 Chapter 15 of The House of the Arrow by A. E. W. Mason Anne's rooms were upon the second floor with the windows upon the garden, a bedroom and a sitting room communicating directly with one another. They were low in the roof but spacious and Hanoe as he looked around the bedroom said in a tone of doubt, yes, after all if one were frightened suddenly out of one's wits, one might stumble upon this room in the dark and lose one's way to the light switch. There isn't one over the bed. Then he shrugged his shoulders. But to be sure one would be careful that one's details would be verified so, and the doubt passed out of his voice. The words were all Greek to the commissar of police and his secretary and Mishir of Bex. Maurice de Benet indeed looked sharply at Hanoe as if he was on the point of asking one of those questions which he had been invited to ask. But Giroudot the commissar who was panting heavily with his ascent of two flights of stairs spoke first. We shall find nothing of interest here, he said, that pretty girl would never have asked us to pry about amongst her dainty belongings if there had been anything to discover. Well, one never knows said Hanoe, let us see. One walked away into the sitting room. He had no wish to follow step by step Hanoe and the commissar in their search, and he had noticed on the table in the middle of the room a blotting pad and some note paper and the materials for writing. He wanted to get all this whirl of conjecture and fact and lies in which, during the last two days he had lived, sorted and separated and set an order in his mind, and he knew no better way of doing so than by putting it all down shortly in the floor and against style of Robinson Crusoe on his desert island. He would have a quiet hour or so whilst Hanoe indefinitely searched. He took a sheet of paper, selected a pen at random from the tray, and began. It cost an upcott, however, a good many sheets of note paper, and more than once the nib dropped out of his pen holder and was forced back into it before he had finished. But he had his problem reduced at last due to these terms. 4. One. Although suspicion that murder had been committed arose in the first instance only from the return to a shelf of the treatise on Stofanatis Tespidis, subsequent developments e.g. the disappearance of the Poisonero, the introduction into the case of the ill fame de Jean Cladelle, an upcott story of her visit to the treasure room, and now the mystery of Mrs. Harlow's pearl necklace make out a prima facie case for inquiry. Against, but in the absence of any trace of poison in the dead woman's body, it is difficult to see how the criminal can be brought to justice except by a. a confession, b. the commission of another crime of a similar kind. An ose theory wants a poisoner, always a poisoner. 4. Two. If murder was committed, it is probable that it was committed at half past ten at night when an upcott in the treasure room heard the sound of a struggle in the whisper that will do now. Against, an upcott story, maybe partly or wholly false, she knew that Mrs. Harlow's bedroom was to be opened and examined. If she also knew that the pearl necklace had disappeared, she must have realized that it would be advisable for her to tell some story before its disappearance was discovered, which would divert suspicion from her. 4. Three. It is clear that whoever committed the murder, if murder was committed, Betty Harlow had nothing to do with it. She had an ample allowance. She was at Monsieur de Poyac's ball on the night. Moreover, once Mrs. Harlow was dead, the necklace became Betty Harlow's property. Had she committed the murder, the necklace would not have disappeared. Against, it is possible that the disappearance of the necklace is in no way connected with the murder if murder there was. 4. Four. Who then are possibly guilty? One, the servants. Against, all of them have many years of service to their credit. It is not possible that any of them would have understood enough of the treatise on Stophathatha's Cespidus to make use of it. If any of them were concerned, it can only be as an accessory or assistant working under the direction of another. 4. Two. Jean Baudinard, the nurse. More attention might be given to her. It is too easily accepted that she has nothing to do with it. Against, no one suspects her. Her record is good. 4. Three. Francine Riyadh. She was certainly frightened this afternoon. The necklace would be a temptation. Was it she who bent over and upcaught in the darkness? Against, she was frightened of the police as a class, rather than of being accused of a crime. She acted her part in the reconstruction scene without breaking down. If she were concerned, it could only be for the reason given above as an assistant. 4. Four. Anne Upcott. Her introduction into the Maison-Grenel took place through Wabersky and under dubious circumstances. She is poor, a paid companion, and the necklace is worth a considerable fortune. She was in the house on the night of Mrs. Harlow's death. She told Gaston he could turn out the lights and go to bed early that evening. She could easily have admitted Wabersky and received the necklace as the price of her complicity. The story she told us in the garden may have been the true story of what occurred adapted. It may have been she who whispered that will do now. She may have whispered it to Wabersky. Her connection with Wabersky was sufficiently close to make him count upon Anne's support in his charge against Betty. Against, her introductions may be explicable on favorable grounds. Until we know more of her history, it is impossible to judge. Her account of the night of the 27th April may be true from beginning to end. In that case, the theory of a murder is enormously strengthened, but who whispered that will do now, and who was bending over Anne upcaught when she waked up? Four. Five. Wabersky. He is a scoundrel, a would-be blackmailer. He was in straits for money, and he expected a thumping legacy from Mrs. Harlow. He may have brought Anne upcaught into the house with the thought of murder in his mind. Having failed to obtain any profit from his crime, he accuses Betty of the same crime as a blackmailing proposition. As soon as he knew that Mrs. Harlow had been exhumed and an autopsy made, he collapsed. He knew if he had used himself, the poison arrow, that no trace of poison would be found. He knew of Jean Claudel, and according to his own story, was in the rue Compétat, close to Jean Claudel's shop. It is possible that he himself had been visiting Claudel to pay for the solution of strophanthus against, but he would have collapsed equally if he had believed that no murder had been committed at all. If murder was committed, the two people most obviously suspect are Anne upcaught and Wabersky working in collusion. To this conclusion, Jim Frobisher was reluctantly brought, but even whilst writing it down, there were certain questions racing through his mind, to which he could find no answer. He was well aware that he was an utter novice in such matters as the investigation of crimes, and he recognized that were the answers to these questions known to him, some other direction might be given to his thoughts. Accordingly, he wrote those troublesome questions beneath his memorandum, thus, but, one, why does Hanoe attach no importance to the return of the treatise on Stophanthus Ispidus to its place in the library? Two, what was it which so startled him upon the top of the terrace tower? Three, what was it that he had in his mind to say to me at the café in the plus-dom, and in the end did not say? Four, why did Hanoe search every corner of the treasure room for the missing poison arrow except the interior of the sedentary chair? The noise of a door gently closing aroused him from his speculations. He looked across the room. Hanoe had just entered it from the bedroom, shutting the communicating door behind him. He stood with his hand upon the doorknob gazing at Frobisher with a curious startled stare. He moved swiftly to the end of the table at which Jem was sitting. How you help me, he said in a low voice and smiling, how you do help me. Alert though Jem's ears were to a note of ridicule, he could discover not a hint of it. Hanoe was speaking with the utmost sincerity. His eyes very bright and his heavy face quite changed by that uncannily sharp expression which Jem had learned to associate with some new find in the development of the case. May I see what you have written, Hanoe asked? It could be of no value to you, Jem replied modestly, but Hanoe would have none of it. It is always of value to know what the other man thinks and even more what the other man sees. What did I say to you in Paris? The last thing one sees oneself is the thing exactly under one's nose. And he began to laugh lightly but continuously and with a great deal of enjoyment which Jem did not understand. He gave in, however, over his memorandum and pushed it along to Hanoe, ashamed of it as something schoolboyish but hopeful that some of these written questions might be answered. Hanoe sat down at the end of the table close to Jem and read the items and the questions very slowly with an occasional grunt and a still more occasional aha but with a quite unchanging face. Jem was in two minds whether to snatch it from his hands and tear it up or dwell upon its recollected phrases with a good deal of pride. One thing was clear, Hanoe took it seriously. He sat musing over it for a moment or two. Yes, here are questions and dilemmas. He looked at Frobisher with friendliness. I shall make you an allegory. I have a friend who is a matador in Spain. He told me about the bull and how foolish those people are who think the bull not clever. Yes, but do not jump and look the offense with your eyes and tell me how very vulgar I am and how exagerable my taste. All that I know very well but listen to my friend the matador. He says all that the bull wants to kill without fail all the bullfighters in Spain is a little experience and very little he learned so quick. Look, between the entrance of the bull into the arena and his death there are reckoned 20 minutes and there should not be more if the matador is wise. The bull, he learned so quick the warfare of the ring. Well, I am an old bull who has fought in the arena many times. This is your first querida but only 10 minutes of the 20 have passed. Already you have learned much. Yes, here are some shrewd questions which I had not expected you to ask. When the 20 are gone, you will answer them all for yourself. Meanwhile, he took up another pen and made a tiny addition to item one. I carry this one step farther. See? He replaced the memorandum under Jim's eyes and Jim read subsequent developments, e.g. the disappearance of the poison arrow, the introduction into the case of the ill-famed Jean Claudel, Anupkrat's story of her visit to the treasure