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Updated: May 25, 2025
He read aloud the first lines of the letter: "I write what I saw and post it tonight, so that no one may be before me with the news. I will come over tomorrow 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.
"You are very kind to me, you and monsieur your friend," she said, with a smile towards Ricardo. "But for you " and her voice shook. "Hush!" said Hanaud "all that is over; we will not speak of it." Celia looked out across the road on to the trees, of which the dark foliage was brightened and made pale by the lights of the restaurant. Out on the water some one was singing.
Monsieur will remember that two heavy showers fell last evening between six and eight." "Yes," said Hanaud, nodding his approval. "She was quite dead. Her face was terribly swollen and black, and a piece of thin strong cord was knotted so tightly about her neck and had sunk so deeply into her flesh that at first I did not see it. For Mme. Dauvray was stout." "Then what did you do?" asked Hanaud.
M. Fleuriot was occupied with his own thoughts, and it was not until Besnard stepped forward noisily on the gravel that he became aware of the group in the garden. "This is M. Hanaud, of the Surete in Paris," said Louis Besnard. M. Fleuriot bowed with cordiality. "You are very welcome, M. Hanaud. You will find that nothing at the villa has been disturbed.
An electric launch was waiting. It had an awning and was of the usual type which one hires at Geneva. There were two sergeants in plain clothes on board, and a third man, whom Ricardo recognised. "That is the man who found out in whose shop the cord was bought," he said to Hanaud. "Yes, it is Durette. He has been here since yesterday."
But Hanaud turned towards him, and, though Hanaud's face retained its benevolent expression, there was a glitter in his eyes which sent the blood into Ricardo's face. "Did you speak again, M. Ricardo?" the detective asked. "No? I thought it was not possible." He turned back to Helene Vauquier. "So Mlle. Celie practised seances. That is very strange. We will hear about them.
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.
"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.
"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.
Oh, these people are the interesting problems in this story. Let us hear what happened on that terrible night. The puzzle that can wait." In Mr. Ricardo's view Hanaud was proved right. The extraordinary and appalling story which was gradually unrolled of what had happened on that night of Tuesday in the Villa Rose exceeded in its grim interest all the mystery of the puzzle.
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