardo--you must, indeed!"
Ricardo spun round upon his heel. At first he had thought that the helpwanted was the help usually wanted at Aix-les-Bains. A glance atWethermills face, however, and the ringing note of anguish in hisvoice, told him that the thought was wrong. Mr. Ricardo slipped out ofhis affectations as out of a loose coat. "What has happened?" he askedquietly.
"Something terrible." With shaking fingers Wethermill held out anewspaper. "Read it," he said.
It was a special edition of a local newspaper, Le Journal de Savoie,and it bore the date of that morning.
"They are crying it in the streets," said Wethermill. "Read!"
A short paragraph was printed in large black letters on the first page,and leaped to the eyes.
"Late last night," it ran, "an appalling murder was committed at theVilla Rose, on the road to Lac Bourget. Mme. Camille Dauvray, anelderly, rich woman who was well known at Aix, and had occupied thevilla every summer for the last few years, was discovered on the floorof her salon, fully dressed and brutally strangled, while upstairs, hermaid, Helene Vauquier, was found in bed, chloroformed, with her handstied securely behind her back. At the time of going to press she hadnot recovered consciousness, but the doctor, Emile Peytin, is inattendance upon her, and it is hoped that she will be able shortly tothrow some light on this dastardly affair. The police are properlyreticent as to the details of the crime, but the following statementmay be accepted without hesitation:
"The murder was discovered at twelve o'clock at night by thesergent-de-ville Perrichet, to whose intelligence more than a word ofpraise is due, and it is obvious from the absence of all marks upon thedoor and windows that the murderer was admitted from within the villa.Meanwhile Mme. Dauvray's motor-car has disappeared, and with it a youngEnglishwoman who came to Aix with her as her companion. The motive ofthe crime leaps to the eyes. Mme. Dauvray was famous in Aix for herjewels, which she wore with too little prudence. The condition of thehouse shows that a careful search was made for them, and they havedisappeared. It is anticipated that a description of the youngEnglishwoman, with a reward for her apprehension, will be issuedimmediately. And it is not too much to hope that the citizens of Aix,and indeed of France, will be cleared of all participation in so crueland sinister a crime."
Ricardo read through the paragraph with a growing consternation, andlaid the paper upon his dressing-table.
"It is infamous," cried Wethermill passionately.
"The young Englishwoman is, I suppose, your friend Miss Celia?" saidRicardo slowly.
Wethermill started forward.
"You know her, then?" he cried in amazement.
"No; but I saw her with you in the rooms. I heard you call her by thatname."
"You saw us together?" exclaimed Wethermill. "Then you can understandhow infamous the suggestion is."
But Ricardo had seen the girl half an hour before he had seen her withHarry Wethermill. He could not but vividly remember the picture of heras she flung herself on to the bench in the garden in a moment ofhysteria, and petulantly kicked a satin slipper backwards and forwardsagainst the stones. She was young, she was pretty, she had a charm offreshness, but--but--strive against it as he would, this picture in therecollection began more and more to wear a sinister aspect. Heremembered some words spoken by a stranger. "She is pretty, that littleone. It is regrettable that she has lost."
Mr. Ricardo arranged his tie with even a greater deliberation than heusually employed.
"And Mme. Dauvray?" he asked. "She was the stout woman with whom youryoung friend went away?"
"Yes," said Wethermill.
Ricardo turned round from the mirror.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Hanaud is at Aix. He is the cleverest of the French detectives. Youknow him. He dined with you once."
It was Mr. Ricardo's practice to collect celebrities round hisdinner-table, and at one such gathering Hanaud and Wethermill had beenpresent together.
"You wish me to approach him?"
"At once."
"It is a delicate position," said Ricardo. "Here is a man in charge ofa case of murder, and we are quietly to go to him--"
To his relief Wethermill interrupted him.
"No, no," he cried; "he is not in charge of the case. He is on hisholiday. I read of his arrival two days ago in the newspaper. It wasstated that he came for rest. What I want is that he should take chargeof the case."
The superb confidence of Wethermill shook Mr. Ricardo for a moment, buthis recollections were too clear.
