“The Bois de Boulogne,” she repeated after him. “Where Charles was—”
“Please,” Olivant said quickly. “For a leetle while, try not to sink of un’appy sings.”
“Now that it’s come up,” said the Saint, in a very even tone that tried unobtrusively to transmit some of his strength to her, “I must ask you one more question. About those medals, Valerie, that your father gave you and your brother. He didn’t just give them to you to put in your pockets, did he? How were you supposed to wear them?”
They were on silver chains,” she said expressionlessly. “He must have riveted them, or welded them, or something. At least, I know that mine had no catch that you could undo, and it was too small to come off over my head. I wore it day and night for years. Finally when I got older I had to have the chain cut, because I had other necklaces I wanted to wear, and I couldn’t wear that one all the time.”
Simon drew a deep breath.
“That’s the last answer,” he said softly. “That explains everything. Of course, he had to take the least possible risk of your losing them. And because your brother didn’t have to be bothered about other necklaces, he never had his chain cut. He was still wearing it when he was killed. And all the murderer had was a knife. People don’t normally carry wire-cutters, or a hacksaw, or a file, when they set out to commit a straightforward murder. It hadn’t occurred to him that the chain wouldn’t unfasten. And it was too strong for him to break with his hands, and too small to take off over the head. So the only way he could take it, on the spot, was to—”
“No!” the girl cried out shudderingly, and buried her face in her hands.
The car seemed to swerve a trifle.
“I am ashame for you,” Olivant said harshly. “’Ow you can ’urt Miss North like zis?”
“I’m sorry,” said the Saint.