room and now the mystery of Mrs. Harlow's pearl necklace and the finding of the arrow make out a prima fece case for inquiry. Jim sprang to his feet in excitement. You have found the arrow then, he cried, glancing towards the door of Anupkrat's bedroom. Not I, my friend, replied Hanoe with a grin. The commissaire then? No, not the commissaire. His secretary then. Jim sat down in his chair. I am sorry. He wears cheap rings. I don't like him. Hanoe broke into a laugh of delight. Consol yourself. I, too, don't like that young gentleman of whom they are all so proud. Maurice de Venet has found nothing. Jim looked at Hanoe in a perplexity. Here is a riddle, he said. Hanoe rubbed his hands together. Proved to me that you have been ten minutes in the bullring. He said, I think that I have only been five. Jim replied with a smile. Let me see. The arrow had not been discovered when we first entered these rooms. No, and it is discovered now. Yes, and it was not discovered by you. No, nor the commissaire. No, nor Maurice de Venet. No. Jim stared and shook his head. I have not been one minute in the bullring. I don't understand. Hanoe's face was all a light with enjoyment. Then I take your memorandum and I write again. He hid the paper from Jim Frobischer's eyes with the palm of his left hand whilst he wrote with his right. Then with a triumph of jester, he laid it again before Jim. The last question of all had been answered in Hanoe's neat small handwriting. Jim read, four, why did Hanoe search every corner of the treasure room for the missing poison arrow, except the interior of the sedent chair? Underneath the question Hanoe had written, as if it was Jim Frobischer himself who answered the question, it was wrong of Hanoe to forget to examine the sedent chair, but fortunately no harm has resulted from that lamentable omission. For life, the incorrigible dramatist had arranged that the head of the arrow shaft should be the pen holder with which I have written this memorandum. Jim looked at the pen holder and dropped it with a startled cry. There it was, the splendor pencil-like shaft expanding into a slight bulb where the fingers held it and the nib inserted into the tiny cleft made for the stem of the iron dart. Jim remembered that the nib had once or twice become loose and sluttered on the page until he had jammed it in violently. Then came a terrible thought. His jaw dropped and he stared at Hanoe in awe. I wonder if I sucked the end of it whilst I was thinking out my sentences. He stammered. Oh Lord! cried Hanoe and he snatched up the pen holder and rubbed it hard with his pocket anchorchief. Then he spread out the anchorchief upon the table and fetching a small magnifying glass from his pocket examined it minutely. He looked out with relief. There is not the least little trace of that reddish brown play which made to the poison paste. The arrow was scraped clean before it was put on that tray of pens. I am enchanted. I cannot now afford to lose my junior colleague. Frobisher drew a long breath and lit a cigarette and gave another proof that he was a very novice of a bull. What a mad thing to put the head of that arrow shaft which a glance at the plates in the treatises would enable a child to identify into an open tray of pens without the slightest concealment, he exclaimed. It looked as if an upcott was willfully pushing her neck into the wooden ring of the guillotine. Hanoe shook his head. Not so mad, my friend. The old rules are the best. Hide a thing and sum out of the way corner and it will surely be found. Put it to lie carelessly under everyone's nose and no one will see it at all. No, this was cleverly done. Who could have foreseen that instead of looking on at our search, you were going to plump yourself down in a chair and write your memorandum so valuable on Madam Micelland's note paper. And even then you did not notice your pen. Why should you? Jem, however, was not satisfied. It is a fortnight since Mrs. Harlow was murdered. If she was murdered, he cried. What I don't understand is why the arrow wasn't destroyed altogether. But until this morning there was never any question of the arrow. Hanoe returned. It was a curiosity, an item in a collection. Why should one trouble to destroy it? But this morning the arrow becomes a dangerous thing to possess. So it must be hidden away in a hurry. For there is not much time, an hour, whilst you and I admired Mont Blanc from the top of the terrace tower. And while Betty was out of the house, Jem added quickly. Yes, that is true, said Hanoe. I had not thought of it. You can add that point, M. Frobisher, to the reasons which put Madam Micell Harlow out of our consideration. Yes. He sat, lost in thought for a little while, and speaking now and then a phrase rather to himself than to his companion, to run up there, to cut the arrow down, to round off the end, as well as one can in a hurry, to stain it with some varnish, to mix it with the other pens in the tray. Not so bad. He nodded his head in appreciation of the trick. But nevertheless things began to look black for the exquisite Madam Micell Anne with her delicate color and her pretty ways. A noise of the shifting of furniture in the bedroom next door attracted his attention. He removed the nib from the arrowhead. We will keep this little matter to ourselves, just for the moment, he said quickly, and he wrapped the improvised pen holder in a sheet of the note paper. Just you and I shall know of it, no one else. This is my case, not Gerudo's. We will not inflict a great deal of pain and trouble until we are sure. I agree, said Jim Eagerly. That's right, I am sure. Heno tucked the arrowhead carefully away in his pocket. This, too, he said, and he took up Jim Frobisher's memorandum. It is not a good thing to carry about, and perhaps lose. I will put it away at the prefecture with the other little things I have collected. He put the memorandum into his lettercase and got up from his chair. The rest of the arrow shaft will be somewhere in this room, no doubt, and quite easy to see. But we shall not have time to look for it, and after all, we have the important part of it. He turned towards the mantel shelf, where some cars of invitation were stuck in the frame of the mirror. Just as the door was opened and the commissaire with his secretary came out from the bedroom. The necklace is not in that room, said Monsieur Gerudo in a voice of finality. Nor is it here, Heno replied, with an unblushing assurance, let us go downstairs. Jim was utterly staggered. This room had not been searched for the necklace at all. First the sedan chair, then this sitting room was neglected. Heno actually led the way out of the stairs without so much as a glance behind him. No wonder that in Paris he had styled himself and his brethren the servants of chance. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of the House of the Arrow by A. E. W. Mason. This liberal box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 16, Heno laughs. At the bottom of the stairs, Heno thanked the commissaire of police for his assistance. As for the necklace, we shall of course search the baggage of everyone in the house, he said, but we shall find nothing of that. We may be sure, for if the necklace has been stolen, too much time has passed since it was stolen for us to hope to find it here. He bowed to Gerudo with much respect out of the house, whilst Monsieur Pax took Jim Frobisher a little aside. I have been thinking that Mademoiselle Anne should have some legal help, he said. Now both you and I are attached to the affairs of Mademoiselle Harlow, and it is a little difficult to put it delicately. It may be that the interests of those two young ladies are not identical. It would not therefore be at all correct for me, at all events, to offer her my services. But I can recommend a very good lawyer in Dijon, a friend of mine. You see, it may be important. Frobisher agreed. It may be indeed. Will you give me your friend's address, he said. While he was writing the address down, Heno startled him by breaking unexpectedly into a loud laugh. The curious thing was that there was nothing whatever to account for it. Heno was standing by himself between them and the front door. In the courtyard outside, there was no one within view. Within the hall, Jim and Monsieur Pax were talking very seriously in a low voice. Heno was laughing at the empty air, and his laughter betoken the very strong sense of relief. That I should have lived all these years and never noticed that before, he cried aloud, in a sort of amazement that there could be anything capable of notice which he, Heno, had not noticed. What is it? asked Jim. But Heno did not answer at all. He dashed back through the hall, passed Frobisher and his companion, vanished into the treasure room, closed the door behind him, and actually locked it. Monsieur Pax jerked his chin high in the air. He is an eccentric, that one he would not do for Dijon. Jim was for defending Heno. He must act, that is true, he replied. Whatever he does, and however keenly he does it, he sees a row of footlights in front of him. There are men like that, Monsieur Pax agreed. Like all Frenchmen, he was easy in his mind if he could place a man in a category. But he is doing something which is quite important, Jim continued, swelling a little with pride. He felt that he had been quite 15 minutes in the bullring. He is searching for something somewhere. I told him about it. He had overlooked it all together. I reproached him this morning with his reluctance to take suggestions from people only too anxious to help him. But I did him obviously some injustice. He is quite willing. Monsieur Pax was impressed and a little envious. I must think of some suggestions to make to Heno. He said, Yes, yes, was there not once a pearl necklace in England which was dropped in a matchbox into the gutter when the pursuit became too hot? I have read of it, I'm sure. I must tell Heno that he should spend a day or two picking up the match boxes in the gutters. He may be very likely to come across that necklace of Madame Arlo's. Yes, certainly. Monsieur Pax was considerably elated by the bright idea which had come to him. He felt that he was again upon a level with his English colleague. He saw Heno pouncing his way along the streets of Dijon and explaining to all who questioned him, this is the idea of Monsieur Pax the notary. You know, Monsieur Pax of the Place et Tien du Lait until somewhere near. But Monsieur Pax had not actually located the particular gutter in which Heno should discover the matchbox with the priceless beads when the library door opened and Betty came out into the hall. She looked at the two men in surprise. And Monsieur Heno, she asked, I didn't see him go. He is in your treasure room, said Jim. Oh, Betty exclaimed in a voice which showed her interest. He's gone back there. She walked quickly to