The Waxworks Murder

'You've tested it out?'

'Naturally. It's just as he says; my best agent, Francoise Dillsart - you remember him in the Saligny case? - has all the testimony. The car-starter at the Moulin Rouge summoned the limousine at eleven-thirty precisely. He remembers, because Galant looked at his watch before getting in, and then towards the illuminated clock across the street; the car-starter automatically followed his glance.'

'Doesn't that in itself seem suspicious?'

'Not at all. Had he been trying to form an alibi, he would definitely have called the starter's attention to it; he could hardly have risked the psychological chance that the man would notice —'

'Still,' I said, 'a subtle man - -'

Bencolin twirled his stick, staring down the dim cloister. 'Turn right, Jeff. We'll go out on the other side; Madame Duchene, Odette's mother, fives on the Boulevard des Invalides. ... H'm. Subtle or not, there's the clock. The traffic in Montmartre is always congested at that hour. It would easily have taken him between ten and fifteen minutes -even longer than he said - to get from the Moulin Rouge to the night club. Under those circumstances it doesn't seem humanly possible for him to have committed the murder. And yet I am willing to swear he came into "The Grey Goose" for the definite purpose of establishing an alibi! Unless —’

He stopped short. Then he smote his fist into his palm. 'What a dunce! Tiens! what a dunce, Jeff! That's it, of course.'

'Oh, yes,' I said, wearily, for I had known this habit before. 'I won't feed your vanity by asking you what .., But here's something. Last night, when you were talking to Galant, I thought you were tipping your hand entirely and telling him too much. Maybe you had a purpose. But, anyway, what you didn't tell him was the very reason why we connected him with Claudine Martel. I mean his name written on a piece of paper in her handbag. When he denied having known her, you could have smashed him with that.'

He looked at me with raised eyebrows. 'You are very naif indeed, Jeff, if you fancy that. Good God! Haven't you had enough police experience to know that people in real life do not scream and faint, as they do in the theatre, when they are faced with a piece of damaging evidence? Besides, that piece of paper may not mean anything.'

'Rot!'

'All the same, it was not in Mademoiselle Mart el's handwriting. I thought, when I first looked at it, that people do not themselves write down the full name, full address, and telephone number of a person they know very well. Had she been a friend of his, she would probably have scribbled, "Etienne tel. Elysee 11-73." As it was - well, I compared the handwriting with the names written in her address-book. It was not the same.'

'Then who — ?'

'It was in the handwriting of Mademoiselle Gina Prevost, who calls herself Estelle. ... Listen, Jeff. We seem to be manoeuvring this lady into a very bad position before we have even seen her. She went out early this morning. Pregel was on the watch, and immediately paid a little informal visit to her rooms. We had previously ascertained, at the Moulin Rouge, that she did not put on her act last night. She telephoned the manager that evening that she would be unable to go on, and she left her apartment, the concierge says, about twenty minutes past eleven....'

'Which would allow her time to reach the front entrance of the waxworks, by, say, twenty-five minutes to twelve. If she is the woman the policeman saw hanging about there—'

We had come out on the vast sweep of lawn which runs up to the front of Bonaparte's tomb. The gold dome was dull under a mottled sky. Bencolin stopped to light a cigar. Then he said:

'She was the woman. We have shown photographs to the policeman, and he identifies her. Oh, this morning has not been wasted ! - But let me tell you the rest. Pregel, as I told you, went to her rooms. He found specimens of handwriting. He also found a silver key and a scarlet mask.'

I whistled. 'Then - the scarlet mask, you said, indicates one with an accepted lover at the club?'

'Yes.'

'Galant's frequent visits to the Moulin Rouge ... and he took her home last night; she was waiting in the car. . . . Bencolin, when did she get into that car? Have you questioned the chauffeur?'

'She was not in the car when it left the Moulin Rouge, anyhow. No. I have not questioned the chauffeur, nor have I let Mademoiselle Prevost know we are even aware of her existence.'

I stared at him as we went down the driveway.

