Part 9 (1/2)
”Now show me the first drawer she touched.” And this time he lifted out a petticoat, and, taking it to the window, examined it with a greater care. When he had finished with it he handed it to Ricardo to put away, and stood for a moment or two thoughtful and absorbed. Ricardo in his turn examined the petticoat. But he could see nothing unusual. It was an attractive petticoat, dainty with frills and lace, but it was hardly a thing to grow thoughtful over. He looked up in perplexity and saw that Hanaud was watching his investigations with a smile of amus.e.m.e.nt.
”When M. Ricardo has put that away,” he said, ”we will hear what Helene Vauquier has to tell us.”
He pa.s.sed out of the door last, and, locking it, placed the key in his pocket.
”Helene Vauquier's room is, I think, upstairs,” he said. And he moved towards the staircase.
But as he did so a man in plain clothes, who had been waiting upon the landing, stepped forward. He carried in his hand a piece of thin, strong whipcord.
”Ah, Durette!” cried Besnard. ”Monsieur Hanaud, I sent Durette this morning round the shops of Aix with the cord which was found knotted round Mme. Dauvray's neck.”
Hanaud advanced quickly to the man.
”Well! Did you discover anything?”
”Yes, monsieur,” said Durette. ”At the shop of M. Corval, in the Rue du Casino, a young lady in a dark-grey frock and hat bought some cord of this kind at a few minutes after nine last night. It was just as the shop was being closed. I showed Corval the photograph of Celie Harland which M. le Commissaire gave me out of Mme. Dauvray's room, and he identified it as the portrait of the girl who had bought the cord.”
Complete silence followed upon Durette's words. The whole party stood like men stupefied. No one looked towards Wethermill; even Hanaud averted his eyes.
”Yes, that is very important,” he said awkwardly. He turned away and, followed by the others, went up the stairs to the bedroom of Helene Vauquier.
CHAPTER VI
HELENE VAUQUIER'S EVIDENCE
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. She stood before them a hard-featured, tall woman of thirty-five or forty, in a neat black stuff dress, strong with the strength of a peasant, respectable, reliable. She looked what she had been, the confidential maid of an elderly woman. On her face there was now an aspect of eager appeal.
”Oh, monsieur!” she began, ”let me go from here--anywhere--into prison if you like. But to stay here--where in years past we were so happy--and with madame lying in the room below. No, it is insupportable.”
She sank into her chair, and Hanaud came over to her side.
”Yes, yes,” he said, in a soothing voice. ”I can understand your feelings, my poor woman. We will not keep you here. You have, perhaps, friends in Aix with whom you could stay?”
”Oh yes, monsieur!” Helene cried gratefully. ”Oh, but I thank you! That I should have to sleep here to-night! Oh, how the fear of that has frightened me!”
”You need have had no such fear. After all, we are not the visitors of last night,” said Hanaud, drawing a chair close to her and patting her hand sympathetically. ”Now, I want you to tell these gentlemen and myself all that you know of this dreadful business. Take your time, mademoiselle! We are human.”
”But, monsieur, I know nothing,” she cried. ”I was told that I might go to bed as soon as I had dressed Mlle. Celie for the seance.”
”Seance!” cried Ricardo, startled into speech. The picture of the a.s.sembly Hall at Leamington was again before his mind. 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.
Who knows what thread may lead us to the truth?”
Helene Vauquier shook her head.
”Monsieur, it is not right that you should seek the truth from me. For, consider this! I cannot speak with justice of Mlle. Celie. No, I cannot! I did not like her. I was jealous--yes, jealous. Monsieur, you want the truth--I hated her!” And the woman's face flushed and she clenched her hand upon the arm of her chair. ”Yes, I hated her. How could I help it?” she asked.
”Why?” asked Hanaud gently. ”Why could you not help it?”