the door and tried to handle. Locked, she cried with a little start of surprise. She spoke without turning around. He has locked himself in. Why? Because of the footlights, Monsieur Pax answered and Betty turned around and stared at him. Yes, we came to that conclusion, Monsieur Frobisher and I. Everything he does must ring a curtain down. And once more the key turned in the lock. Betty swung round again as the sound reached her ears and came face to face with Heno. Heno looked over her shoulder at Frobisher and shook his head ruefully. You did not find it then, Jim asked. No, Heno looked away from Jim to Betty Harlow. Monsieur Frobisher put an idea into my head, Monmoselle. I had not looked into that exquisite end chair. It might well be that the necklace had been hidden behind the cushions. But it is not there. And you locked the door, Monsieur, said Betty stiffly. The door of my room, I asked you to notice. Heno drew himself erect. I did, mademoiselle, he replied. And then Betty hesitated with some sharp rejoinder on the tip of her tongue. But she did not speak it. She shrugged her shoulders and said coldly as she turned from him. You are within your rights, no doubt, Monsieur. Heno smiled at her good humorably. He had offended her again. She was showing him once more the petulant, mutinous child in her, which he had seen the morning before. But the smile did remain upon his face. In the doorway of the library an up-god was standing, her face still very pale, and fires smoldering in her eyes. You searched my rooms, I hope, Monsieur, she said in a challenging voice. Thoroughly, mademoiselle, and you did not find the necklace? No. And he walked straight across the hall to her with a look suddenly grown stern. Mademoiselle, I should like you to answer me a question, but you need not. I wish you to understand that. You have a right to reserve your answers for the office of the examining magistrate, and then give them only in the presence of, and with the consent of, your legal advisor, Monsieur Bex will assure you that is so. The girl's defiance weakened. And what do you ask of me? She asked exactly how you came to the Maison Grinnell. The fire died out of her eyes, and eyelids fluttered down. She stretched out a hand against the jam of the door to steady herself. Jim wondered whether she guessed that the head of Simon Harlow's arrow was now hidden in her nose pocket. I was there to Monte Carlo, she began, and stopped, and quite alone, and oh continued relentlessly, yes, and without money, with a little money, and corrected, which you lost and no rejoined. Yes, and at Monte Carlo you made the acquaintance of Boris Wabelski. Yes, and so you came to the Maison Grinnell. Yes, it is all very curious, mademoiselle, said Heno Gravely, and if it were only curious, Jim Frobisher wished with all this heart. Or Anne Upcott quailed before the detective's glance. It seemed to him that with another question from him, an actual confession would falter and stumble from her lips. A confession of complicity with Boris Wabelski. And then Jim caught a dreadful glimpse of the future which awaited her. The guillotine, probably a fate much worse, for that would be over soon, and she at rest. A few poignant weeks, an agony of waiting, now in an intoxication of hope, now in the lowest hell of terror, some dreadful minutes at the breaking of the dawn, and an end that would be better after all than the endless years of sordid, heartbreaking labor, coarse food and clothes amongst the criminals of a convict prison in France. Jim turned his eyes away from her with a shiver of discomfort and saw with a queer little shock that Betty was watching him with a singular intentness as if what interested her was not so much Anne's peril as his feeling about it. Meanwhile Anne had made up her mind. I shall tell you at once the little there is to tell, she declared. The words were brave enough, but the bravery ended with the words. She had provoked the short interrogatory with a clear challenge. She ended it in a hardly audible whisper. However, she managed to tell her story, leaning there against the post of the door. Indeed, her voice strengthened as she went on, and once a smile of real amusement flickered about her lips and in her eyes and set the temples playing in her cheeks. Up to 18 months ago she had lived with her mother, a widow in Dorseture, a few miles behind Weymouth. The pair of them lived with difficulty, for Mrs. Upcott found herself in as desperate a position as England provides for gentle women. She was a small landowner, taxed up to her ears, and then rated over the top of her head. Anne, for her part, was thought in the neighborhood to have promise as an artist. On the death of her mother, the estate was sold as a toy to a manufacturer, and Anne, with a small purse and a sackload of ambition, set out for London. It took me a year to understand that I was and should remain an amateur. I counted over my money. I had 300 pounds left. What was I going to do with it? It wasn't enough to set me up in a shop. On the other hand, I hated the idea of dependence. So I made up my mind to have ten wild, gorgeous days at Monte Carlo and make a fortune or lose the lot. It was then that the smile set her eyes dancing. I should do the same again, she cried quite unrepentantly. I had never been out of England in my life, but I knew a good deal of schoolgirls French. I bought a few frocks and hats and off I went. I had the most glorious time. I was nineteen. Everything from the sleeping cars to the groupies enchanted me. I stayed at one of the smaller hotels up the hill. I met one or two people whom I knew, and they introduced me into the sporting club. Oh, and lots and lots of people wanted to be kind to me, she cried. That is thoroughly intelligible, said Anne O'Driley. Oh, but quite nice people, too, Anne rejoined. Her face was glowing with the recollections of that short, joyous time. She had forgotten for the moment, altogether, the predicament in which she stood, or she was acting with an artfulness which Anne O could hardly have seen surpassed in all his experience of criminals. There was a croupier, for instance, at the Toronto Count's table in the big room of the sporting club. I always tried to sit next to him, for he saw that no one stole my money, and that when I was winning, I ensured my stake and clawed a little off the heap from time to time. I was there for five weeks, and I had made 400 pounds, and then came three dreadful nights, and I lost everything, except 30 pounds, which I had stowed away in the hotel safe. She nodded across the hall towards Jim. Monsieur Frobuchar can tell you about the last night, for he sat beside me and very pritially tried to make me a present of a thousand francs. Anne O, however, was not to be diverted. Afterwards, he shall tell me, he said, and resumed his questions. You had met Waberski before that night? Yes, a fortnight before, but I can't remember who introduced me. Anne Mademoiselle Harlow? Monsieur Boris introduced me a day or two later to Betty at tea time in the lounge of the Hotel de Paris. Aha, cried Anne O. He glanced at Jim with an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. It was indeed becoming more and more obvious that Waberski had brought an upcut into that household deliberately as part of a plan carefully conceived and in due time to be fulfilled. When did Waberski first suggest that you should join Mademoiselle Harlow? He asked. That last night, Anne replied, he had been standing opposite to me on the other side of the Grande Carante table. He saw that I had been losing. Yes, said Anne O., nodding his head, he thought that the opportune moment had come. He extended his arms and let his hands fall against his thighs. He was like a doctor presented with a hopeless case. He turned half aside from Anne with his shoulders bent and his trouble dies fixed upon the marble squares of the floor. Jim could not but believe that he was at this moment debating whether he should take the girl into custody. But Betty intervened. You must not be misled, Monsieur Hanot, she said quickly. It is true, no doubt, that Monsieur Boris mentioned the subject to Anne for the first time that night. But I had already told both my aunt and Monsieur Boris that I should like a friend of my own age to live with me. And I had mentioned Anne. Hanot looked up at her doubtfully on so short an acquaintance, Mademoiselle. Betty, however, stuck to her guns. Yes, I liked her very much from the beginning. She was alone. It was quite clear that she was of our own world. There was every good reason why I should wish for her and the format she has been with me have proved to me that I was right. She crossed over to Anne with a defiant little nod at a no who responded with a cordial grin and dropped into English. So I can push that into my pipe and puff it as my dear Ricardo would say. That is what you mean? Well, against loyalty the whole world is powerless and he made to Betty a friendly bow. He could hardly have told Betty in plainer phrases that her intervention had averted Anne's arrest or Anne herself that he believed her guilty. Everyone in the hall understood him in that sense. They stood foolishly looking here and looking there and not knowing where to look. And in the midst of their discomfort occurred an incongruous little incident which added a touch of the bizarre. Up the two steps to the open door came a girl carrying a big oblong cardboard milliner's box. Her finger was on the bell when Hanoe stepped forward. There is no need to ring, he said. What have you there? The girl stepped into the hall and looked at Anne. It is Madame Iselle's dress for the ball tomorrow night. Madame Iselle was to call for a final fitting but did not come. But Madame Groilathe thinks that it will be all right. She laid the box upon a chest at the side of the hall and went out again. I had forgotten all about it, said Anne. It was ordered just before Madame died and tried on once. Hanoe nodded. For Madame Lavais' masked ball, no doubt, he said. I noticed the invitation card on the chimney piece of Madame Iselle's sitting room and in what character did Madame Iselle purpose to go? Anne startled them all. She flung up her head whilst the blood rushed into her cheeks and her eyes shone. Not Madame de Bruntheier's, misure at all events, she cried. Even Hanoe was brought up with a start. I did not suggest it, he replied coldly. But let me see. And in a moment while his face was flushed with anger, his hands were busily untieing the tapes of the box. Betty stepped forward. We talked over that little dress together, misure, more than a month ago. It is meant to represent a water lily. What could be more charming? Hanoe asked, but his fingers did not pause in their work. Could suspicion betray itself more brutally? Jim Frobuchar wondered. What could he expect to find in that box? Did he