'For the moment, Jeff,' he said, 'we must let Galant think we know nothing of his connexion with her, or her connexion with the club. If you will be patient, you will see why. Her telephone wires have been tapped, for a purpose you will learn also. And for the greater part of the day I have seen to it that she will be out of Galant's reach. I think we shall find her at the home of Madame Duchene, where we are going now.'

We said no more while we went out through the gates, round to the left, and up the Boulevard des Invalides. Mmc Duchene, I knew, was a widow, who before the death of her husband had been conspicuous in the sedate rooms of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. She lived in one of those dingy-looking houses of grey stone whose dinner-tables are served with the deftest cooking and the oldest port. A man could turn to the right here at the rue de Varenne and wind his way through the gloomy streets of the Faubourg, without ever suspecting the vistas of gardens that lie behind, or the old jewel-boxes shut up in cracked dark walls.

The door was opened by a young man who stood very stiff and nervous, appraising us. At first I took him for an Englishman; his hair was black, thick, and neatly trimmed; his face was very ruddy, with a long nose and thin lips, and his eyes pale blue. The impression was heightened by the black double-breasted suit, cut thin at the waist and full at the trousers, and the handkerchief in his sleeve. But his carriage was too unnatural; he seemed always to be watching himself out of the corner of his eye, and to refrain from making gestures. Consequently, in those few minutes of introduction he had rather the look of a mechanical toy whose clockwork is not properly functioning. He said:

'Ah, yes. You are from the police. Please come in.’

He had greeted us with a somewhat patronizing look before he recognized Bencolin. Now he became almost effusive. He had a trick of moving backwards, as though he were manoeuvring not to hit any chairs in the way.

'You are related to Madame Duchene?' the detective asked.

'No. Oh, no,’ said the other, deprecatingly. He smiled. 'Permit me. My name is Paul Robiquet. I am an attache of the French embassy in London, but just now 'A wave of his hand, which he checked instantly. 'They sent for me, and I was permitted to come. I am a very old friend. I grew up with Mademoiselle Odette. Now I fear the arrangements would be too much for Madame Duchene. The funeral, you see? Please come this way.'

The hall was almost dark. Portieres were almost drawn over a door at the right, but I could smell the thick odour of flowers, and a chill went through me. It is more difficult to overcome this childish fear of death when a human being lies placidly in a new and shining coffin than even when that human being is first struck down in blood. The last is merely horrifying or pitiful, but the first has that ordered and grizzly practicality which says: 'You will not see this person ever more.' I had never seen Odette Duchene, in life or death. But I could visualize her lying there, because I remembered the smile on that misty face in the photograph, and the clear, impish eyes. Every dust-mote in the old hail seemed to be impregnated with that sickening heaviness of flowers, to catch the throat.

'Yes,' Bencolin was saying conversation all)', as we went into a drawing-room on the left, 'I came here early last evening to inform Madame Duchene of the - the tragedy. The only other person I remember seeing was Captain Chaumont. Is he here now, by the way?'

'Chaumont?' the other repeated. 'No. Not at present. He was here earlier this morning, but he had to go. Won't you sit down?'

This room, too, had its blinds drawn, and no fire burnt below the great white-marble mantelpiece. But it was a room of mellowness and grace, where people had lived graceful lives. The old blue walls, the gilt-framed paintings, the soft chairs companionably worn. Here, through many years, wit had waited on the coffee, and death could not make it ugly. Above the mantelpiece there was a large portrait of Odette as a girl in her early teens, chin in her hands, looking out. The great dark eyes, the wistful eagerness of her mouth; illumined the lonely room; and when I caught again the thick sweetness of flowers I felt a lump in my throat.

Bencolin did not sit down. ‘I came to see Madame Duchene,' he said, in a low voice. 'She is - well ?'

'She takes it hard. You can understand,' said Robiquet, clearing his throat. He was trying to keep his diplomatic calm. 'The shock. It was horrible! Monsieur, have you - do you know who did this? I have known her all my life. The idea that anybody would — '

He was pressing his fingers together hard, attempting to be the level-headed young man who saw to all arrangements, but, for all his newly-acquired British reserve, he could not keep the quaver out of his voice. Bencolin interposed :

'I think so, monsieur. Is anybody with Madame Duchene now?'

