The Waxworks Murder

This girl, my friend, has been dead less than two hours. At what time did you close up here ?'

'Shortly before eleven-thirty, monsieur. Just after I received monsieur's summons.'

'And did you come down here before closing up?'

'I always do, monsieur. Some of the lights are not turned off at the main switches upstairs; I must attend to a number of them.'

'But there was nobody here then ?'

'No! Nothing!'

Bencolin looked at his watch. 'Twelve forty-five. A little over an hour since you were down here, say. I gather that this girl could not have gained admission through the front door?'

'Impossible, monsieur! My daughter would open it to nobody but me. We have a special ring as a signal. But you can ask her.. ..'

The flashlight's beam shifted across the floor of the landing; it moved along the base of the wall and up the wall itself. The figure of the satyr stood with its back to the extreme rear wall of the museum - that is to say, parallel with the front - so that one turning the bend in the staircase saw it sideways. At the junction of this wall with the one which followed the steps downward again, Bencolin's light halted. A dim green bulb was placed in this corner so as to illumine the side of the satyr's hood cunningly; it did not reveal any difference in the stone of the wall, but the bright flashlamp showed that a portion of the wall was wood, painted to resemble stone.

'I see,' muttered the detective. 'And that, I suppose, is the other entrance to the museum?'

'Yes, monsieur! There is a narrow passage which goes down to the Chamber of Horrors behind these walls, where I can get at the hidden lights from the inside. Then there is another door, beyond it....'

Bencolin turned sharply. 'Leading where?'

'Why - why, to a sort of covered passage going to the Boulevard de Sevastopol. But I never open the door to that passage. It is always iocked.'

Slowly the beam moved from the foot of the wooden door to the base of the statue. It was starred in a crooked trail with splashes of blood. Stepping carefully to avoid them, Bencolin approached the wall and pushed it. A section of the dummy stonework swung inwards. I was close beliind him, and I saw that it concealed a stuffy cubbyhole, with a flight of stairs going down towards the Chamber of Horrors, and, parallel with the dummy woodwork, another heavy door. On my sleeve I felt Augustin's trembling fingers while Bencolin examined with his light the lock of this outer door.

'A Yale lock,' he said, 'and the latch isn't caught. This door has been used to-night, anyhow.'

'You mean it's open ?' Augustin cried.

'Stand back!' Bencolin said irritably. 'There may be footprints in this dust.' He whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket, twisted it round his fingers, and turned the knob of the outer door.

We were in a low stone passage, still parallel with the back of the museum. It was apparently a sort of alleyway between this house and the one next door; some forgotten builder had roofed it over with tin and wooden supports, so that it was not more than seven or eight feet high. Of the house next door we could see only a blank brick wall, and, far down to the left, a heavy door without a knob. The left-hand end of the passage terminated also in a brick wall. But towards the right of the dark tunnel we could see a little light filtering in from the street; we could hear a swish of tyres and a dim honking of traffic.

In the middle of the damp flagstones, directly in the path of Bencolin's light, lay a woman's white washleather handbag, its contents scattered. I remember how the figured black design on that bag stood out against the white, and the silver catch glimmered. Over against the brick wall opposite, its elastic band torn from one side, lay a black domino mask. The flagstones at the foot of the wall were splattered with blood.

Bencolin drew a long breath. He turned to Augustin.

And what do you know of this?'

'Nothing, monsieur! I have lived in my house for forty years and I have not been through this door a dozen times. The key - I do not even know where the key is!'

The detective smiled sourly. 'And yet the lock is fairly new. And the hinges of the door are oiled. Never mind !'

I followed him down to the entrance which led to the street. Yes, the stone-flagged passage had a door, too. But it was open, entirely back against the wall. Bencolin let out a low whistle.

'Here, Jeff,' he told me, softly, 'is a real lock. A spring lock, but the burglar-proof variety known as the Bulldog. It can't be picked in any way. And yet it's standing open! Damn it! - I wonder. ... ' His eyes roved. 'When this door is shut, the passage must be completely black. I wonder if there's a light? Ah, here we are!'

