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Updated: June 26, 2025
"Oh no no, monsieur," replied Helene Vauquier in pity for Hanaud's misconception, "I see that you are not in the habit of attending seances. It would never do for a spirit to admit that it did not know. At once its authority would be gone, and with it Mlle. Celie's as well. But on the other hand, for inscrutable reasons the spirit might not be allowed to answer."
"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.
He examined the table, he measured the distance between the chairs. He came to the fireplace and raked in the ashes of the burnt-out fire. But Ricardo noticed a singular thing. In the midst of his search Hanaud's eyes were always straying back to the settee, and always with a look of extreme perplexity, as if he read there something, definitely something, but something which he could not explain.
"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.
A nurse opened the door. Within the room Helene Vauquier was leaning back in a chair. She looked ill, and her face was very white. On the appearance of Hanaud, the Commissaire, and the others, however, she rose to her feet. Ricardo recognised the justice of Hanaud's description.
There must be no whisper that these jewels have been discovered; no newspaper must publish a hint of it; no one must suspect that here in this room we have found them. Is that understood?" "Certainly," said the Commissaire. "Yes," said Mr. Ricardo. "To be sure, monsieur," said Perrichet. As for Harry Wethermill, he made no reply. His burning eyes were fixed upon Hanaud's face, and that was all.
After all, he reflected triumphantly, Hanaud had not noticed everything, and as he made the reflection Hanaud's voice broke in to corroborate him. "We have seen everything here; let us go upstairs," he said. "We will first visit the room of Mlle. Celie. Then we will question the maid, Helene Vauquier."
"So that even before Marthe Gobin was killed you were sure that Wethermill was the murderer?" Hanaud's face clouded over. "You put your finger on a sore place, M. Ricardo. I was sure, but I still wanted evidence to convict. I left him free, hoping for that evidence. I left him free, hoping that he would commit himself. He did, but well, let us talk of some one else. What of Mlle. Celie?"
"It looks as if they had been careful and he careless," said Mr. Ricardo, with the air of a man solving a very difficult problem. "What a mind!" cried Hanaud, now clasping his hands together in admiration. "How quick and how profound!" There was at times something elephantinely elfish in M. Hanaud's demeanour, which left Mr. Ricardo at a loss.
He thrust his hands in his pockets. "Helene Vauquier's cab," he said lightly. He drew out his cigarette-case and lighted a cigarette. "Let us see that poor woman safely off. It is a closed cab I hope." It was a closed landau. It drove past the open door of the salon to the front door of the house. In Hanaud's wake they all went out into the hall.
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