'Only Gina Prevost. Chaumont phoned her this morning, and said Madame Duchene wanted her here. That was a piece of imposition; Madame Duchene expressed no such wish.' His lips tightened. 'I think I am capable of all that is necessary. Still, she can help, if she pulis herself together. She is almost as bad as Madame Duchene.'

'Gina Prevost?' Bencolin repeated, inquiringly, as though he heard the name for the first time.

'Oh, I forgot! ... One of our old crowd, before we broke up. She was a great friend of Odette's and — 'He paused, his pale eyes widening. 'That reminds me. I must phone Claudine Martel. She will want to be here. Zut! What an oversight!'

Bencolin hesitated. 'I take it,' he murmured, 'you did not talk to Captain Chaumont when he was here this morning? You did not hear — ?'

'Hear? What? No, monsieur. There are developments?'

'A few. But no matter. Will you take us to Madame Duchene?'

'I suppose it is all right for you' the young man admitted, eyeing us as though he were receiving people in the ambassador's anteroom. 'She will want to hear. But no others. This way, please.'

He led us out, towards the back of the hall, and up a carpeted staircase. Through a window on a dusky landing I could see the scarlet of maples in the yard. Robiquet paused abruptly when we were almost at the top. From above came a murmur of voices, then a few chords struck on a piano and a noise as though the hands were dragged away. One of the voices rose in a shrill and hysterical cry.. ..

'They're mad !' snapped the young man. 'They're both mad, and Gina's being here makes it worse. Do you see, messieurs - Madame Duchene walks about and walks about; she won't sit down; and she tortures herself by looking at Odette's things and trying to play the piano Odette played. Will you please see if you can quiet her?'

When he knocked on a door in the darkened upper hallway, there was a sudden silence. Presently an unsteady voice said, 'Come in.'

It was a girl's sitting-room, with three wide windows overlooking a ruined garden, and beyond, the yellow raiment of the trees. Dull light through the windows turned the ivory furniture to grey. Swung round on a piano stool before a grey baby grand, staring at us with dry sharp eyes, sat a little woman in black. Her black hair, which she wore loosely coiled about her head, was streaked with grey, but her face, though very pale and pinched about the eyes, was unlined. Yet there were sagging muscles in her throat. The eyes, hot and fierce, lost their sharpness gradually as she saw strangers.

'Paul,' she said, quietly - 'Paul, you did not tell me - we had visitors. Please come in, messieurs.'

She did not apologize. She was not conscious of her careless, almost shabby dress, or her tousled hair; you saw in her a deep indifference to all surrounding things, and her poise was that of a hostess as she rose to greet us. ... But it was not Mme Duchene who attracted my attention. Standing beside her, hand still half lifted, was Gina Prevost. I should have recognized her anywhere, despite the fact that she was taller than I had imagined. Her eyelids were red and swollen and she wore no cosmetics. The pink full lips, the gold-lighted hair, the firm chin; but the lips were open, the upper partly raised in fright, and she had flung back the hair from her forehead. Now she seemed almost on the edge of a collapse.

' — My name is Bencolin,' the detective was saying, 'and this is my colleague, Monsieur Marie. I come to bring you the assurance that we will find the person - you are interested in.'

His voice, deep and quiet, soothed the tense atmosphere of the room. I could hear the faint noise as Gina Prevost, who had been holding down one of the piano keys, released it. She moved out against the grey light of the windows with a supple, almost masculine, stride; then she hesitated.

'I have heard of you,' said Mme Duchene, nodding. 'And you, monsieur,' - she looked at me - 'are very welcome. This is Mademoiselle Prevost, an old friend of ours. She is staying with me to-day.'

Gina Prevost tried to smile. The older woman continued:

'Please sit down. I shall be happy to tell you anything, anything at all, you want to know. Paul, will you put on the lights?'

Then Mile Prevost cried, rather breathlessly: 'No! Please!

- No lights, I feel...'

Her voice was husky, with a caressing note which, in a song, must make one's heart beat fast. Mme Duchene -who, a moment before, had seemed the more brittle and high-strung of the two - looked at her with a tired smile.