Indicating a small, almost invisible button, at a height of about six feet in the brick wall, he pressed it. A soft illumination from up among the wooden supports glowed through the dingy passage. He let out an exclamation, and instantly shut it off.

'What's the matter?' I demanded. 'Why not leave it on? You'll want to examine those things— '

'Be quiet!' He spoke swiftly, with a suppressed eagerness. 'Jeff, for once in my career I have got to interfere with the nice procedure of the Surete. They would want to photograph and examine ; they would comb this passage until dawn. And I must risk the consequences: I can't let them do it. ... Quick now! Close this door.' He eased it softly shut. 'Now take your handkerchief and gather up that handbag and its contents. I must make a quick examination of the rest.'

Ever since he had entered here he had been moving on tiptoe. I followed his example, while he bent at the wall just above where the floor was splashed with blood. He was muttering to himself as he began to scrape at the floor there, and brush upon an envelope something that glittered in the ray of the flashlamp. Taking care that I overlooked nothing, I gathered up the handbag and its contents. A little gold compact, a lipstick, a handkerchief, several cards, a letter, an automobile key, an address-book, and notes and change of small denomination. Then Bencolin motioned me to follow him, and we went back through the museum door, through the dummy wall, and back to the platform of the satyr.

But the detective paused at the dummy wall, squinting up at the green light in the corner. He frowned in a puzzled way, and glanced back at the two doors; his eye seemed to be measuring.

'Yes' he said, half to himself, 'yes. If this' - he tapped the section of the wall - 'were closed, and the door to the passage were open, you could see that green light under the crack. .. . ' Swinging towards Augustin, he said, sharply: 'Think well, my friend! Did you tell us that when you left the museum at eleven-thirty or thereabouts you turned off all the lights?'

'Certainly, monsieur!'

'All of them? You are sure, now?'

‘I swear it.'

Bencolin knocked his knuckles against his forehead. 'There's something wrong. Very wrong. Those lights - that one, anyhow - must have been on. Captain Chaumont, what time is it?'

The change was so abrupt that Chaumont, who was sitting on the stairs with his chin in his hands, looked up dazedly.

‘I beg your pardon?'

'I said, what time is it?' the detective repeated.

Puzzled, Chaumont took out a big gold watch. 'It's nearly one o'clock,' he answered, sullenly. 'Why the devil do you want to know?'

'I don't,' said Bencolin. The man struck me as being slightly out of his head, and therefore I knew he was closest on the track of a discovery. 'Now, then,' he went on, 'we will leave Mademoiselle Martel's body here for the moment. Just one more look....'

He knelt again by the body. It had ceased to terrorize; with its vacant brown eyes, its disarranged hat, and its curious posture of comfort, it seemed less realistic than the wax figures. Picking up again the thin gold chain about the girl's neck, Bencolin studied it.

'It was a sharp yank,' he said, illustrating with a tug at the chain. 'The links are small, but they're strong, and they snapped completely.'

As he rose to lead the way upstairs, Chaumont interposed :

'Are you going to leave her down here alone?' 'Why not?'

The young man passed a hand vaguely over his eyes. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I suppose it won't hurt her. But she always had so many people around her - when she was alive. And the place is so dingy! That's what I loathe about it. It's so dingy. Do you mind if I stay down here with her?'

He hesitated, while Bencolin looked at him curiously.

'You see,' Chaumont explained, holding his face very-rigid, 'I can never look at her without thinking of Odette. .. . O God !' he said, tonelessly, and then his voice broke. 'I can't help it. .. !'

'Steady!' said Bencolin. 'Come upstairs with us. You need a drink.'