imagine that this Madame Groilathe, the milliner, was an accomplice of Warberski's tube? The episode was ludicrous with a touch of the horrible. Hanoe lifted up the lid and turned back the tissue paper. Underneath was seen a short craptichine frock of a tender vivid green with a girdle of gold and a great gold rosette at the side. The skirt was stiffened to stand out at the hips and it was bordered with a row of white satin rosettes with golden hearts. To complete the dress there were a pair of white silk stockings with fine gold clocks and white satin shoes with single straps across the insteps and little tassels of brilliance were the straps button and four gold stripes at the back round the heels. Hanoe felt under the frock and around the sides replaced the lid and stood up again. He never looked and then up got. He went straight across to Betty Harlow. I regret infinitely, mademoiselle, that I have put you to so much trouble and occupied so many hours of your day. He said with a good deal of feeling. He made her a courteous bow, took up his hat and stick from the table on which he had laid it and made straight for the whole door. His business in the Methome Grinnell was to all appearances finished. But Monsieur Bex was not content. He had been nursing his suggestion for nearly half an hour like a poem that demanded utterance. Monsieur Hanoe, he called Monsieur Hanoe, I have to tell you about a box of matches. Aha, Hanoe answered, stopping alert, a box of matches. I will walk with you towards your office and you shall tell me as you go. Monsieur Bex secured his hat and his stick in a great hurry, but he had time to throw a glance of pride towards his English colleague. Your suggestion about the treasure room was of no value, my friend. Let us see what I can do. The pride and the airy wave of the hand spoke the unspoken words. Monsieur Bex was at Hanoe's side in the moment and talked voluble as they passed out of the gate into the street of Charles Robert. Betty turned to Jim Frobisher. Tomorrow, now that I am once again allowed to use my motor car, I shall take you for a drive and show you something of our neighborhood. This afternoon, you will understand, I know, I belong to Anne. She took up an upcott by the arm and the two girls went out into the garden. Jim was left alone in the hall, as at that moment he wanted to be. It was very still here now and very silent. The piping of birds, the drone of bees outside the open doors, were rather an accompaniment than an interruption of the silence. Jim placed himself where Hanoe had stood at that moment when he had laughed so strangely, halfway between the foot of the stairs where Monsieur Bex and he himself had been standing and the open porch. But Jim could detect nothing whatever to provoke any laughter, any excitement that I should have lived all these years and never noticed it before. He had explained, noticed what? There was nothing to notice. A table, a chair or two, a barometer hanging up on the wall on one side and a mirror hanging up on the wall on the other. No, there was nothing. Of course, Jim reflected, there was a strain of the Montabanc and Hanoe. The whole of that little scene might have been invented by him maliciously, just to annoy and worry and cause discomfort to Monsieur Bex and himself. Hanoe was a very capable of a trick like that. A strain of the Montabanc and Dee, he had a great deal of the Montabanc. More than half of him was probably Montabanc, possibly quite two-thirds. Oh, damn the fellow, what in the world did he notice? cried Jim. What did he notice from the top of the tower? What did he notice in this hall? Why must he be always noticing something? And he jammed his hat on in a rage and stalked out of the house. End of chapter 16 Chapter 17 of The House of the Arrow by A.E.W. Mason This liver box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 17 at Jean-Claude Delce At nine o'clock that night, Jim Frobisher walked past the cashier's desk and into the hall of the Grand Havana. High above his head, a cinematograph machine, a word, and clicked, and a blade of silver light got the darkness. At the opposite end of the hall, the square screen was flooded with radiance and the pictures melted upon it one into the other. For a little while, Jim could see nothing but the screen. Then the hall swam gradually within his vision. He saw the heads of people like great bullets and a wider central corridor where waitresses with white aprons moved. Jim walked up the corridor and turned off to the left between the tables. When he reached the wall, he went forward again towards the top of the hall. On his left, the hall fell back and in the recess were two large cubicles in which billiard tables were placed. Against the wall of the first of these, a young man was leaning with his eyes fixed upon the screen. Jim fancied that he recognized Morris Thevenay and nodded to him as he passed. A little farther on, a big man with a soft felt hat was seated alone with a buck in front of him. Hanoh. Jim slipped into a seat at his side. You, Hanoh exclaimed in surprise. Why not? You told me this is where you would be at this hour, replied Jim, and some noted discouragement in his voice attracted Hanoh's attention. I didn't think that those two young ladies would let you go, he said. On the contrary, Jim replied with a short laugh. They didn't want me at all. He began to say something more but thought better of it and called to a waitress. Two box, if you please, he ordered and he offered to know a cigar. When the box were brought, Hanoh said to him, it will be well to pay it once so that we can slip away when we want. We have something to do tonight, Jim asked. He said no more until Jim had paid and the waitress had turned the two little saucers on which she had brought the box upside down and had gone away. Then he leaned towards Jim and lowered his voice. I am glad that you are here for I have a hope that we shall get the truth tonight and you ought to be present when we do get it. Jim lit his own cigar. From whom do you hope to get it? Jean-Claude. Hanoh answered in a whisper. A little later when all the town is quiet we will pay a visit to the street of Gambetta. You think he'll talk? Hanoh nodded. There is no charge against Claudella in this affair to make a solution of that poison paste is not an offense and he has so much against him that he will want to be on our side if he can. Yes, he will talk. I have no doubt. There would be an end of the affair then tonight. Jim Frobisher was glad with an unutterable gladness. Betty would be free to order her life as she liked and where she liked to give to her youth its due scope and range to forget the terror and horror of these last weeks as one forgets old things behind locked doors. I hope however he said earnestly to Hanoh and I believe that you will be found wrong that if there was a murder an up-god had nothing to do with it. Yes, I believe that. He repeated his assertion as much to convince himself as to persuade Hanoh. Hanoh touched his elbow. Don't raise your voice so much, my friend, he said. I think there is someone against the wall who is honoring us with his attention. Jim shook his head. It is only Maurice Seven-A, he said. Oh, answered Hanoh in a voice of relief. Is that all? For a moment I was anxious. It seemed that there was a sentinel standing guard over us. He added in a whisper, I too hope from the bottom of my heart that I may be proved wrong. But what of that arrowhead in the pin tray? Don't forget that. And then he fell down to amuse. What happened on that night in the Maison Colonel? He said, why was that communicating door thrown open? Who was to be stripped to the skin by that violent woman? Who whispered at that? Will do now. Is Hanoh up-god speaking the truth? And was there some terrible scene taking place before she entered so unexpectedly the treasure room? Some terrible scene which ended in that dreadful whisper. Or is Han up-god lying from beginning to end? My friend, you wrote some questions down upon your memorandum this afternoon. But these are the questions I want answered. And where shall I find the answers? Jim had never seen Hanoh so moved. His hands were clenched and the veins prominent upon his forehead. And though he whispered, his voice shook. Jean Claudel may help, said Jim. Yes, yes, he may tell us something. They ran through an episode of the film and saw the lights go up and out again. And then Hanoh looked eagerly at his watch and put it back again into his pocket with a gesture of annoyance. It is still too early, Jim asked. Yes, Claudel has no servant and takes his meals abroad. He has not yet returned home. A little before ten o'clock, a man strolled in and seating himself at a table behind Hanoh, twice scraped a match upon a matchbox without getting a light. Hanoh, without moving, said quietly to Frobisher, he is home now. In a minute I shall go. Give me five minutes and follow. Jim nodded. Where shall we meet? Walk straight along the rue de la Liberté and I will see to that, said Hanoh. He pulled his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, put one between his lips, and took his time in lighting it. Then he got up, but to his annoyance, Marie Stavenet recognized him and came forward. Well, Mr. Frobisher wished me good evening and joined you. I thought it was you, Mr. Hanoh, but I had not the presumption to claw myself to your notice. Presumption? Mr. Sure, we are of the same service. Only you have the advantage of you, said Hanoh politely, as he turned. But you are going, Mr. Hanoh? Thevenet asked in distress. I am desolated. I have broken into a conversation like a clumsy fellow. Not at all, Hanoh replied. To Frobisher, his patience was as remarkable as Marie Stavenet's impudence. We were idly watching a film which I think is a little tedious. Then, since you are not busy, I beg for your indulgence. One little moment, that is all. I should so dearly love to be able to say to my friends, I sat in the cinema with Mr. Hanoh, yes, actually, and asked for his advice. Hanoh sat down again upon his chair. And upon what subject can you, of whom Mr. Gilles Laudot speaks so highly, want my advice? Hanoh asked with a laugh. The eternal ambition of the Provincial was tormenting the eager youth. To get to Paris, all was in that. Fortune, reputation, a life of color. A word from Mr. Hanoh and a wave would open. He would work night and day to justify that word. Oh, Mr. Sure, all I can promise is that when the time comes, I shall remember you. But that promise I make now with my whole heart, said Hanoh warmly, and with a bow he moved away. Marie Stavenet watched him go. What a man! Marie Stavenet went on enthusiastically. I would not like to try to keep any secrets from him. No, indeed. Jim had heard that sentiment before on other lips and with a greater sympathy. I did not understand at all what he had in mind