"Was any one inside the car?" asked Hanaud.
"No, monsieur; it was empty."
"But you saw the driver!" exclaimed Wethermill.
"Yes; what was he like?" cried the Commissaire.
Perrichet shook his head mournfully.
"He wore a talc mask over the upper part of his face, and had a
little black moustache, and was dressed in a heavy great-coat of
blue with a white collar."
"That is my coat, monsieur," said Servettaz, and as he spoke he
lifted it up from the chauffeur's seat. "It is Mme. Dauvray's
livery."
Harry Wethermill groaned aloud.
"We have lost him. He was within our grasp--he, the murderer!--and
he was allowed to go!"
Perrichet's grief was pitiable.
"Monsieur," he pleaded, "a car slackens its speed and goes on
again--it is not so unusual a thing. I did not know the number of
Mme. Dauvray's car. I did not even know that it had disappeared";
and suddenly tears of mortification filled his eyes. "But why do I
make these excuses?" he cried. "It is better, M. Hanaud, that I go
back to my uniform and stand at the street corner. I am as foolish
as I look."
"Nonsense, my friend," said Hanaud, clapping the disconsolate man
upon the shoulder. "You remembered the car and its number. That is
something--and perhaps a great deal," he added gravely. "As for
the talc mask and the black moustache, that is not much to help
us, it is true." He looked at Ricardo's crestfallen face and
smiled. "We might arrest our good friend M. Ricardo upon that
evidence, but no one else that I know."
Hanaud laughed immoderately at his joke. He alone seemed to feel
no disappointment at Perrichet's oversight. Ricardo was a little
touchy on the subject of his personal appearance, and bridled
visibly. Hanaud turned towards Servettaz.
"Now," he said, "you know how much petrol was taken from the
garage?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Can you tell me, by the amount which has been used, how far that
car was driven last night?" Hanaud asked.
Servettaz examined the tank.
"A long way, monsieur. From a hundred and thirty to a hundred and
fifty kilometers, I should say."
"Yes, just about that distance, I should say," cried Hanaud.
His eyes brightened, and a smile, a rather fierce smile, came to
his lips. He opened the door, and examined with a minute scrutiny
the floor of the carriage, and as he looked, the smile faded from
his face. Perplexity returned to it. He took the cushions, looked
them over and shook them out.
"I see no sign--" he began, and then he uttered a little shrill
cry of satisfaction. From the crack of the door by the hinge he
picked off a tiny piece of pale green stuff, which he spread out
upon the back of his hand.