Complete works of a e w.., p.33
Complete Works of a E W Mason, page 33
“Hanaud acts under orders,” Jim returned. “He is here because he was bidden to come”; and to his relief the answer sufficed. In truth, Betty’s thoughts were diverted to some problem to which he had not the key.
“So you called upon Monsieur Hanaud in Paris,” she said, with a warm smile. “You have forgotten nothing which could help me.” She laid a hand upon the sill of the open window. “I hope that he felt all the flattery of my panic-stricken telegram to London.”
“He was simply regretful that you should have been so distressed.”
“So you showed him the telegram?”
“And he destroyed it. It was my excuse for calling upon him with the letters.”
Betty sat down again on the window-seat and lifted a finger for silence. Outside the door voices were speaking. Then the door was opened and the old man-servant entered. He carried this time no card upon a salver, but he was obviously impressed and a trifle flustered.
“Mademoiselle,” he began, and Betty interrupted him. All trace of anxiety had gone from her manner. She was once more mistress of herself.
“I know, Gaston. Show Monsieur Hanaud in at once.”
But Monsieur Hanaud was already in. He bowed with a pleasant ceremony to Betty Harlowe and shook hands cordially with Jim Frobisher.
“I was delighted as I came through the court, Mademoiselle, to see that my friend here was already with you. For he will have told you that I am not, after all, the ogre of the fairy-books.”
“But you never looked up at the windows once,” cried Betty in perplexity.
Hanaud smiled gaily. “Mademoiselle, it is in the technique of my trade never to look up at windows and yet to know what is going on behind them. With your permission?” And he laid his hat and cane upon a big writing-table in the middle of the room.
CHAPTER 5
BETTY HARLOWE ANSWERS
“BUT WE CANNOT see even through the widest of windows,” Hanaud continued, “what happened behind them a fortnight ago. In those cases, Mademoiselle, we have to make ourselves the nuisance and ask the questions.”
“I am ready to answer you,” returned Betty quietly.
“Oh, of that — not a doubt,” Hanaud cried genially. “Is it permitted to me to seat myself? Yes?”
Betty jumped up, the pallor of her face flushed to pink.
“I beg your pardon. Of course, Monsieur Hanaud.”
That little omission in her manners alone showed Jim Frobisher that she was nervous. But for it, he would have credited her with a self-command almost unnatural in her years.
“It is nothing,” said Hanaud with a smile. “After all, we are — the gentlest of us — disturbing guests.” He took a chair from the side of the table and drew it up close so that he faced Betty. But whatever advantage was to be gained from the positions he yielded to her. For the light from the window fell in all its morning strength upon his face, whilst hers was turned to the interior of the room.
“So!” he said as he sat down. “Mademoiselle, I will first give you a plan of our simple procedure, as at present I see it. The body of Madame Harlowe was exhumed the night before last in the presence of your notary.”
Betty moved suddenly with a little shiver of revolt.
“I know,” he continued quickly. “These necessities are distressing. But we do Madame Harlowe no hurt, and we have to think of the living one, you, Miss Betty Harlowe, and make sure that no suspicion shall rest upon you — no, not even amongst your most loyal friends. Isn’t that so? Well, next, I put my questions to you here. Then we wait for the analyst’s report. Then the examining magistrate will no doubt make you his compliments, and I, Hanaud, will, if I am lucky, carry back with me to that dull Paris, a signed portrait of the beautiful Miss Harlowe against my heart.”
“And that will be all?” cried Betty, clasping her hands together in her gratitude.
“For you, Mademoiselle, yes. But for our little Boris — no!” Hanaud grinned with a mischievous anticipation. “I look forward to half an hour with that broken-kneed one. I shall talk to him and I shall not be dignified — no, not at all. I shall take care, too, that my good friend Monsieur Frobisher is not present. He would take from me all my enjoyment. He would look at me all prim like my maiden aunt and he would say to himself, ‘Shocking! Oh, that comic! What a fellow! He is not proper.’ No, and I shall not be proper. But, on the other hand, I will laugh all the way from Dijon to Paris.”
