At the Villa Rose · Chapter 2 (1/2)

II

A Cry for Help

It was on a Monday evening that Ricardo saw Harry Wethermill and the girl Celia together. On the Tuesday he saw Wethermill in the rooms alone and had some talk with him.

Wethermill was not playing that night, and about ten o’clock the two men 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 put some questions about Wethermill’s young friend of the night before, but discretion kept him reluctantly silent. They chatted for a few moments in the hall upon indifferent topics and so separated for the night. Mr. Ricardo, however, was to learn something more of Celia the next morning; for while he was fixing his tie before the mirror Wethermill burst into his dressing-room. Mr. Ricardo forgot his curiosity in the surge of his indignation. Such an invasion was an unprecedented outrage upon the gentle tenor of his life. The business of the morning toilette was sacred. To interrupt it carried a subtle suggestion of anarchy. Where was his valet? Where was Charles, who should have guarded the door 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 see you. You must help me, Mr. Ricardo⁠—you must, indeed!”

Ricardo spun round upon his heel. At first he had thought that the help wanted was the help usually wanted at Aix-les-Bains. A glance at Wethermill’s face, however, and the ringing note of anguish in his voice, told him that the thought was wrong. Mr. Ricardo slipped out of his affectations as out of a loose coat. “What has happened?” he asked quietly.

“Something terrible.” With shaking fingers Wethermill held out a newspaper. “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 the Villa Rose, on the road to Lac Bourget. Mme. Camille Dauvray, an elderly, rich woman who was well known at Aix, and had occupied the villa every summer for the last few years, was discovered on the floor of her salon, fully dressed and brutally strangled, while upstairs, her maid, Hélène Vauquier, was found in bed, chloroformed, with her hands tied securely behind her back. At the time of going to press she had not recovered consciousness, but the doctor, Emile Peytin, is in attendance upon her, and it is hoped that she will be able shortly to throw some light on this dastardly affair. The police are properly reticent as to the details of the crime, but the following statement may be accepted without hesitation:

“The murder was discovered at twelve o’clock at night by the sergent-de-ville Perrichet, to whose intelligence more than a word of praise is due, and it is obvious from the absence of all marks upon the door and windows that the murderer was admitted from within the villa. Meanwhile Mme. Dauvray’s motorcar has disappeared, and with it a young Englishwoman who came to Aix with her as her companion. The motive of the crime leaps to the eyes. Mme. Dauvray was famous in Aix for her jewels, which she wore with too little prudence. The condition of the house shows that a careful search was made for them, and they have disappeared. It is anticipated that a description of the young Englishwoman, with a reward for her apprehension, will be issued immediately. 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 cruel and sinister a crime.”

Ricardo read through the paragraph with a growing consternation, and laid the paper upon his dressing-table.

“It is infamous,” cried Wethermill passionately.

“The young Englishwoman is, I suppose, your friend Miss Celia?” said Ricardo 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 that name.”

“You saw us together?” exclaimed Wethermill. “Then you can understand how infamous the suggestion is.”

But Ricardo had seen the girl half an hour before he had seen her with Harry Wethermill. He could not but vividly remember the picture of her as she flung herself on to the bench in the garden in a moment of hysteria, and petulantly kicked a satin slipper backwards and forwards against the stones. She was young, she was pretty, she had a charm of freshness, but⁠—but⁠—strive against it as he would, this picture in the recollection began more and more to wear a sinister aspect. He remembered some words spoken by a stranger. “She is pretty, that little one. It is regrettable that she has lost.”

Mr. Ricardo arranged his tie with even a greater deliberation than he usually employed.

“And Mme. Dauvray?” he asked. “She was the stout woman with whom your young 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. You know him. He dined with you once.”

It was Mr. Ricardo’s practice to collect celebrities round his dinner-table, and at one such gathering Hanaud and Wethermill had been present together.

“You wish me to approach him?”

“At once.”

“It is a delicate position,” said Ricardo. “Here is a man in charge of a 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 his holiday. I read of his arrival two days ago in the newspaper. It was stated that he came for rest. What I want is that he should take charge of the case.”

The superb confidence of Wethermill shook Mr. Ricardo for a moment, but his recollections were too clear.

“You are going out of your way to launch the acutest of French detectives 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 her guilty⁠—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 ran down to the villa. The police are in possession. They would not let me into the garden. But I talked with one of them. They, too, think that she let in the murderers.”

Ricardo took a turn across the room. Then he came to a stop in front of Wethermill.

