The Waxworks Murder

Stabbing as a Sporting Proposition

Bencolin went on in an ordinary tone: 'Yes, that was how he killed his daughter. And I shall never forgive myself for being so stupid as not to see it. I knew she was standing with her back to the wall; I knew that in such a narrow space the murderer must have hit his hand there when he withdrew the dagger, and broken his watch crystal. ... What I couldn't understand was how he came to be wearing the watch on the same hand as that winch held the knife.'

I heard his voice from a distance. My brain was still repeating the words, 'that was how he killed his daughter'. I stared at the blaze in the fireplace. The statement was so unreal, the import so incredible, that at first I had not even a sensation of shock. All I could think of was a dim library with the rain splashing down the windows, in a garden of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. And there I saw an old stocky man, with a heavy moustache and a bald head, standing rigid in his fine broadcloth, his hard eyes fixed on us. Colonel Martel.

A voice cried out sharply. It broke the illusion into little pieces.

'Do you know what you're saying?' Chaumont demanded.

Bencolin went on, still musingly: 'You see, a man invariably wears a wrist watch on his left hand, unless he is left-handed. If left-handed, it is on the right one - that is, always the hand opposite the one with which he writes, throws, or ... strikes with a knife. So I couldn't understand that watch being on the same wrist as that with which he stabbed the girl, whether he was right- or left-handed. But, of course, a man who has only one arm .. .'

For some weird reason, the very thought of Colonel Martel seemed to lend dignity to Bencolin's words, even though you thought of him as a murderer. It was no longer (as it had seemed during those mad antics in the club) a sort of meaningless bad dream. But Chaumont, who had a rather witless expression on his face, yanked Bencolin's arm.

'I demand,' he said, shrilly — 'I demand some excuse or apology for saying— !'

Bencolin woke from his abstraction.

'Yes,' he said, nodding — 'yes, you have a right to know all about it. I told you it was a queer crime. Queer, not alone in motive, but because that magnificent old gambler actually gave us a sporting chance to guess it. He was not willing to give himself up voluntarily. But he threw clues in our faces, and if we did guess, he was prepared to admit his guilt.' Quietly Bencolin disengaged his arm from the young man's grip. 'Softly, Captain! You needn't act like that. He has already admitted it.'

'He ... what?'

'I talked to him on the telephone not fifteen minutes ago. Listen! Calm yourself and let me tell you exactly how the whole thing happened.'

Bencolin sat down. Chaumont, still with his eyes fixed, walked backwards until he stumbled down into a chair.

'You are quite a showman, monsieur!' Marie Augustin said. Her face was still white; she had not relaxed her grip on her father's sleeve, and she exhaled her breath with a sort of shudder of relief. 'Was all this necessary? I thought you were going to accuse papa.'

The voice sounded shrill and vicious, and her father's red eyes blinked at her uncomprehendingly as he clucked his tongue. ...

'So did I,' I observed. 'All that talk awhile ago — ' 'I was only wondering how a rational father would behave. Tiens! it's still incredible! But this afternoon - I realized then that it must be true.'

'Wait a minute!' I said. 'This whole thing is crazy. I still don't understand it. But this afternoon, when you had that brainstorm and suddenly burst out with "If her father knew,