"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 sc.r.a.p 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 pa.s.s 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 Ma.r.s.eilles." 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.
CHAPTER X
NEWS FROM GENEVA
The next morning, however, before Mr. Ricardo was out of his bed, M.
Hanaud was announced. He came stepping gaily into the room, more elephantinely elfish than ever.
"Send your valet away," he said. And as soon as they were alone he produced a newspaper, which he flourished in Mr. Ricardo"s face and then dropped into his hands.
Ricardo saw staring him in the face a full description of Celia Harland, of her appearance and her dress, of everything except her name, coupled with an intimation that a reward of four thousand francs would be paid to any one who could give information leading to the discovery of her whereabouts to Mr. Ricardo, the Hotel Majestic, Aix-les-Bains!
Mr. Ricardo sat up in his bed with a sense of outrage.
"You have done this?" he asked.
"Yes."