when he staged that little scene with Francine Royaud. But something, Miss Sure. Oh, you may be sure. Something wise. And that search through the treasure room. Out quick and complete. No doubt while we watched Mama Zell up God's bedroom, he was just as quick and complete and going through her sitting room. But he found nothing. No, nothing. He waited for Jim to cooperate him. But Jim only said, oh. But Thévenet was not to be extinguished. I shall tell you what struck me, Miss Sure. He was following out no suspicions. Isn't that so? He was detached. He was gathering up every trifle on the chance that each one might sometime fit in with another, and at last a whole picture be composed. An artist. There was a letter, for instance, which Madame of Zell Harlow handed to him, one of those deplorable letters which have disgraced us here. You remember that letter, Miss Sure? Ma said, for sure, quite in the style of a no. But I see that this film is coming to its wedding bells. So I shall wish you a good evening. Frobischer bowed and left Maurice Thévenet to dream of success in Paris. He strolled between the group of spectators to the entrance and thence into the street. He walked to the arch of the Port Guillaume and turned into the rue de la Libétaix. The provincial towns go to bed early, and the street, so busy throughout the day, was like the street of a deserted city. A couple of hundred yards on, he was startled to find a no sprung from nowhere, walking at his side. So my young friend, the secretary, engaged you when I had gone? He said, Maurice Thévenet said, Jim, maybe as the commissaire says, a young man of a surprising intelligence, but to tell you the truth, I find him a very intrusive fellow. First of all, he wanted to know if you had discovered anything in an up-cut sitting room, and then what Miss Harlow's anonymous letter was about. Hanot looked at Jim with interest. Yes, he was anxious to learn that young man, Giroudot, is right. He will go far. And how did you answer him? I said, oh, first, and then I said, ah, just like a troublesome friend of mine, when I asked him a simple question, which he does not mean to answer. Hanot laughed heartily, and you did very well, he said. Come, let us turn into the little street upon the right. It will take us to our destination. Wait, whispered Jim eagerly. Don't cross the road for a moment. Listen. Hanot obeyed at once, and both men stood and listened in the empty street. Not a sound, said Hanot. No, that is what troubles me, Jim whispered importantly. A minute ago there were footsteps behind us. Now that we have stopped, they have stopped too. Let us go on quite straight for a moment or two. But certainly my friend, said Hanot, and let us not talk either, Jim urged. Not a single word, said Hanot. They moved forward again, and behind them once more footsteps rang upon the pavement. What did I tell you? Asked Jim, taking Hanot by the arm, that we would neither of us speak, Hanot replied, and lo, you have spoken. But why? Why have I spoken? Be serious, Mishur. Jim shook his arm indignantly. We are being followed. Hanot stopped dead and gazed in steady admiration at his junior colleague. Oh, he whispered, you've discovered that. Yes, it is true. We are being followed by one of my men who seems to it that we are not followed. Frobisher shook Hanot's arm off indignantly. He drew himself up stiffly. Then he saw Hanot's mouth twitching, and he understood that he was looking proper. Oh, let us go and find Jean Claudel, he said with a laugh, and he crossed the road. They passed into a network of small, mean streets, and there was not a soul around. The houses were shrouded in darkness, the only sounds they heard, with a clatter of their own footsteps on the pavement, and the fainter noise of the man who followed them. Hanot turned to the left into a short passage, and stopped before a little house with a shuttered shot front. This is the place, he said in a low voice, and he pressed the button in the pillar of the door. The bell rang with a shrill, sharp whir, just the other side of the panels. We may have to wait a moment if he's gone to bed, said Hanot, since he has no servant in the house. A minute or two passed, the clock struck the half hour, and Hanot leaned his ear against the panels of the door. He could not hear one sound within the house. He rang again, and after a few seconds, shutters were thrown back, and a window opened on the floor above. From behind the window, someone whispered, Who is there? The police, Hanot answered, and at the window above, there was silence. No one is going to do you any harm, Hanot continued, raising his voice impatiently. We want some information from you, that's all. Very well. The whisper came from the same spot. The man standing within the darkness of the room had not moved. Wait, I will slip on some things and come down. The window and the shutter were closed again. Then, through the chinks, a few beams of light strayed out. Hanot uttered a little grunt of satisfaction. That animal is getting up at last. He must have some strange clients amongst the good people of Dijon if he is so careful to answer them in a whisper. He turned about and took a step or two along the pavement, and another step or two back, like a man upon a quarter-deck. Jim Frobisher had never known him, so restless and impatient during these two days. I can't help it, he said in a low voice to Jim. I think that in five minutes we shall touch the truth of this affair. We shall know who brought the arrow to him from the maze on Glenel. If anyone brought the arrow to him at all, Jim Frobisher added, but Hanot was not in the mood to consider ifs and possibilities. Oh that, he said with a shrug in the shoulders. Then he tapped his forehead. I am like Wabeski. I have it here that someone did bring the arrow to Jean-Claudeau. He started once more his quarter-deck pacing. Only it was now a trot rather than a walk. Jim was a little nettle by the indifference to his suggestion. He was still convinced that Hanot had taken the wrong starting point in all his inquiry. He said, tortly, well if someone did bring the arrow here, it will be the same person who replaced the treatise on Stefan Office on its bookshelf. Hanot came to a stop in front of Jim Frobisher. Then he burst into a low laugh. I will bet you all the money in the world that that is not true. And then Madame Harlow's pearl necklace on the top of it. For after all it was not I who brought the arrow to Jean-Claudeau. Whereas it was undoubtedly I who put back the treatise on the shelf. Jim took a step back. He stared at Hanot with his mouth open in a stupefaction. You, he exclaimed. I replied Hanot, standing up on the tips of his toes. Alone I did it. Then his manner of burlesque dropped from him. He looked up at the shuttered windows with a sudden anxiety. That animal is taking longer than he need. He muttered. After all it is not to a court ball of the Duke of Burgundy that we are inviting him. He rang the bell again with a greater urgency. It returned its shrill reply as though it mocked him. I do not like this. Said Hanot. He seized the door handle and leaned his shoulder against the panel and drove his weight against it. But the door was strong and did not give. Hanot put his fingers to his mouth and whistled softly from the direction once they had come. They heard the sound of a man running swiftly. They saw him pass within the light of the one street lamp at the corner and out of it again. And then he stood at their side. Jim recognized Nicholas Moreau, the little agent who had been sent this very morning by Hanot, to make sure the Jean-Claudeau existed. Nicholas, I want you to remain here. Said Hanot. If the door is open, whistle for us and keep it open. Very well, sir. Hanot sat in a low and troubled voice to Frugusher. There is something here which alarms me. He dived into a narrow alley at the side of the shop. It was in this alley, no doubt, that Waberski met us to believe that he hid on the morning of the 7th of May. Jim whispered, as he hurried, to keep up with his companion. No doubt, the alley led them into a lane which ran parallel with the street of Gambetta. Hanot wheeled into it, a wall five feet high, broken at intervals by rickety wooden doors, enclosed the yards at the backs of the houses. Before the first of these breaks in the wall, Hanot stopped. He raised himself upon the tips of his toes and peered over the wall, first downwards into the yard and then upwards towards the back of the house. There was no lamp in the lane, no light showing from any of the windows. Though the night was clear of mist, it was as dark as a cavern in this narrow lane behind the houses. Jim Frobischer, though his eyes were accustomed to the gloom, knew that he could not have seen a man even if he had moved ten yards away. Yet Hanot still stood appearing at the back of the house with the tips of his fingers on the top of the wall. Finally, he touched Jim on the sleeve. I believe the back window on the first floor is open, he whispered, and his voice was more troubled than ever. We will go in and see. He touched the wooden door and it swung inwards with a whine of its hinges. Open said Hanot, make no noise. Silently they crossed the yard. The ground floor of the house was low. Jim, looking upwards, could see now that the window above their heads yawned wide open. You are right, he breathed in Hanot's ear and with a touch Hanot asked for silence. The room beyond the window was black as pitch. The two men stood below and listened. Not a word came from it. Hanot drew Jim into the wall of the house. At the end of the wall a door gave admission into the house. Hanot tried the door, turned the handle first, and then gently pressing with his shoulder upon the panel. It's locked, but not bolted like the door in front. He whispered, I can manage this. Jim Frobisher heard the tiniest possible rattle of a bunch of keys as Hanot drew it from his pocket and then not a noise of any kind whilst Hanot stooped above the lock. Yet within half a minute the door slowly opened. It opened upon a passage as black as that room above their heads. Hanot stepped noiselessly into the passage. Jim Frobisher followed him with a heart beating high in excitement. What had happened in that lighted room upstairs and in the dark room behind it? Why didn't Jean Claudel come down and open the door upon the street of Campetta? Why didn't they hear Nicholas Moreau's soft whistle or the sound of his voice? Hanot stepped back past Frobisher and shut the door behind them and locked it again. You haven't an electric torch with you, of course? Hanot whispered. No, replied Jim. Nor I, and I don't want to strike a match. There's something upstairs which frightens me. You could hardly hear the words. They were spoken as though the mere vibration of the air they caused would carry a message to the rooms above. We'll