"You are going out of your way to launch the acutest of Frenchdetectives in search of this girl. Are you wise, Wethermill?"
Wethermill sprang up from his chair in desperation.
"You, too, think her guilty! You have seen her. You think herguilty--like this detestable newspaper, like the police."
"Like the police?" asked Ricardo sharply.
"Yes," said Harry Wethermill sullenly. "As soon as I saw that rag I randown to the villa. The police are in possession. They would not let meinto the garden. But I talked with one of them. They, too, think thatshe let in the murderers."
Ricardo took a turn across the room. Then he came to a stop in front ofWethermill.
"Listen to me," he said solemnly. "I saw this girl half an hour beforeI saw you. She rushed out into the garden. She flung herself on to abench. She could not sit still. She was hysterical. You know what thatmeans. She had been losing. That's point number one."
Mr. Ricardo ticked it off upon his finger.
"She ran back into the rooms. You asked her to share the winnings ofyour bank. She consented eagerly. And you lost. That's point numbertwo. A little later, as she was going away, you asked her whether shewould be in the rooms the next night--yesterday night--the night whenthe murder was committed. Her face clouded over. She hesitated. Shebecame more than grave. There was a distinct impression as though sheshrank from the contemplation of what it was proposed she should do onthe next night. And then she answered you, 'No, we have other plans.'That's number three." And Mr. Ricardo ticked off his third point.
"Now," he asked, "do you still ask me to launch Hanaud upon the case?"
"Yes, and at once," cried Wethermill.
Ricardo called for his hat and his stick.
"You know where Hanaud is staying?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Wethermill, and he led Ricardo to an unpretentiouslittle hotel in the centre of the town. Ricardo sent in his name, andthe two visitors were immediately shown into
a small sitting-room,where M. Hanaud was enjoying his morning chocolate. He was stout andbroad-shouldered, with a full and almost heavy face. In his morningsuit at his breakfast-table he looked like a prosperous comedian.
He came forward with a smile of welcome, extending both his hands toMr. Ricardo.
"Ah, my good friend," he said, "it is pleasant to see you. And Mr.Wethermill," he exclaimed, holding a hand out to the young inventor.
"You remember me, then?" said Wethermill gladly.
"It is my profession to remember people," said Hanaud, with a laugh."You were at that amusing dinner-party of Mr. Ricardo's in GrosvenorSquare."
"Monsieur," said Wethermill, "I have come to ask your help."
The note of appeal in his voice was loud. M. Hanaud drew up a chair bythe window and motioned to Wethermill to take it. He pointed toanother, with a bow of invitation to Mr. Ricardo.
"Let me hear," he said gravely.
"It is the murder of Mme. Dauvray," said Wethermill.
Hanaud started.
"And in what way, monsieur," he asked, "are you interested in themurder of Mme. Dauvray?"
"Her companion," said Wethermill, "the young English girl--she is agreat friend of mine."
Hanaud's face grew stern. Then came a sparkle of anger in his eyes.
"And what do you wish me to do, monsieur?" he asked coldly.
"You are upon your holiday, M. Hanaud. I wish you--no, I implore you,"Wethermill cried, his voice ringing with passion, "to take up thiscase, to discover the truth, to find out what has become of Celia."
Hanaud leaned back in his chair with his hands upon the arms. He didnot take his eyes from Harry Wethermill, but the anger died out of them.
"Monsieur," he said, "I do not know what your procedure is in England.But in France a detective does not take up a case or leave it aloneaccording to his pleasure. We are only servants. This affair is in thehands of M. Fleuriot, the Juge d'instruction of Aix."
"But if you offered him your help it would be welcomed," criedWethermill. "And to me that would mean so much. There would be nobungling. There would be no waste of time. Of that one would be sure."
Hanaud shook his head gently. His eyes were softened now by a look ofpity. Suddenly he stretched out a forefinger.
"You have, perhaps, a photograph of the young lady in that card-case inyour breast-pocket."
Wethermill flushed red, and, drawing out the card-case, handed theportrait to Hanaud. Hanaud looked at it carefully for a few moments.
"It was taken lately, here?" he asked.