We went back across the grotto, out by way of the vestibule, and into Augustin's living-quarters. The decisive creak of the rocking-chair slowed down as Mile Augustin looked at us, biting off a thread. She must have seen by the expression of our faces that we had found more than we looked for; besides, the leather handbag was rather conspicuous. Without a word Bencolin went in to the telephone, and Augustin, fumbling in one of the cupboard's of the gloomy, gimcrack room, brought out a squat bottle of brandy. His daughter's eye measured the large drink he poured out for Chaumont, and her lips tightened. But presently she continued to rock.

I felt uneasy. A clock ticked, and the chair squeaked on. I felt that I should associate that room forever with the smell of cooking potatoes. Mile Augustin asked no questions ; her whole body was stiff and her fingers moved mechanically. The forces of some outburst were trembling and gathering round the blue-striped shirt she mended. Drinking a glass of brandy with Chaumont, I saw that his eyes were fixed on her, too. ... Several times her father started to speak, but we all remained silent and uncomfortable.

Bencolin returned to the room.

'Mademoiselle,' he said, ‘I want to ask —'

'Marie!' her father broke out in an agonized voice. 'I couldn't tell you! It's murder. It's —'

'Please be quiet,' said Bencolin. ‘I want to ask mademoiselle, when you turned on the lights in the museum tonight.'

She did not spar by demanding to know what he meant. She put down the sewing with steady hands, and said: 'Shortly after papa had gone to see you.'

'What lights did you put on ?'

‘I turned on the switch which controls those in the centre of the main grotto and the staircase to the cellars.' 'Why did you do this?'

She regarded him placidly, without interest. 'It was a perfectly natural action. I thought I heard somebody moving about in the museum.'

'You are not a nervous woman, I take it?'

'No.' Not a smile, not a curl of the lip; though all nervousness, you knew, was with her a subject for contempt.

'Did you go to investigate?'

'I did. ... ' As he continued to look at her with raised eyebrows, she went on: 'I looked through the main grotto, where I thought I heard the noise, but there was nothing. I was mistaken.'

'You did not go down the staircase?'

'I did not.'

'How long did you keep the lights on ?'

'I am not sure. Five minutes, possibly more. Now will you explain to me' - she spoke out very sharply, and half raised herself in the chair - 'what is the meaning of this talk of murder?'

'A girl,' Bencolin told her slowly, 'a certain Mademoiselle Claudine Martel, has been murdered. Her body was placed in the arms of the satyr at the turn of the staircase. ... '

Old Augustin was plucking at Bencolin's sleeve. His bald head, with the two absurd tufts of white hair behind the ears, was cocked up at Bencolin's like a dog's. The reddish eyes widened and shrank beseechingly.

'Please, monsieur! Please! She knows nothing of this - -!'

'Old fool !' the girl snapped. 'Stay out of this. I will handle them.'

He subsided, stroking his white moustache and whiskers with an expression of pride in his daughter, but begging her forgiveness. Her eyes challenged Bencolin again.

'Well, mademoiselle? Is the name Claudine Martel familiar to you ?'

'Monsieur, are you under the impression that I know the names, as well as the faces, of all the casual visitors to this place?'

Bencolin leaned forward. 'What makes you think Mademoiselle Martel might have been a visitor to this place?'

'You say,' the other responded grimly, 'that she is here.^’

'She was murdered in the passage behind this house, communicating with the street,' said Bencolin. 'She probably never visited the museum in her life.'

'Ah! - Well, in that case,' the girl shrugged, reaching for her sewing again, 'the museum can be left out of it. Eh?'

Bencolin took out a cigar. He appeared to be considering this last remark of hers, a wrinkle between his brows. Marie Augustin applied herself again to the sewing, and she was smiling as though she had won a difficult passage at arms.

'Mademoiselle,' the detective said thoughtfully. 'I am going to ask you, in a moment, to step out and look at the body in question. .. . But my mind goes back to a conversation we had earlier this evening.'

'Yes?’

'A conversation concerning Mademoiselle Odette Duchene, the young lady we found murdered in the Seine.'

Again she put down the sewing. 'Ah, zut!' she cried, striking the table. 'Is there never to be any peace? I have told you all I know about that.'