move very carefully, keep a hand upon my coat, and Hanot went forward. After he had gone a few paces, he stopped. There's a staircase here on my right. It turns at once. Mind not to knock your foot on the first step. He whispered over his shoulder, and a moment later he reached down and, taking hold of Jim's right arm, laid his hand upon a balustrade. Jim lifted his foot, felt for, and found the first dread of the stairs and mounted behind Hanot. They halted on a little landing just above the door by which they had entered the house. In front of them, the darkness began to thin to become opaque rather than a black impenetrable hood drawn over their heads. Jim understood that in front of him was an open door, and that the faint glimmer came from that open window on their left beyond the door. Hanot passed through the doorway into the room. Jim followed and was already upon the threshold when Hanot stumbled and uttered a cry. No doubt the cry was low, but coming so abruptly upon their long silence, it startled Frobisher like the explosion of a pistol. It seemed that it must clash through the zone like the striking of a clock. But nothing followed. No one stirred, no one cried out a question. Silence descended upon the house again, impenetrable, like the darkness, a hood upon the senses. Jim was tempted to call out aloud himself, anything, however childish, so that he might hear a voice speaking words, if only his own voice. The words came at last from Hanot, and from the inner end of the room, but in an accent which Jim did not recognize. Don't move, there is something. Told you I was frightened. Oh, and his voice died away in a sigh. Jim could hear him moving very cautiously. Then he almost screamed aloud for the shutters at the window slowly swung to, and the room was once more shrouded in black. Who's that? Jim whispered violently, and Hanot answered, it's only me. Hanot, I don't want to show a light here yet, with that window open. God knows what dreadful thing has happened here. Come just inside the room and shut the door behind you. Jim obeyed, and having moved his position, could see a line of yellow light, straight and fine, as if drawn by a pencil at the other end of the room on the floor. There was a door there, a door into the front room, where they had seen the light go up from the street of Gambetta. Jim Frobisher had hardly realized that, before the door was burst open with a crash. In the doorway outlined against the light beyond, appeared the bulky frame of Hanot. There is nothing here, he said, standing there, blocking up the doorway with his hands and his pockets. The room is quite empty. That room, the front room, yes, but between Hanot's legs, the light trickled out into the dark room beyond, and here on the floor, illuminated by a little lane of light, Jim, with a shiver, saw a clenched hand and a forearm in a crumpled shirt sleeve. Turn around, he cried to Hanot, look, Hanot turned. Yes, he said quietly, that is what I stumbled against. He found a switch in the wall, close to the door and snapped it down. The dark room was flooded with light, and on the floor, in the midst of a scene of disorder, a table pushed back here, a chair overturned there, lay the body of a man. He wore no coat, he was in his waistcoat, and his shirt sleeves, and he was crumpled up with a horrible suggestion of agony, like a ball, his knees towards his chin, and his head forward towards his knees. One arm clutched the body close, the other, the one which Jim had seen, was flung out, his hand clenched in a spasm of intolerable pain. And about the body, there was such a pool of blood as Jim Frobischer thought no body could contain. Jim staggered back, with his hands clasped over his eyes. He felt physically sick. Then he killed himself on our approach, he cried with a groan. Who? Answered a no steadily. Jean Claudel, the man who whispered to us from behind the window. A no stunned him with a question. What with? Jim drew his hand slowly from before his face, and forced his eyes to their service. There was no gleam of a knife or a pistol anywhere against the dark background of the carpet. You might think that he was a Japanese who had committed a hara-kiri, said a no, but if he had, the knife would be at his side. And there is no knife. He stooped over the body and felt it, and drew his hand back. It is still warm, he said, and then aghast. Look, he pointed. The man was lying on his side in this dreadful pose of contracted sinews and unindurable pain, and across the sleeve of his shirt there was a broad red mark. That's where the knife was wiped clean, said a no. Jim bent forward. By God, it's true, he cried, and a little afterwards in a voice of awe, then it's murder. A no knotted, not a doubt. Jim Frobischer stood up. He pointed a shaking finger at the grotesque image of pain, crumpled upon the floor, death without dignity, an argument that there was something horribly wrong with the making of the human race, since such things could be. Jean Claudel, yes, we must make sure, answered a no. He went down the stairs to the front door and, unbolting it, called Moreau within the house. From the top of the stairs, Jim heard him as, do you know Jean Claudel by sight? Yes, answered Moreau. Then follow me. A no led him up into the back room. For a moment, Moreau stopped upon the threshold with a blank look upon his face. Is that the man, a no at? Moreau stepped forward. Yes, he has been murdered, a no explained. Will you fetch the commissaire of the district and a doctor? We will wait here. Moreau turned on his heel and went downstairs. A no dropped into a chair and stared amudally at the dead body. Jean Claudel, he said in a voice of discouragement, just when he could have been of a little use in the world, just when he could have helped us to the truth. It's my fault too. I oughtn't to have waited until tonight. I ought to have foreseen that this might happen. Who can have murdered him? Jim Frobisher exclaimed. A no roused himself out of his remorse. The man who whispered to us from behind the window, answered a no. Jim Frobisher felt his mind reeling. That's impossible. He cried. Why? A no asked. It must have been he. Think it out. And step by step he told the story as he read it, testing it by speaking it aloud. At five minutes past ten, a man of mine, still a little out of breath from his haste, comes to us in the grant of Anna and tells us that Jean Claudel has just reached home. He reached home then at five minutes to ten. Yes, Jim agreed. We were detained for a few minutes by Maurice Devonnet. Yes. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and said softly, we shall have to consider that very modest and promising young gentleman, rather carefully. He detained us. We heard the clock strike half past ten as we waited in the street. Yes. And all was over then. For the house was as silent as what indeed it is. A grave and only just over for the body is still warm. If this lying here is Jean Claudel, someone else must have been waiting for him to come home tonight, waiting in the lane behind since my man didn't see him and an acquaintance, a friend, for Jean Claudel lets him in and locks the door behind him. Jim interrupted. He might have been here already, waiting for him with his knife buried in this dark room. And all looked round the room. It was furnished cheaply and stuffily, half office, half living room. An open bureau stood against the wall near the window. A closed cabinet occupied the greater part of one side. I wonder, he said. It is possible, no doubt. But if so, why did the murderer stay so long? No search has been made, no drawers are ransacked. He tried the door of the cabinet. This is still locked. No, I don't think that he was waiting. I think that he was admitted as a friend or a client. A fancy Jean Claudel had not a few clients who preferred to call upon him by the back way in the dark of the night. I think that his visitor came meaning to kill and waited his time and killed, and that he had hardly killed before we rang the bell at the door. And oh, drew in his breath sharply. Imagine that, my friend. He is standing here over the man he has murdered, and unexpectedly the shrill, clear sound of the bell goes through the house as though God said, I saw you. Imagine it. He turned out the light and stands, holding his breath in the dark. The bell rings again. He must answer it or worse may befall. He goes into the front room and throws open the window, and hears it is the police who are at the door. And oh, nodded his head in a reluctant admiration. But that man had an iron nerve. He doesn't lose his head. He closes the shutter. He turns on the light that we may think he's getting up. He runs back into this room. He will not waste time by stumbling down the stairs and fumbling with the lock of the back door. No, he opens these shutters and drops to the ground. It is done in a second. Another second and he is in the lane. Another and he is safe. His dreadful mission ended. Claudel will not speak. Claudel will not tell us the things we want to know. Heno went over to the cabinet and using his skeleton keys again opened its doors. On the shelves were arranged a glass jar or two, a retort, the simplest utensils of a laboratory, and a few bottles, one of which larger than the rest, was half filled with a colorless liquid. Alcohol said Heno pointing to the label. Jim Frobisher moved carefully round on the outskirts of the room, taking care not to alter the disarrangement of the furniture. He looked the bottles over. Not one of them held a drop of that pale lemon colored solution, which the professor and his treatise had described. Heno shut and locked the doors of the cabinet again and stepped carefully over to the bureau. It stood open and a few papers were strewn upon the flat. He sat down at the bureau and began carefully to search it. Jim sat down in a chair. Somehow it had leaked out that since this morning Heno knew of Jean Claudel. Jean Claudel therefore must be stopped from any revelations and he had been stopped. Frobisher could no longer doubt that murder had been done on the night of April the 27th in the Maison Canal. Development followed too logically upon development. The case was building up. Another story had been added to the edifice with this new crime. Yes certainly and solidly it was building itself up. This case against someone. Within the minute that case was to be immeasurably strengthened and exclamation broke from Heno. He sprang to his feet and it turned on the light of a green shaded reading lamp which stood upon the ledge of the bureau. He was holding now under the light a small drawer which he had removed from the front of the bureau. Very gently he lifted some little thing out of it something that looked like a badge that men wear in their buttonholes. He laid it down upon the blotting paper and in that room of death laughed