"Yes; for me," replied Wethermill quietly.
"And it is a good likeness?"
"Very."
"How long have you known this Mlle. Celie?" he asked.
Wethermill looked at Hanaud with a certain defiance.
"For a fortnight."
Hanaud raised his eyebrows.
"You met her here?"
"Yes."
"In the rooms, I suppose? Not at the house of one of your friends?"
"That is so," said Wethermill quietly. "A friend of mine who had mether in Paris introduced me to her at my request."
Hanaud handed back the portrait and drew forward his chair nearer toWethermill. His face had grown friendly. He spoke with a tone ofrespect.
"Monsieur, I know something of you. Our friend, Mr. Ricardo, told meyour history; I asked him for it when I saw you at his dinner. You areof those about whom one does ask questions, and I know that you are nota romantic boy, but who shall say that he is safe from the appeal ofbeauty? I have seen women, monsieur, for whose purity of soul I wouldmyself have stood security, condemned for complicity in brutal crimeson evidence that could not be gainsaid; and I have known them turnfoul-mouthed, and hideous to look upon, the moment after their justsentence has been pronounced."
"No doubt, monsieur," said Wethermill, with perfect quietude. "ButCelia Harland is not one of those women."
"I do not now say that she is," said Hanaud. "But the Juged'instruction here has already sent to me to ask for my assistance, andI refused. I replied that I was just a good bourgeois enjoying hisholiday. Still it is difficult quite to forget one's profession. It wasthe Commissaire of Police who came to me, and naturally I talked withhim for a little while. The case is dark, monsieur, I warn you."
"How dark?" asked Harry Wethermill.
"I will tell you," said Hanaud, drawing his chair still closer to theyoung man. "Understand this in the first place. There was an accomplicewithin the villa. Some one let the murderers in. There is no sign of anentrance being forced; no lock was picked, there is no mark of a thumbon any panel, no sign of a bolt being forced. There was an accomplicewithin the house. We start from that."
Wethermill nodded his head sullenly. Ricardo drew his chair up towardsthe others. But Hanaud was not at that moment interested in Ricardo.
"Well, then, let us see who there are in Mme. Dauvray's household. Thelist is not a long one. It was Mme. Dauvray's habit to take herluncheon and her dinner at the restaurants, and her maid was all thatshe required to get ready her 'petit dejeuner' in the morning and her'sirop' at night. Let us take the members of the household one by one.There is first the chauffeur, Henri Servettaz. He was not at the villalast night. He came back to it early this morning."
"Ah!" said Ricardo, in a significant exclamation. Wethermill did notstir. He sat still as a stone, with a face deadly white and eyesburning upon Hanaud's face.
"But wait," said Hanaud, holding up a warning hand to Ricardo."Servettaz was in Chambery, where his parents live. He travelled toChambery by the two o'clock train yesterday. He was with them in theafternoon. He went with them to a cafe in the evening. Moreover, earlythis morning the maid, Helene Vauquier, was able to speak a few wordsin answer to a question. She said Servettaz was in Chambery. She gavehis address. A telephone message was sent to the police in that town,and Servettaz was found in bed. I do not say that it is impossible thatServettaz was concerned in the crime. That we shall see. But it isquite clear, I think, that it was not he who opened the house to themurderers, for he was at Chambery in the evening, and the murder wasalready discovered here by midnight. Moreover--it is a small point--helives, not in the house, but over the garage in a corner of the garden.Then besides the chauffeur there was a charwoman, a woman of Aix, whocame each morning at seven and left in the evening at seven or eight.Sometimes she would stay later if the maid was alone in the house, forthe maid is nervous. But she left last night before nine--there isevidence of that--and the murder did not take place until afterwards.That is also a fact, not a conjecture. We can leave the charwoman, whofor the rest has the best of characters, out of our calculations. Thereremain then, the maid, Helene Vauquier, and"--he shrugged hisshoulders--"Mlle. Celie."
Hanaud reached out for the matches and lit a cigarette.