'Why, of course not, Gina!'

'Don't - please! - don't look at me like that!'

Again madame smiled. She sat back against a chaise-longue.

'Gina has to put up with me, messieurs. And I am a crazy old woman.' Momentarily there were wrinkles in her forehead; her eyes stared at futility. 'It comes on me in gusts, like a physical pain. For a while I am quiet, and then

there! but I will try to be sensible. You see, what makes it so bad, I am responsible.'

Mile Prevost had seated herself nervously on a divan, in shadow, and so Bencolin and I drew out chairs. Robiquet remained standing, stiffly.

'We have all known the grief of death, madame,' the detective told her, as though musing. 'And we always feel responsible, if only because - we did not smile often enough. I should not worry on that account.'

A cheerful little enamel clock ticked in the heavy grey silence. The lines in madame's forehead deepened. She opened her mouth as for a fierce denial; she appeared to be fighting, trying to speak with her eyes.

'You don't understand,' she said at last, quietly. 'I was a fool. I brought Odette up wrongly. I thought I ought to keep her a child all her life, and I did, all her life. ...' She looked down at her hands, and after a pause she went on: 'I myself - well - I have seen things. I have been hurt. I was willing to do these things; they were all right for me; but Odette - you wouldn't understand - you wouldn't understand-- !'

She seemed very small, for all the passionate emotion behind that pale, strong face.

'My husband,' she said, as though something were forcing the words from her, 'shot himself - you knew that - ten years ago, when Odette was twelve. He was a fine man - he didn't deserve ... he was in the Cabinet, and being - blackmailed. . .. ' She had grown incoherent, but with an effort she steadied her voice; 'I resolved to devote myself to Odette. This is what I have done. I was amused at her, as though she were a little toy shepherdess. And now I haven't got anything - but her trinkets. At least I can play the piano a little; songs she liked, "Clair de Lune," "Au pres de ma blonde," "Ce n'est que votre main," "Auld Lang Syne,"

‘I think, madame, you are trying to help us,' Bencolin interposed gently, 'and I am sure you would help Odette if you will just answer me some questions....'

'Of course. I - I am sorry. Continue.'

He waited until she sat back composedly, her chin up.

'Captain Chaumont has told me that he noticed, since his return from Africa, a change in Odette. He could not be more specific than to say that her behaviour seemed "odd". Have you noticed any change recently?'

She meditated. 'I have thought of that. In the last two weeks, ever since Robert - Captain Chaumont - has been back in Paris, she has seemed different. More moody, and nervous. Once I found her crying. But I have seen her that way before, because the slightest thing upsets her, and it worried her terribly until she forgot it. Generally, she confided in me. So I did not question her. I waited, and supposed she would tell me....'

'You could assign no cause for this?'

'None whatever. ... Especially as — ' She hesitated.

'Please go on.'

'Especially as it seemed directed towards Captain Chaumont. It was just after his arrival that she changed. She was - suspicious, stiff, formal, I don't know how to put it! But entirely unlike herself.'

I was looking over at Mile Prevost, who sat in the shadow. The lovely face had an expression of tortured doubt, and her eyes were half closed.

'Forgive me for asking this, madame,' Bencolin requested, in a low voice, 'but you understand that it is necessary. But - Mademoiselle Duchene, so far as you know, had no particular interest in any man except Captain Chaumont?'

At first, anger tightened madame's nostrils; but it was followed by an expression of weary and humorous tolerance.

'None. It might have been better if she had.'

'I see. You believe her death was the result of a wanton and senseless attack.'

'Naturally.' Tears filmed over her eyes. 'She - she was lured out of here, and . . . how, I don't know! That's what I can't understand! She was to have tea with Claudine Martel, a friend of hers, and Robert. Suddenly she cancelled both engagements by telephone, and a little later she ran out of the house. I was surprised, because she always comes to tell me good-bye. That - that was the last time I saw her before ., .'

'You did not hear these telephone conversations?'

'No. I was upstairs. I assumed, when she left the house, that she was going to tea. Robert told me later.'

