The Waxworks Murder

Blood in the Passage

'There is a woman now,' said Bencolin. 'A real woman. And she is dead.'

He held the beam of the big flashlight on the group, while we crowded about him.

The wax figure of the satyr was tilted slightly against the wall, there on its landing at the turn of the stairs. Its arms were curved and cupped in such a way that the small body of the woman had been laid there without overbalancing it. (These figures, I have since learned, are built up on a steel framework and can support a heavier weight.) Most of her weight was distributed on his right arm and against his chest; her head had been pushed inwards, partly under that arm, and the coarse black serge of his cloak had been pulled up to hide her cheek and the upper part of her body. ... Bencolin directed the beam of his light downwards. The satyr's leg, covered with coarse hair, and his cloven hoof, also, were stained. Blood had gathered in a widening pool about the base.

'Lift her out of there,' Bencolin said, briefly. 'Be careful; don't break anything. Now!'

We eased out the light burden and straightened it on the stone landing. The body was still warm. Then Bencolin threw the light on her face. The eyes were brown and wide open, fixed in a stare of pain and horror and shock; the bloodless lips were drawn back; and the tight-fitting blue hat was disarranged. Slowly the light moved along her body.. ..

At my elbow I heard heavy breathing. Chaumont said, in a voice he tried to make calm: 'I know who that is.'

'Well?' demanded Bencolin, not rising from his kneeling position with the flashlight.

'It's Claudine Martel. Odette's best friend. The girl we were to have tea with on the day Odette broke the appointment and ... O, my God!' Chaumont cried, and beat his fist against the wall. 'Another one!'

'Another daughter,' Bencolin said, speculatively of an ex-Cabinet Minister. The Comte de Martel. That's the one, isn't it?'

He glanced up at Chaumont, apparently calm; but a nerve twitched beside his cheek bone, and Bencolin's face was as evil as the satyr's.

'That's the one,' Chaumont nodded. 'How - how did she die?'

'Stabbed through the back.' Bencolin lifted the body sideways, so that we could see the blotch on the left side of the light-blue coat she wore. 'It must have pierced the heart. A bullet wound would not make so much blood.... Ah, but there'll be the devil to pay for this! Let's see. No signs of a struggle. The dress isn't disarranged. Nothing at all - except this.'

He indicated a thin gold chain about the girl's neck. On it she had apparently worn a pendant of some sort, and kept it inside the bosom of her frock; but its ends had been snapped off, and the pendant, whatever it had been, was gone. A part of the chain had been caught under the collar of the coat, so that it had been prevented from falling.

'No ... certainly not a struggle,' the detective was muttering. 'Arms limp, fingers unclenched; a swift, sure blow, straight to the heart. Now, where is her handbag? Damnation! I want her handbag! - they all carry one. Where is it?'

He flashed his light about impatiently, and it chanced to flash across Augustin's face. The old man, who was huddled up in a grotesque way, plucking at the satyr's serge robe, cried out as the beam struck his eyes.

'Now you are going to arrest me!' he shrilled. 'And I had nothing to do with this! I —'

'Oh, shut up!' said Bencolin. 'No, wait. Stand out here.