The hall of the hotel had been cleared of people. At the entrance
from the corridor a porter barred the way.
"No one can pass," said he.
"I think that I can," said Hanaud, and he produced his card. "From
the Surete at Paris."
He was allowed to enter, with Ricardo at his heels. On the ground
lay Marthe Gobin; the manager of the hotel stood at her side; a
doctor was on his knees. Hanaud gave his card to the manager.
"You have sent word to the police?"
"Yes," said the manager.
"And the wound?" asked Hanaud, kneeling on the ground beside the
doctor. It was a very small wound, round and neat and clean, and
there was very little blood. "It was made by a bullet," said
Hanaud--"some tiny bullet from an air-pistol."
"No," answered the doctor.
"No knife made it," Hanaud asserted.
"That is true," said the doctor. "Look!" and he took up from the
floor by his knee the weapon which had caused Marthe Gobin's
death. It was nothing but an ordinary skewer with a ring at one
end and a sharp point at the other, and a piece of common white
firewood for a handle. The wood had been split, the ring inserted
and spliced in position with strong twine. It was a rough enough
weapon, but an effective one. The proof of its effectiveness lay
stretched upon the floor beside them.
Hanaud gave it to the manager of the hotel.
"You must be very careful of this, and give it as it is to the
police."
Then he bent once more over Marthe Gobin.
"Did she suffer?" he asked in a low voice.
"No; death must have been instantaneous," said the doctor.
"I am glad of that," said Hanaud, as he rose again to his feet.
In the doorway the driver of the cab was standing.
"What has he to say?" Hanaud asked.
The man stepped forward instantly. He was an old, red-faced, stout
man, with a shiny white tall hat, like a thousand drivers of cabs.
"What have I to say, monsieur?" he grumbled in a husky voice. "I
take up the poor woman at the station and I drive her where she
bids me, and I find her dead, and my day is lost. Who will pay my
fare, monsieur?"
"I will," said Hanaud. "There it is," and he handed the man a
five-franc piece. "Now, answer me! Do you tell me that this woman
was murdered in your cab and that you knew nothing about it?"
"But what should I know? I take her up at the station, and all the
way up the hill her head is every moment out of the window,
crying, 'Faster, faster!' Oh, the good woman was in a hurry! But
for me I take no notice. The more she shouts, the less I hear; I
bury my head between my shoulders, and I look ahead of me and I
take no notice. One cannot expect cab-horses to run up these
hills; it is not reasonable." "So you went at a walk," said
Hanaud. He beckoned to Ricardo, and said to the manager: "M.
Besnard will, no doubt, be here in a few minutes, and he will send
for the Juge d'Instruction. There is nothing that we can do."