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Ricardo had a momentary thought of putting down yet another question. He was inclined to ask whether or no a pot of cold cream had disappeared from Celia Harland's bedroom; but he remembered that Hanaud had set no store upon that incident, and he refrained. Moreover, he had come to the end of his sheet of paper.
"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.
"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."
An old hag of a woman was sitting in a chair with her back towards them. She was mending with a big needle the holes in an old sack, and while she bent over her work she crooned to herself some French song. Every now and then she raised her eyes, for in front of her, under her charge, Mlle. Celie, the girl of whom Hanaud was in search, lay helpless upon a sofa.
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.
"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.
"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.
Wethermill snatched his hands away from before his face. "We talk theories," he cried desperately, "of what may have happened at the villa. But we are not by one inch nearer to the man and woman who committed the crime. It is for them we have to search." "Yes; but except by asking ourselves questions, how shall we find them, M. Wethermill?" said Hanaud. "Take the man! We know nothing of him.
But if the Commissaire was content, it was not for him to object. "And where is my excellent friend Perrichet?" asked Hanaud; and leaning over the balustrade he called him up from the hall. "We will now," said Hanaud, "have a glance into this poor murdered woman's room." The room was opposite to Celia's. Besnard produced the key and unlocked the door.
"And since your parents live at Chambery you wished to seize the opportunity of spending a day with them while you were so near?" "Yes, monsieur." "When did you ask for permission?" "On Saturday, monsieur." "Did you ask particularly that you should have yesterday, the Tuesday?" "No, monsieur; I asked only for a day whenever it should be convenient to madame." "Quite so," said Hanaud.
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