Bencolin inclined his head, as though he were listening to the little enamel clock. Beyond the grey windows I saw the sodden trees trembling under the wind in a flicker of scarlet maple - leaves. Gina Prevost had sat back on die divan with closed eyes; the dim light washed the perfect contour of her throat, and her long eyelashes were wet. It was so quiet up here that the jangle of the doorbell from below made us all start a little.

'Lucie is in the kitchen, Paul,' madame said. 'Do not trouble; she will answer it.... Well, monsieur?'

The bell was still pealing as we heard hurried footsteps go along the lower hall. Bencolin inquired:

'Mademoiselle Duchene kept no diaries, no papers, that might give us a clue?'

'She started a diary every year, and never carried it past the first two weeks. No. Her papers she kept, yes; but I have been over them and there is nothing.'

'Then ' Bencolin was beginning, when he stopped

short. His eyes remained fixed, his hand half-way to his chin. Suddenly I felt a horrible excitement pounding in my chest. I glanced at Gina Prevost, who had seized the arm of die divan and was sitting there rigid... .

Very distinctly we could hear, floating up from the hall below, the voice of the person who had rung the door-bell. It said deprecatingly:

'A thousand pardons. I wonder if I might see Madame Duchene ? My name is Etienne Galant.'

Confidences are Exchanged Over a Coffin

None of us moved or spoke. The voice had such an arresting quality that, even though you heard it for the first time without seeing the speaker, you would wonder to whom it belonged. Deep, ingratiating, tenderly sympathetic. I could visualize Galant standing there in the doorway, framed against the damp leaves outside. He would have a silk hat in his hands; his shoulders, under their correct morning coat, would be slightly bent, as though he were offering apologies on a platter; and the yellow-grey eyes would be full of solicitude.

My eyes travelled to the faces here. Madame's gaze was opaque, rather too set. Gina Prevost stared wildly at the door as though she could not believe her ears. ...

'Unwell?' the voice repeated, in reply to a murmur. 'That is too bad! My name will be unknown to her, but I was a very great friend of her late husband's, and I very much want to convey my deepest sympathies. ... ‘ A pause, as though he were meditating. 'Let me see. I believe Mademoiselle Gina Prevost is here. Ah, yes. Perhaps I might speak to her instead, as a friend of the family. Thank you.' A maid's light footfalls crossed the lower hall towards the stairs: Hurriedly Gina Prevost rose.

'You - you don't want to be disturbed. Mamma Duchene,' she said, trying to smile. 'Now don't disturb yourself. I will go down and see him.'

She uttered the words as though she were breathing too hard. Madame remained motionless. I saw the girl's white face as she swished past us. She closed the door after her. On the instant. Bencolin whispered, swiftly:

'Madame, is there a back stairway to this house? Quick please!'

Startled, she met his eyes, and it seemed to me that a look of comprehension passed between them.

'Well - yes. It goes down between the dining-room and kitchen, then out to the side door.'

'Can you get to the front room from there?'

'Yes, The room where Odette — ^‘

'You know where this is?' he demanded of Robiquet. 'Good! Show it to Monsieur Marie here. Hurry, Jeff. You know what to do.'

His fierce eyes told me to listen to that conversation at any cost. Robiquet was so bewildered that he almost stumbled, but he caught the urge to hurry and to make no noise. We could hear Gina Prevost descending the stairs, but she was hidden in the darkened hall. Robiquet showed me a narrow flight of steps - carpeted, fortunately - and his pantomime gave me directions. A door at their foot emitted a slight creak, but I pushed through it into a dim dining-room. Beyond it. through half-opened doors, I could see the dull, white flowers. Yes! In that front room where the casket lay, the portieres were almost drawn shut over the door to the hallway. I wriggled through to this room, almost knocking over a huge casket of lilies. The closed shutters building up slits of light, the stuffy sweetness, the dove-grey coffin with its polished handles - into the quiet of this place drifted voices. They were standing in the centre of the hall. Then I realized that they were speaking in voices audible on the second floor, and adding their real communication in whispers which barely reached me as I stood behind the portieres.

'…understand, monsieur - I did not catch your name

- you wished to see me?'

('You must be mad! That detective is here!')