"Let us take first the maid, Helene Vauquier. Forty years old, aNormandy peasant woman--they are not bad people, the Normandy peasants,monsieur--avaricious, no doubt, but on the whole honest and mostrespectable. We know something of Helene Vauquier, monsieur. See!" andhe took up a sheet of paper from the table. The paper was foldedlengthwise, written upon only on the inside. "I have some details here.Our police system is, I think, a little more complete than yours inEngland. Helene Vauquier has served Mme. Dauvray for seven years. Shehas been the confidential friend rather than the maid. And mark this,M. Wethermill! During those seven years how many opportunities has shehad of conniving at last night's crime? She was found chloroformed andbound. There is no doubt that she was chloroformed. Upon that point Dr.Peytin is quite, quite certain. He saw her before she recoveredconsciousness. She was violently sick on awakening. She sank again intounconsciousness. She is only now in a natural sleep. Besides thosepeople, there is Mlle. Celie. Of her, monsieur, nothing is known. Youyourself know nothing of her. She comes suddenly to Aix as thecompanion of Mme. Dauvray--a young and pretty English girl. How did shebecome the companion of Mme. Dauvray?"
Wethermill stirred uneasily in his se
at. His face flushed. To Mr.Ricardo that had been from the beginning the most interesting problemof the case. Was he to have the answer now?
"I do not know," answered Wethermill, with some hesitation, and then itseemed that he was at once ashamed of his hesitation. His accentgathered strength, and in a low but ringing voice, he added: "But I saythis. You have told me, M. Hanaud, of women who looked innocent andwere guilty. But you know also of women and girls who can liveuntainted and unspoilt amidst surroundings which are suspicious."
Hanaud listened, but he neither agreed nor denied. He took up a secondslip of paper.
"I shall tell you something now of Mme. Dauvray," he said. "We will nottake up her early history. It might not be edifying and, poor woman,she is dead. Let us not go back beyond her marriage seventeen years agoto a wealthy manufacturer of Nancy, whom she had met in Paris. Sevenyears ago M. Dauvray died, leaving his widow a very rich woman. She hada passion for jewellery, which she was now able to gratify. Shecollected jewels. A famous necklace, a well-known stone--she was not,as you say, happy till she got it. She had a fortune in preciousstones--oh, but a large fortune! By the ostentation of her jewels sheparaded her wealth here, at Monte Carlo, in Paris. Besides that, shewas kind-hearted and most impressionable. Finally, she was, like somany of her class, superstitious to the degree of folly."
Suddenly Mr. Ricardo started in his chair. Superstitious! The word wasa sudden light upon his darkness. Now he knew what had perplexed himduring the last two days. Clearly--too clearly--he remembered where hehad seen Celia Harland, and when. A picture rose before his eyes, andit seemed to strengthen like a film in a developing-dish as Hanaudcontinued:
"Very well! take Mme. Dauvray as we find her--rich, ostentatious,easily taken by a new face, generous, and foolishly superstitious--andyou have in her a living provocation to every rogue. By a hundredinstances she proclaimed herself a dupe. She threw down a challenge toevery criminal to come and rob her. For seven years Helene Vauquierstands at her elbow and protects her from serious trouble. Suddenlythere is added to her--your young friend, and she is robbed andmurdered. And, follow this, M. Wethermill, our thieves are, I think,more brutal to their victims than is the case with you."
Wethermill shut his eyes in a spasm of pain and the pallor of his faceincreased.
"Suppose that Celia were one of the victims?" he cried in a stifledvoice.
Hanaud glanced at him with a look of commiseration.
"That perhaps we shall see," he said. "But what I meant was this. Astranger like Mlle. Celie might be the accomplice in such a crime asthe crime of the Villa Rose, meaning only robbery. A stranger mightonly have discovered too late that murder would be added to the theft."
Meanwhile, in strong, clear colours, Ricardo's picture stood out beforehis eyes. He was startled by hearing Wethermill say, in a firm voice:
"My friend Ricardo has something to add to what you have said."
"I!" exclaimed Ricardo. How in the world could Wethermill know of thatclear picture in his mind?
"Yes. You saw Celia Harland on the evening before the murder."