Monsieur Hanaud had indeed begun to laugh already and Betty suddenly joined in with him. Hers was a clear, ringing laugh of enjoyment, and Jim fancied himself once more in the hall hearing that laughter come pealing through the open door.
“Ah, that is good!” exclaimed Hanaud. “You can laugh, Mademoiselle, even at my foolishnesses. You must keep Monsieur Frobisher here in Dijon and not let him return to London until he too has learnt that divinest of the arts.”
Hanaud hitched his chair a little nearer, and a most uncomfortable image sprang at once into Jim Frobisher’s mind. Just so, with light words and little jokes squeezed out to tenuity, did doctors hitch up their chairs to the bedsides of patients in a dangerous case. It took quite a few minutes of Hanaud’s questions before that image entirely vanished from his thoughts.
“Good!” said Hanaud. “Now let us to business and get the facts all clear and ordered!”
“Yes,” Jim agreed, and he too hitched his chair a little closer. It was curious, he reflected, how little he did know of the actual facts of the case.
“Now tell me, Mademoiselle! Madame Harlowe died, so far as we know, quite peacefully in her bed during the night.”
“Yes,” replied Betty.
“During the night of April the 27th?”
“Yes.”
“She slept alone in her room that night?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“That was her rule?”
“Yes.”
“I understand Madame Harlowe’s heart had given her trouble for some time.”
“She had been an invalid for three years.”
“And there was a trained nurse always in the house?”
“Yes.”
Hanaud nodded. “Now tell me, Mademoiselle, where did this nurse sleep? Next door to Madame?”
“No. A bedroom had been fitted up for her on the same floor but at the end of the passage.”
“And how far away was this bedroom?”
“There were two rooms separating it from my aunt’s.”
“Large rooms?”
“Yes,” Betty explained. “These rooms are on the ground-floor, and are what you would call reception-rooms. But, since Madame’s heart made the stairs dangerous for her, some of them were fitted up especially for her use.”
“Yes, I see,” said Hanaud. “Two big reception-rooms between, eh? And the walls of the house are thick. It is not difficult to see that it was not built in these days. I ask you this, Mademoiselle. Would a cry from Madame Harlowe at night, when all the house was silent, be heard in the nurse’s room?”
“I am very sure that it would not,” Betty returned. “But there was a bell by Madame’s bed which rang in the nurse’s room. She had hardly to lift her arm to press the button.”
“Ah!” said Hanaud. “A bell specially fitted up?”
“Yes.”
“And the button within reach of the fingers. Yes. That is all very well, if one does not faint, Mademoiselle. But suppose one does! Then the bell is not very useful. Was there no room nearer which could have been set aside for the nurse?”
“There was one next to my aunt’s room, Monsieur Hanaud, with a communicating door.”
Hanaud was puzzled and sat back in his chair. Jim Frobisher thought the time had come for him to interpose. He had been growing more and more restless as the catechism progressed. He could not see any reason why Betty, however readily and easily she answered, should be needlessly pestered.
“Surely, Monsieur Hanaud,” he said, “it would save a deal of time if we paid a visit to these rooms and saw them for ourselves.”
Hanaud swung round like a thing on a swivel. Admiration beamed in his eyes. He gazed at his junior colleague in wonder.
“But what an idea!” he cried enthusiastically. “What a fine idea! How ingenious! How difficult to conceive! And it is you, Monsieur Frobisher, who have thought of it! I make you my distinguished compliments!” Then all his enthusiasm declined into lassitude, and he sighed. “A pity—”
Hanaud waited intently for Jim to ask for an explanation of that sigh, but Jim simply got red in the face and refused to oblige. He had obviously made an asinine suggestion and was being rallied for it in front of the beautiful Betty Harlowe, who looked to him for her salvation; and on the whole he thought Hanaud to be a rather insufferable person as he sat there brightly watching for some second inanity. Hanaud in the end had to explain.