“Listen to me,” he said solemnly. “I saw this girl half an hour before I saw you. She rushed out into the garden. She flung herself on to a bench. She could not sit still. She was hysterical. You know what that means. 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 of your bank. She consented eagerly. And you lost. That’s point number two. A little later, as she was going away, you asked her whether she would be in the rooms the next night⁠—yesterday night⁠—the night when the murder was committed. Her face clouded over. She hesitated. She became more than grave. There was a distinct impression as though she shrank from the contemplation of what it was proposed she should do on the 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 unpretentious little hotel in the centre of the town. Ricardo sent in his name, and the two visitors were immediately shown into a small sitting-room, where M. Hanaud was enjoying his morning chocolate. He was stout and broad-shouldered, with a full and almost heavy face. In his morning suit at his breakfast-table he looked like a prosperous comedian.

He came forward with a smile of welcome, extending both his hands to Mr. 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 Grosvenor Square.”

“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 by the window and motioned to Wethermill to take it. He pointed to another, 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 the murder of Mme. Dauvray?”

“Her companion,” said Wethermill, “the young English girl⁠—she is a great 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 this case, 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 did not 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 alone according to his pleasure. We are only servants. This affair is in the hands of M. Fleuriot, the Juge d’instruction of Aix.”

“But if you offered him your help it would be welcomed,” cried Wethermill. “And to me that would mean so much. There would be no bungling. 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 of pity. Suddenly he stretched out a forefinger.

“You have, perhaps, a photograph of the young lady in that card-case in your breast-pocket.”

Wethermill flushed red, and, drawing out the card-case, handed the portrait 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. Célie?” 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 met her in Paris introduced me to her at my request.”

Hanaud handed back the portrait and drew forward his chair nearer to Wethermill. His face had grown friendly. He spoke with a tone of respect.

“Monsieur, I know something of you. Our friend, Mr. Ricardo, told me your history; I asked him for it when I saw you at his dinner. You are of those about whom one does ask questions, and I know that you are not a romantic boy, but who shall say that he is safe from the appeal of beauty? I have seen women, monsieur, for whose purity of soul I would myself have stood security, condemned for complicity in brutal crimes on evidence that could not be gainsaid; and I have known them turn foul-mouthed, and hideous to look upon, the moment after their just sentence has been pronounced.”

“No doubt, monsieur,” said Wethermill, with perfect quietude. “But Celia Harland is not one of those women.”

“I do not now say that she is,” said Hanaud. “But the Juge d’instruction here has already sent to me to ask for my assistance, and I refused. I replied that I was just a good bourgeois enjoying his holiday. Still it is difficult quite to forget one’s profession. It was the Commissaire of Police who came to me, and naturally I talked with him 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 the young man. “Understand this in the first place. There was an accomplice within the villa. Someone let the murderers in. There is no sign of an entrance being forced; no lock was picked, there is no mark of a thumb on any panel, no sign of a bolt being forced. There was an accomplice within the house. We start from that.”

Wethermill nodded his head sullenly. Ricardo drew his chair up towards the others. But Hanaud was not at that moment interested in Ricardo.

“Well, then, let us see who there are in Mme. Dauvray’s household. The list is not a long one. It was Mme. Dauvray’s habit to take her luncheon and her dinner at the restaurants, and her maid was all that she required to get ready her petit déjeuner 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 villa last night. He came back to it early this morning.”

“Ah!” said Ricardo, in a significant exclamation. Wethermill did not stir. He sat still as a stone, with a face deadly white and eyes burning upon Hanaud’s face.

“But wait,” said Hanaud, holding up a warning hand to Ricardo. “Servettaz was in Chambéry, where his parents live. He travelled to Chambéry by the two o’clock train yesterday. He was with them in the afternoon. He went with them to a café in the evening. Moreover, early this morning the maid, Hélène Vauquier, was able to speak a few words in answer to a question. She said Servettaz was in Chambéry. She gave his 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 that Servettaz was concerned in the crime. That we shall see. But it is quite clear, I think, that it was not he who opened the house to the murderers, for he was at Chambéry in the evening, and the murder was already discovered here by midnight. Moreover⁠—it is a small point⁠—he lives, 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, who came 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, for the maid is nervous. But she left last night before nine⁠—there is evidence of that⁠—and the murder did not take place until afterwards. That is also a fact, not a conjecture. We can leave the charwoman, who for the rest has the best of characters, out of our calculations. There remain then, the maid, Hélène Vauquier, and”⁠—he shrugged his shoulders⁠—“Mlle. Célie.”

Hanaud reached out for the matches and lit a cigarette.