“I see,” De Medici nodded, “and that’s how you knew Mr. Ballau.”
“Knew him,” she went on, “did I know Victor Ballau! He would tell you, if he was alive, how much I knew him.” She appeared to be challenging mysterious contradiction. De Medici sighed inwardly. The intuitions which had led him to the auction congratulated themselves. He realized a slight disappointment. Childishly, he had expected immediate revelations—complete unravelings of the thing that had clouded his thought. Nevertheless he smiled and settled back. There was something here. This was a woman to whom part of Victor Ballau’s life that even he had never been allowed to penetrate was a matter of intimate knowledge.
“A little deranged,” he thought quickly as she arose and puttered around, “and the victim of a monomania. Her senility has developed a miserly love for trinkets and dresses of the stage with which she was surrounded in her youth. She’s evidently devoted herself to accumulating these souvenirs of her past. Hm, and something else. Florence’s mother. Ballau wasn’t her father. Norton established that. Then this creature should know about the woman Ballau married—Florence’s mother....”
His musings ended. In a flash the theory concerning Florence’s mother returned in full to his thought ... the woman for whom Florence had been intent upon sacrificing herself and whose guilt she had tried to assume.... He leaned forward and spoke soothingly to the ancient wardrobe mistress:
“My name is De Medici,” he said, “and the reason I was interested in the candlestick you bought is that one of the pair was found at Mr. Ballau’s head when he was murdered. I am engaged to marry Florence Ballau and I’ve been working with the police trying to find out who it was killed her father. Now, if you can tell me anything that might throw a light on this thing, it would be doing a great service to the memory of Mr. Ballau ... and the Bandoux Repertoire Company.”
“I know about that,” the old woman answered in a whisper. She seated herself again. “I read about it in the papers. I ain’t seen Victor Ballau since he left London. And he ain’t wanted me to see him, either.”
“Quite right,” De Medici nodded. His manner had become calm and ingratiating. “After all you knew about him, I shouldn’t think he would.”
“Maybe it wasn’t his fault,” the woman went on. “But let bygones be bygones. I hold nothing against him now.”
“Did you know the woman he married in London?” De Medici interrupted.
“Yes, oh, yes. I knew her well enough. Madam Bandoux.” She nodded vigorously. The old eyes gleamed and the bony hands trembled with excitement. But words seemed slow and De Medici prompted her.