harshly. He beckoned to Jim. Come and look what Jim saw was a thin small barbed iron dart with an iron stem. He had no need to ask its nature for he had seen its likeness that morning in the treatise of the Edinburgh Professor. This was the actual head of Simon Harlow's Poison Arrow. You have found it said Jim in a voice that shook. Yes Heno gave it a little push and said thoughtfully a negro thousands of miles away sits outside his hut in the comb country and pounds up his poison seed and mixes it with red clay and smears it thick and slab over the shaft of his fine new arrow and waits for his enemy. But his enemy does not come. So he barters it or gives it to his white friend the trader on the Shire River. And the trader brings it home and gives it to Simon Harlow of the Maison Glenel. And Simon Harlow lends it to a professor in Edinburgh who writes about it in a printed book and sends it back again. And in the end after all its travels it comes to the tenement of Jean Claudel in a slum of Dijon and is made ready in a new way to do its deadly work. For how much longer Heno would have moralized over the arrow in this deplorable way no man can tell. Happily Jim Frobisher was reprieved from listening to him by the shutting of a door below and the noise of voices in the passage. The commissar said Heno and he went quickly down the stairs. Jim heard him speaking in a low tone for quite a long while and no doubt was explaining the position of affairs for when he brought the commissar and the doctor up into the room he introduced Jim as one about whom they already knew. This is Monsieur Frobisher, he said. The commissar, a younger and more vivacious man than Giraudot, bowed briskly to Jim and looked towards the contorted figure of Jean Claudel. Even he could not restrain a little gesture of repulsion. He clacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He is not pretty that one, he said. Most certainly he is not pretty. Heno crossed again to the bureau and carefully folded the dart around with paper. With your permission, Monsieur, he said ceremoniously to the commissar, I shall take this with me. I will be responsible for it. He put it away in his pocket and looked at the doctor who was stooping by the side of Jean Claudel. I do not wish to interfere but I should be glad to have a copy of the medical report. I think that it might help me. I think it will be found that this murder was committed in a way peculiar to one man. Certainly you shall have a copy of the report, Monsieur Heno, replied the young commissar in a polite and formal voice. Heno laid a hand on Jim's arm. We are in the way, my friend. Oh yes, in spite of Monsieur le commissar's friendly protestations. This is not our affair. Let us go. He conducted Jim to the door and turned about. I do not wish to interfere, he repeated, but it is possible that the shutters and the window will bear the traces of the murderers' fingers. I do not think it probable for that animal had taken his precautions but it is possible for he left in a great hurry. The commissar was overwhelmed with gratitude. Most certainly we will give our attention to the shutters and the windowsill. A copy of the fingerprints, if any are found, Heno suggested. Shall be at Monsieur Heno's disposal as early as possible. The commissar agreed. Jim experienced a pang of regret that Monsieur Bax was not present at the little exchange of civilities. The commissar and Heno were so careful not to tread upon one another's toes and so politely determined that their own should not be trodden upon. Monsieur Bax could not have but reveled in the correctness of their deportment. Heno and Frobisher went downstairs into the street. The neighborhood had not been aroused. A couple of the sojourn de Villas stood in front of the door. The street of Gambetta was still asleep and indifferent to the crime which had taken place in one of its least respectable houses. I shall go to the prefecture, said Heno. They have given me a little office there with a sofa. I want to put away the arrowhead before I go to my hotel. I shall come with you, said Jim. It will be a relief to walk for a little in the fresh air after that room. The prefecture lay the better part of a mile away across the city. Heno set off at a great pace and reaching the building conducted Jim into an office with a safe set against the wall. Will you sit down for a moment and smoke, please, he said. He was in a mood of such deep dejection. He was so changed from his mercurial self that only now did Jim Frobisher understand the great store he had set upon his interview with Jean-Claudelle. He unlocked the safe and brought over to the table a few envelopes of different sizes, the copy of the treatise and his green file. He seated himself in front of Jim and began to open his envelopes and arranged their contents in a row. When the door was opened and Jean-Dame saluted and advanced, he carried a paper in his hand. A reply came over the telephone from Paris at nine o'clock tonight, Mr. Heno. They say that this may be the name of the firm you want. It was established in the rue de Batignol, but it ceased to exist seven years ago. Yes, that would have happened. Heno answered glumly as he took the paper. He read what was written upon it. Yes, yes, that's it. Not a doubt. He took an envelope from a rack upon the table and put the paper inside it and stuck down the flap. On the front of the envelope Jim saw him write an illuminating word, a dress. Then he looked at Jim with smoldering eyes. There is a fatality in all this, he cried. We become more and more certain that murder was committed and how it was committed. We get a glimpse of possible reasons why, but we are never an inch nearer to evidence, real convincing evidence who committed it. Fatality? I am a fool to use such words. It's keen wits and audacity and nerve that stop us at the end of each lane and make an idiot of me. He struck a match viciously and lit a cigarette. Probecher made an effort to console him. Yes, but it's the keen wits and the audacity and the nerve of more than one person. Heno glanced at Probecher sharply. Explain, my friend. I have been thinking over it ever since we left the street of Campetta. I no longer doubt that Mrs. Harlow was murdered in the Maithonga now. It is impossible to doubt it, but her murder was part of the activities of a gang. Else, how does it come that Jean-Claudelle was murdered too tonight? A smile drove for a moment the gloom from Heno's face. Yes, you have been quite 15 minutes in the bull ring, he said. Then you agree with me? Yes, but Heno's gloom had returned. But we can't lay our hands upon the gang. We are losing time, and I am afraid that we have no time to lose. Heno shivered like a man, suddenly chilled. Yes, I'm very troubled now. I am very frightened. His fear peered out of him and entered into Probecher. Probecher did not understand it. He had no clue to what it was that Heno feared. But sitting in that brightly lit office in the silent building, he was conscious of evil presences thronging about the pair of them. Presences grotesque and malevolent such as some old craftsman of Dijon might have carved on the pillars of a cathedral. He too shivered. Let us see now, said Heno. He took the end of the arrow shaft from one envelope and the barb from his pocket and fitted them together. The iron barb was loose now because the hole to receive it at the top of the arrow shaft had been widened to take a nib, but the spoke was just about the right length. He laid the arrow down upon the table and opened his green file. A small square envelope such as chemist's Jews attracted Jim's notice. He took it up. It seemed empty, but as he shook it out, a square tablet of some hard white substance rolled onto the table. It was soiled with dust and there was a smear of green upon it and as Jim turned it over, he noticed a cut or crack in its surface as though something sharp had struck it. What in the world has this to do with the affair, he asked. Heno looked up from the file. He reached out his hand swiftly to take the tablet away from Jim and drew his hand in again. A good deal, perhaps? Well, perhaps nothing, he said gravely, but it is interesting that tablet I shall know more about it tomorrow. Jim could not for the life of him remember any occasion which had brought this tablet into notice. It certainly had not been discovered in Jean-Claude Hell's house for it was already there in the safe in the office. Jim had noticed the little square envelope as Heno fetched it out of the safe. The tablet looked as if it had been picked up from the road like Monsieur Bex's famous matchbox. Or yes, there was that smear of green from the grass. Jim sat up straight in his chair. They had all been together in the garden this morning. Heno, himself, Betty, and Anne Upcott. But at that point Frobisher's conjectures halted. Neither his memory nor deduction could connect that tablet with the half hour the four of them had passed in the shade of the Sycamores. The only thing of which he was quite sure was that the great importance which Heno attached to it for all the time that he handled and examined it Heno's eyes never left him, never once. They followed each little movement of fingertip and thumb with an extraordinary alertness and when Jim at last tilted it off his palm back into its little envelope the detective undoubtedly drew a breath of relief. Jim Frobisher laughed good humoredly. He was getting to know his man. He did not invite any ahas and hoes by vain questionings. He leaned across the table and took up his own memorandum which Heno had just laid aside out of his file. He laid it on the table in front of him and added two new questions to those which he had already written out. Thus, five, what was the exact message telephoned from Paris to the Préfecture and hidden away in an envelope marked by Heno address? Six, when and where and why was the white tablet picked up and what, in the name of all the saints, does it mean? With another laugh, Frobisher tossed the memorandum back to Heno. Heno, however, read them slowly and thoughtfully. I had hope to answer all your questions tonight, he said, dispiritedly, but you see, we break down at every corner and the question must wait. He was fitting methodically the memorandum back into the file when a look of extreme surprise came over Frobisher's face. He pointed a finger at the file. That telegram. There was a telegram pinned to the three anonymous letters which Heno had in the file, the two which Heno had shown to Frobisher and Paris, and the third which Betty Harlow had given to him that very afternoon. And the telegram was pieced together by two strips of stamp paper in a cross. That's our telegram. The telegram sent to my firm by Miss Harlow on Monday. Yes, by George, this last Monday. It quite took Jim's breath away. So crowded had his days been with fears and