“We should have visited those rooms before now, Monsieur Frobisher. But the Commissaire of Police has sealed them up and without his presence we must not break the seals.”
An almost imperceptible movement was made by Betty Harlowe in the window, an almost imperceptible smile flickered for the space of a lightning-flash upon her lips; and Jim saw Hanaud stiffen like a watch-dog when he hears a sound at night. “You are amused, Mademoiselle?” he asked sharply.
“On the contrary, Monsieur.” And the smile reappeared upon her face and was seen to be what it was, pure wistfulness. “I had a hope those great seals with their linen bands across the doors were all now to be removed. It is fanciful, no doubt, but I have a horror of them. They seem to me like an interdict upon the house.”
Hanaud’s manner changed in an instant. “That I can very well understand, Mademoiselle,” he said, “and I will make it my business to see that those seals are broken. Indeed, there was no great use in affixing them, since they were only affixed when the charge was brought and ten days after Madame Harlowe died.” He turned to Jim. “But we in France are all tied up in red tape too. However, the question at which I am driving does not depend upon any aspect of the rooms. It is this, Mademoiselle,” and he turned back to Betty.
“Madame Harlowe was an invalid with a nurse in constant attendance. How is it that the nurse did not sleep in that suitable room with the communicating-door? Why must she be where she could hear no cry, no sudden call?”
Betty nodded her head. Here was a question which demanded an answer. She leaned forward, choosing her words with care.
“Yes, but for that, Monsieur, you must understand something of Madame, my aunt, and put yourself for a moment in her place. She would have it so. She was, as you say, an invalid. For three years she had not gone beyond the garden except in a private saloon once a year to Monte Carlo. But she would not admit her malady. No, she was in her mind strong and a fighter. She was going to get well, it was always a question of a few weeks with her, and a nurse in her uniform always near with the door open, as though she were in the last stages of illness — that distressed her.” Betty paused and went on again. “Of course, when she had some critical attack, the nurse was moved. I myself gave the order. But as soon as the attack subsided, the nurse must go. Madame would not endure it.”
Jim understood that speech. Its very sincerity gave him a glimpse of the dead woman, made him appreciate her tough vitality. She would not give in. She did not want the paraphernalia of malady always about her. No, she would sleep in her own room, and by herself, like other women of her age. Yes, Jim understood that and believed every word that Betty spoke. Only — only — she was keeping something back. It was that which troubled him. What she said was true, but there was more to be said. There had been hesitation in Betty’s speech, too nice a choice of words and then suddenly a little rush of phrases to cover up the hesitations. He looked at Hanaud, who was sitting without a movement and with his eyes fixed upon Betty’s face, demanding more from her by his very Impassivity. They were both, Jim felt sure, upon the edge of that little secret which, according to Haslitt, as to Hanaud, was always at the back of such wild charges as Waberski brought — the little shameful family secret which must be buried deep from the world’s eyes. And while Jim was pondering upon this explanation of Betty’s manner, he was suddenly startled out of his wits by a passionate cry which broke from her lips.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she cried to Hanaud, her eyes suddenly ablaze in her white face and her lips shaking. Her voice rose to a challenge. “Do you disbelieve me, Monsieur Hanaud?”
Hanaud raised his hands in protest. He leaned back in his chair. The vigilance of his eyes, of his whole attitude, was relaxed.
“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle,” he said with a good deal of self-reproach. “I do not disbelieve you. I was listening with both my ears to what you said, so that I might never again have to trouble you with my questions. But I should have remembered, what I forgot, that for a number of days you have been living under a heavy strain. My manner was at fault.”
The small tornado of passion passed. Betty sank back in the corner of the window-seat, her head resting against the side of the sash and her face a little upturned.
“You are really very considerate, Monsieur Hanaud,” she returned. “It is I who should beg your pardon. For I was behaving like a hysterical schoolgirl. Will you go on with your questions?”