Ricardo stared at his friend. It seemed to him that Harry Wethermillhad gone out of his mind. Here he was corroborating the suspicions ofthe police by facts--damning and incontrovertible facts.
"On the night before the murder," continued Wethermill quietly, "CeliaHarland lost money at the baccarat-table. Ricardo saw her in the gardenbehind the rooms, and she was hysterical. Later on that same night hesaw her again with me, and he heard what she said. I asked her to cometo the rooms on the next evening--yesterday, the night of thecrime--and her face changed, and she said, 'No, we have other plans forto-morrow. But the night after I shall want you.'"
Hanaud sprang up from his chair.
"And YOU tell me these two things!" he cried.
"Yes," said Wethermill. "You were kind enough to say to me I was not aromantic boy. I am not. I can face facts."
Hanaud stared at his companion for a few moments. Then, with aremarkable air of consideration, he bowed.
"You have won, monsieur," he said. "I will take up this case. But," andhis face grew stern and he brought his fist down upon the table with abang, "I shall follow it to the end now, be the consequences bitter asdeath to you."
"That is what I wish, monsieur," said Wethermill.
Hanaud locked up the slips of paper in his lettercase. Then he went outof the room and returned in a few minutes.
"We will begin at the beginning," he said briskly. "I have telephonedto the Depot. Perrichet, the sergent-de-ville who discovered the crime,will be here at once. We will walk down to the villa with him, and onthe way he shall tell us exactly what he discovered and how hediscovered it. At the villa we shall find Monsieur Fleuriot, the Juged'instruction, who has already begun his examination, and theCommissaire of Police. In company with them we will inspect the villa.Except for the removal of Mme. Dauvray's body from the salon to herbedroom and the opening of the windows, the house remains exactly as itwas."
"We may come with you?" cried Harry Wethermill eagerly.
"Yes, on one condition--that you ask no questions, and answer noneunless I put them to you. Listen, watch, examine--but no interruptions!"
Hanaud's manner had altogether changed. It was now authoritative andalert. He turned to Ricardo.
"You will swear to what you saw in the garden and to the words youheard?" he asked. "They are important."
"Yes," said Ricardo.
But he kept silence about that clear picture in his mind which to himseemed no less important, no less suggestive.
The Assembly Hall at Leamington, a crowded audience chiefly of ladies,a platform at one end on which a black cabinet stood. A man, erect andwith something of the soldier in his bearing, led forward a girl,pretty and fair-haired, who wore a black velvet dress with a long,sweeping train. She moved like one in a dream. Some half-dozen peoplefrom the audience climbed on to the platform, tied the girl's handswith tape behind her back, and sealed the tape. She was led to thecabinet, and in full view of the audience fastened to a bench. Then thedoor of the cabinet was closed, the people upon the platform descendedinto the body of the hall, and the lights were turned very low. Theaudience sat in suspense, and then abruptly in the silence and thedarkness there came the rattle of a tambourine from the empty platform.Rappings and knockings seemed to flicker round the panels of the hall,and in the place where the door of the cabinet should be there appeareda splash of misty whiteness. The whiteness shaped itself dimly into thefigure of a woman, a face dark and Eastern became visible, and a deepvoice spoke in a chant of the Nile and Antony. Then the vision faded,the tambourines and cymbals rattled again. The lights were turned up,the door of the cabinet thrown open, and the girl in the black velvetdress was seen fastened upon the bench within.
It was a spiritualistic performance at which Julius Ricardo had beenpresent two years ago. The young, fair-haired girl in black velvet, themedium, was Celia Harland.
That was the picture which was in Ricardo's mind, and Hanaud'sdescription of Mme. Dauvray made a terrible commentary upon it. "Easilytaken by a new face, generous, and foolishly superstitious, a livingprovocation to every rogue." Those were the words, and here was abeautiful girl of twenty versed in those very tricks of imposture whichwould make Mme. Dauvray her natural prey!
Ricardo looked at Wethermill, doubtful whether he should tell what heknew of Celia Harland or not. But before he had decided a knock cameupon the door.
"Here is Perrichet," said Hanaud, taking up his hat. "We will go downto the Villa Rose."