reliefs, excitement and doubts, discoveries and disappointments to realize that this was only the Friday night, that at so recent a date as Wednesday he had never seen or spoken with Betty Harlow. The telegram announcing to us in London that you were engaged upon the case. Heno nodded in ascent. Yes, you gave it to me. And you tore it up. I did, but I picked it out of the waste paper basket afterwards and stuck it together. Heno explained in no case disconcerted by Jim Frobisher's lack of perspicacity, I meant to make some trouble here with the police for letting out the secret. I'm very glad now that I did pick it out. You yourself must have realized its importance the very next morning before I even arrived at the Maison Grinnell when you told Madame Estelle that you had shown it to me. Jim cast his memory back. He had a passion for precision and exactness, which was very proper in one of his profession. It was not until you came that I learned Miss Harlow had the news by an anonymous letter. He said, well, that doesn't matter. Heno interposed a trifle quickly. The point of importance to me is that when the case is done with and I have a little time to devote to these letters, the telegram may be of value. Yes, I see, said Jim, I see that, he repeated, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair and opened his mouth and closed it again and remained suspended between speech and silence, whilst Heno read through his file and contemplated his exhibits and found no hope in them. They lead me nowhere, he cried violently, and Jim Frobischer made up his mind. Monsieur Heno, you do not share your thoughts with me, he said, rather formally, but I will deal with you in a better way. Apart from this crime in the Maison de Nel, you have the mystery of these anonymous letters to Sol. I can help you to this extent. Another of them has been received. When? Tonight, whilst we sat at dinner. By whom? Ann Upcott. What? Heno was out of his chair with a cry towering up, his face white as the walls of the room, his eyes burning upon Frobischer. Never could news have been so unexpected, so startling. You are sure? He asked. Quite. It came by the evening post. With others, Gaston brought them into the dining room. There was one for me, from my firm in London, a couple for Betty, and this one for Ann Upcott. She opened it with a frown, as though she did not know from whom it came. I saw it as she unfolded it. It was on the same common paper, typewritten in the same way, with no address at the head of it. She gasped as she looked at it, and then she read it again. And then with a smile, she folded it and put it away. With a smile, Heno insisted. Yes, she was pleased. The color came back into her face. The distress went out of it. She didn't show it to you then. No. Nor to Mademoiselle Harlow. No. But she was pleased, huh? It seemed that to Heno, this was the most extraordinary feature of the whole business. Did she say anything? Yes, answered Jim. She said, he has been always right, hasn't he? She said that. He's always been right, hasn't he? Heno slowly resumed his seat. And sat like a man turned into stone. He looked up in a little while. What happened then, he asked. A thing until dinner was over. Then she picked up her letter and beckoned with her head to Miss Betty, who said to me, we shall have to leave you to take your coffee alone. They went across the hall to Betty's room, the treasure room. I was a little nethalled. Ever since I have been in Dijon, one person after another has pushed me into a corner with orders to keep quiet and not interfere. So I came to find you at the Grand Taverna. At another moment, Jim's eruption of injured vanity would have provoked Heno to one of his lamentable exhibitions. But now he did not notice it at all. They went away to talk that letter over together, said Heno. And that young lady was pleased. She, who was so distressed this afternoon. A way out then. Heno was discussing his problem with himself, his eyes upon the table. For once the scourge is kind. I wonder, it baffles me. He rose to his feet and walked once or twice across the room. Yes, I, the old bull of a hundred Caritas, I and Heno am baffled. He was not posturing now. He was frankly and simply amazed that he could be so utterly at a loss. Then with a swift change of mood, he came back to the table. Meanwhile, I'm sure until I can explain this strange new incident to myself, I beg of you your help. He pleaded very earnestly and even very humbly. Fear had returned to his eyes and his voice. He was disturbed beyond Jim's comprehension. There is nothing more important. I want you, how shall I put it so that I may persuade you? I want you to stay as much as you can in the Maithonganel to, yes, to keep a little watch on this pretty Ann Upcott. To, he got no further with his proposal. Jim Frobisher interrupted him in a very passion of anger. No, no, I won't, he cried. You go much too far, Monsieur. I won't be your spy. I am not here for that. I am here for my client. As for Ann Upcott, she is my countrywoman. I will not help you against her. So help me, God, I won't. Ann Upcott looked across the table at the flushed and angry face of his junior colleague who now resigned his office and without partly accepted his defeat. I don't blame you, he answered quietly. I could indeed hope for no other reply. I must be quick, that's all. I must be very quick. Frobisher's anger fell away from him like a cloak. One drops. He saw Ann Upcott sitting over against him with a white, desperately troubled face and eyes in which they're shown unmistakably some gleam of terror. Tell me, he cried in an exasperation. Be frank with me for once. Is Ann Upcott guilty? She's not alone, of course, anyway. There's a gang. We're agreed upon that. Waberski's one of them, of course. Is Ann Upcott another? Do you believe it? Hanoe slowly put his exhibits together. There was a struggle going on within him. The strain of the night had told upon them both, and he was tempted for once to make a confidant, tempted intolerably. On the other hand, Jim Frobisher read in him all the traditions of his service to wait upon facts, not to utter suspicions, to be fair. It was not until he had locked everything away again in the safe that Hanoe yielded to the temptation. And even then he could not bring himself to be direct. You want to know what I believe of Ann Upcott? He cried reluctantly, as though the words were torn from him. Go tomorrow to the church of Notre Dame and look at the façade. There, since you are not blind, you will see. He would say no more. That was clear. Nay, he stood amudily before Frobisher, already regretting that he had said so much. Frobisher picked up his hat and stick. Thank you, he said, good night. Hanoe led him to the door. Then he said, you are free tomorrow. I shall not go to the mise-en-grenel. Have you any plans? Yes, I am to be taken for a motor-drive round the neighborhood. Yes, it is worthwhile, Hanoe answered listlessly. But remember to telephone to me before you go. I shall be here. I will tell you if I have any news. Good night. Jim Frobisher left him standing in the middle of the room. Before he had closed the door, Hanoe had forgotten his presence. For he was saying to himself, over and over again, almost with an accent of despair, I must be quick. I must be very quick. Frobisher walked briskly down to the place-en-grenel and the rue de la liberté, dwelling upon Hanoe's injunction to examine the facade of Notre-Dame. He must keep that in mind and obey it in the morning. But that night was not yet over for him. As he reached the mouth of the little streeter Charles Robert, he heard a light quick step a little way behind him. A step that seemed familiar. So when he turned into the street, he sauntered and looked around. He saw a tall man cross the entrance of the street very quickly and disappear between the houses on the opposite side. The man paused for a second under the light of a street lamp at the angle of the street, and Jim could have sworn that it was Hanoe. There were no hotels, no lodgings in this quarter of the city. It was a quarter of private houses. What was Hanoe seeking there? Speculating upon this new question, he forgot the facade of Notre-Dame, and upon his arrival at the Maison Garnel, a little incident occurred which made the probability that he would soon remember it remote. He led himself into the house with a latch key which had been given to him and turned on the light in the hall by means of a switch at the side of the door. He crossed the hall to the foot of the stairs and was about to turn off the light using the switch there to which an upcott had referred when the door of the treasure room opened. Betty appeared in the doorway. You are still up? He said in a low voice, half pleased to find her still afoot and half regretful that she was losing her hours of sleep. Yes, and slowly her face softened to a smile, I waited up for my lodger. She held the door open and he followed her back into the room. Let me look at you, she said, and having looked, she added, Jim, something has happened tonight. Jim nodded. What? she asked. Let it wait till tomorrow, Betty. Betty smiled no longer. The light died out of her dark haunting eyes, lassitude and distress veiled them. Something terrible then, she said in a whisper. Yes, and she stretched out a hand to the back of a chair and steadied herself. Please tell me now, Jim. I shall not sleep tonight unless you do. And oh, I'm so tired. There was so deep a longing in her voice, so utter a weariness in the pose of a young body that Jim could not but yield. I'll tell you, Betty, he said gently. Heno and I went to find Jean Claudel tonight. We found him dead. He had been murdered, cruelly. Betty moaned and swayed upon her feet. She would have fallen had not Jim caught her in his arms. Betty, he cried. Betty buried her face upon his shoulder. He could feel the heave of her bosom against his heart. It's appalling, she moaned. Jean Claudel, no one ever had heard of him till this morning, and now he's swept into this horror like the rest of us. Oh, where will it end? Jim placed her in a chair and dropped on his knees beside her. She was sobbing now, and he tried to lift her face up to his. My dear, he whispered, but she would not raise her head. No, she said in a stifled voice, no. And she pressed her face deeper into the crook of his shoulder and clung to him with desperate hands. Betty, he repeated, I'm so sorry, but it'll come right. Unsure it will. Oh, Betty. And whilst he spoke, he cursed himself for the banality of his words. Why, couldn't he find some ideas that were really fine with which to comfort her, something better than these stupid common places of, I'm sorry, and it will all straighten out? But he couldn't, and it seemed that there was no necessity that he should, for her arms crept around his neck and held him close.