“Yes,” Hanaud replied gently. “It is better that we finish with them now. Let us come back to the night of the 27th.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Madame was in her usual health that night — neither better nor worse.”
“If anything a little better,” returned Betty.
“So that you did not hesitate to go on that evening to a dance given by some friends of yours?”
Jim started. So Betty was actually out of the house on that fatal night. Here was a new point in her favour. “A dance!” he cried, and Hanaud lifted his hand.
“If you please, Monsieur Frobisher!” he said. “Let Mademoiselle speak!”
“I did not hesitate,” Betty explained. “The life of the household had to go on normally. It would never have done for me to do unusual things. Madame was quick to notice. I think that although she would not admit that she was dangerously ill, at the bottom of her mind she suspected that she was; and one had to be careful not to alarm her.”
“By such acts, for instance, as staying away from a dance to which she knew that you had — meant to go?” said Hanaud. “Yes, Mademoiselle. I quite understand that.”
He cocked his head at Jim Frobisher, and added with a smile: “Ah, you did not know that, Monsieur Frobisher. No, nor our friend Boris Waberski, I think. Or he would hardly have rushed to the Prefect of Police in such a hurry. Yes, Mademoiselle was dancing with her friends on this night when she is supposed to be committing the most monstrous of crimes. By the way, Mademoiselle, where was Boris Waberski on the night of the 27th?”
“He was away,” returned Betty. “He went away on the 27th to fish for trout at a village on the River Ouche, and he did not come back until the morning of the 28th.”
“Exactly,” said Hanaud. “What a type that fellow! Let us hope he had a better landing-net for his trout than the one he prepared so hastily for Mademoiselle Harlowe. Otherwise his three days’ sport cannot have amounted to much.”
His laugh and his words called up a faint smile upon Betty’s face and then he swept back to his questions. “So you went to a dance, Mademoiselle. Where?”
“At the house of Monsieur de Pouillac on the Boulevard Thiers.”
“And at what hour did you go?”
“I left this house at five minutes to nine.”
“You are sure of the hour?”
“Quite,” said Betty.
“Did you see Madame Harlowe before you went?”
“Yes,” Betty answered. “I went to her room just before I left. She took her dinner in bed, as she often did. I was wearing for the dance a new frock which I had bought this winter at Monte Carlo, and I went to her room to show her how I looked in it.”
“Was Madame alone?”
“No; the nurse was with her.”
And upon that Hanaud smiled with a great appearance of cunning.
“I knew that, Mademoiselle,” he declared with a friendly grin. “See, I set a little trap for you. For I have here the evidence of the nurse herself, Jeanne Baudin.”
He took out from his pocket a sheet of paper upon which a paragraph was typed. “Yes, the examining magistrate sent for her and took her statement.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Betty. “Jeanne left us the day of the funeral and went home. I have not seen her since.”
She nodded at Hanaud once or twice with a little smile of appreciation.
“I would not like to be a person with a secret to hide from you, Monsieur Hanaud,” she said admiringly. “I do not think that I should be able to hide it for long.”
Hanaud expanded under the flattery like a novice, and, to Jim Frobisher’s thinking, rather like a very vulgar novice. “You are wise, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed. “For, after all, I am Hanaud. There is only one,” and he thumped his chest and beamed delightedly. “Heavens, these are politenesses! Let us get on. This is what the nurse declared,” and he read aloud from his sheet of paper: “Mademoiselle came to the bedroom, so that Madame might admire her in her new frock of silver tissue and her silver slippers. Mademoiselle arranged the pillows and saw that Madame had her favourite books and her drink beside the bed. Then she wished her good night, and with her pretty frock rustling and gleaming, she tripped out of the room. As soon as the door was closed, Madame said to me—” and Hanaud broke off abruptly. “But that does not matter,” he said in a hurry.
Suddenly and sharply Betty leaned forward. “Does it not. Monsieur?” she asked, her eyes fixed upon his face, and the blood mounting slowly into her pale cheeks.