'Captain Chaumont, if I remember correctly, asked you for a description of Mademoiselle Duchene. Whether due to a faulty memory or some other cause, your description was incorrect.'

'I have told you! I must have been mistaken. I must have been thinking of something else - somebody else — '

Bencolin finished lighting his cigar and flourished the match.

'Ah, precisely! Precisely, mademoiselle! You were thinking of somebody else. I do not think you ever saw Mademoiselle Duchene. You were called on suddenly for a description. So you took the risk; you spoke very rapidly, and obviously described somebody else who was in your mind. That is what causes me to wonder —'

'Well?'

'to wonder,⁵ Bencolin went on, thoughtfully, 'why that image was at the back of your brain in the first place. To wonder, in short, why you gave us so exact a description of Mademoiselle Claudine Martel.'

How a Certain Myth Came to Life

Bencolin had scored. You could see it in the slight droop of her lip, the holding of her breath, the fixed expression of her eyes, momentarily, while her agile brain sought for loopholes. Then she laughed.

'Why, monsieur, I don't follow you! The description I gave you might have fitted anybody —'

'Ah! You admit, then, that you never saw Mademoiselle Duchene?'

'I admit nothing! ... As I was saying, my description would fit a thousand women —' 'Only one of them lies dead here.'

'and the fact, the coincidence, that Mademoiselle

Martel happens to look something like the person I described, is nothing more than a coincidence.'

'Softly!' urged Bencolin, making an admonitory gesture with his cigar. 'How do you know what Mademoiselle Martel looks like, mademoiselle? You haven't seen her yet.'

Her face was red and angry. Not, you felt, because of any accusation against her, but because Bencolin had tripped her up. Anybody who was a little faster than she at verbal rapier-play would infuriate her. Again she tossed back the long bobbed hair from her cars, smoothing it behind them with savage gestures.

'Don't you think,' she suggested frigidly, 'you have tried your lawyer's tricks on me long enough? I've had enough!'

Bencolin shook his head in a paternal fashion which irritated her the more. He beamed. 'No, but, really, mademoiselle! There arc other questions to be discussed. I cannot let you off so easily.'

'As a policeman you have that privilege.'

'Exactly. Well, then. I think we must admit, offhand, that the deaths of Odette Duchene and Claudette Martel were connected - very closely connected. But now we come to a third lady, a more enigmatic figure than either one of them. She seems to haunt this place. I refer to a woman whose face nobody has seen, but who appears to wear a fur neckpiece and a brown hat. To-night, in speaking of the matter, your father advanced an interesting theory ... '

'O Holy Mother!^’ she snarled. 'Have you been listening to that dotard's nonsense? Speak up, papa! Did you tell them-all that?'

The old man straightened up with curious dignity. He said: 'Marie, I am your father. I tried to tell them what I thought was the truth,'

For the first time that night the cold common-sense whiteness of her face was warmed by an expression of tenderness. Stepping over softly, she put her arm around his shoulders.

'Listen, papa,' she murmured, searching his face; 'listen. You are tired. Go and lie down. Rest yourself. These gentlemen won't need to talk with you any longer. I can tell them what they want to know.'

She shot a glance at us, and Bencolin nodded.

'Well,' the old man said, hesitantly - 'well - if you don't mind. It's been a great shock. A great shock. I don't know when I've been so upset. ..." He made a vague gesture. 'Forty-two years,' he continued, his voice rising, 'forty-two years, and we have a name. A name means a lot to me. Yes....'

He smiled at us in an apologetic way. Then he turned and began to waver and grope his way towards the shadows of the room, his back stooped and his dusty head bobbing in the lamplight. Then he dissolved among the ghosts of antimacassars, among horsehair-stuffed chairs, and the dim pallor of a street lamp falling between thick curtains. Marie Augustin drew a deep breath.

'And now, monsieur?'

'You are still prepared to maintain that the woman in the brown hat is a myth ?'