"We know that the murderer has escaped," replied Ricardo hotly.
"The murderer is not now the most important object of our search.
He is very likely at Marseilles by now. We shall lay our hands on
him, never fear," replied Hanaud, with a superb gesture of
disdain. "But it was thoughtful of you to remind me of him. I
might so easily have clean forgotten him, and then indeed my
reputation would have suffered an eclipse." He made a low,
ironical bow to Ricardo and walked quickly down the road.
"For a cumbersome man he is extraordinarily active," said Mr.
Ricardo to Harry Wethermill, trying to laugh, without much
success. "A heavy, clever, middle-aged man, liable to become a
little gutter-boy at a moment's notice."
Thus he described the great detective, and the description is
quoted. For it was Ricardo's best effort in the whole of this
business.
The three men went straight to Harry Wethermill's apartment, which
consisted of a sitting-room and a bedroom on the first floor. A
balcony ran along outside. Hanaud stepped out on to it, looked
about him, and returned.
"It is as well to know that we cannot be overheard," he said.
Harry Wethermill meanwhile had thrown himself into a chair. The
mask he had worn had slipped from its fastenings for a moment.
There was a look of infinite suffering upon his face. It was the
face of a man tortured by misery to the snapping-point.
Hanaud, on the other hand, was particularly alert. The discovery
of the motor-car had raised his spirits. He sat at the table.
"I will tell you what we have learnt," he said, "and it is of
importance. The three of them--the man, the woman with the red
hair, and Mlle. Celie--all drove yesterday night to Geneva. That
is only one thing we have learnt."
"Then you still cling to Geneva?" said Ricardo.
"More than ever," said Hanaud.
He turned in his chair towards Wethermill.
"Ah, my poor friend!" he said, when he saw the young man's
distress.
Harry Wethermill sprang up with a gesture as though to sweep the
need of sympathy away.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"You have a road map, perhaps?" said Hanaud.
"Yes," said Wethermill, "mine is here. There it is"; and crossing
the room he brought it from a sidetable and placed it in front of
Hanaud. Hanaud took a pencil from his pocket.
"One hundred and fifty kilometers was about the distance which the
car had travelled. Measure the distances here, and you will see
that Geneva is the likely place. It is a good city to hide in.
Moreover the car appears at the corner at daylight. How does it
appear, there? What road is it which comes out at that corner? The
road from Geneva. I am not sorry that it is Geneva, for the Chef
de la Surete is a friend of mine."