'Probably you don't remember me, mademoiselle; I had the pleasure of meeting you once at Madame De Louvac's, My name is Galant.'

('I had to see you. Where is he?')

'Oh, yes. You understand, monsieur, that we are all upset here — ?'

("Upstairs. They're all upstairs. The maid is in the kitchen. For God's sake, go!')

I wondered how long her voice would keep that casualness; husky, indifferent, with the unconscious caress beneath it. Behind the curtain I could even hear her breathing.

'A mutual friend of ours, whom I telephoned, told me you were here, so I ventured to ask for you. I can't tell you how profoundly shocked I was to hear of Mademoiselle Duchene's death.'

('He suspects me, but he doesn't know about you. We must go somewhere to talk.')

'We - we were all shocked, monsieur.'

('I can't!')

Galant sighed. 'Then you will convey my deepest sympathy to madame, and tell her I shall be happy to do anything I can ? Thank you. I might, perhaps, look at the poor mademoiselle?'

('They can't hear us in there.')

My heart rose up sickeningly. I heard a sort of protesting sob, a rasp as though her hand had brushed his sleeve and he had shaken it off. His voice remained gentle and tender. Standing in the centre of the room, I felt as though I had been caught against a wall. I could not understand the horror and revulsion I felt at doing what I did then. Crossing to the coffin, I slid behind a gigantic floral tribute of white carnations at its head. I was wedged against the screen before the fireplace, in imminent danger of having my foot rattle against it. The situation had about it a sort of ghastly comedy which was as much of an insult to Odette Duchene as though mud had been flung at her dead face. A human being had lived for this! I put my fingers against the steel side of the casket. ... Their footsteps approached. Then there was a long silence.

'Pretty,' said Galant. 'What's the matter, my dear? You're not looking at her. But weak, like her father. ... Listen to me. I've got to have a talk with you. You were too hysterical last night.'

'Please, won't you go? I can't look at her. I won't see you. I promised to stay here all day, and if I go out, after you've been here, that detective may. ... '

'How many times have I got to tell you' - his own voice was losing a little of its whimsical tolerance - 'that you aren't suspected? Look at me.' A tinge of amusement, a tinge of hurt. 'You love me, don't you?'

'How can you talk about that here ?'

'Ah, well! Who killed Claudine Martel?'

‘I tell you,' hysterically, 'I don't know!'

'Unless you did it yourself — '

'I didn't!'

'You must have been standing at the murderer's elbow when she was stabbed. Keep your voice down, dearest. Was it a man or a woman?'

He spoke with repressed eagerness. I could almost feel his eyes searching her, prowling over her face like a cat.

'I've told you, I've told you! It was dark — '

He drew a long breath. 'I see the circumstances are not appropriate. Then I will ask you to be at the usual place tonight, usual hour.'

After a pause, she said in a sort of half-gasping, half-laughing voice. 'You don't expect me to go back - to the club - - ?'

'You will sing at the Moulin Rouge to-night. Then you will go to our own number eighteen and you will remember who killed your dear friend. That is all. I must go now.'

So long I remained twisted behind the casket, the words beating in my head, that I almost forgot to slip out and hurry upstairs before Gina Prevost should have let him out of the front door. Fortunately they had not pulled the portieres entirely open, and I was able to escape unobserved. This conversation - well, definitely it ruled out Galant as a possible murderer, whether it eliminated the girl or not, but all sorts of nebulous suspicions were afloat in my mind because of it. I was just entering the door of the sitting-room upstairs when I heard her begin to ascend the steps.

Mme Duchene and Bencolin were still in the same positions, and still impassive, though Robiquet badly concealed his curiosity as he saw me. What explanation of my departure Bencolin had given to madame I did not know; but she seemed neither excited nor curious about my absence, so I presumed the detective had found some plausible excuse. A moment later the girl entered.

She was quite calm. She had taken time to apply powder and lipstick, and to arrange the gold-lighted hair in its sweep across her forehead; now her eyes darted between Bencolin and madame, wondering what had been said.

'Ah, mademoiselle,' Bencolin greeted her. 'We were about to go, but perhaps you can help us. I understand you were a good friend of Mademoiselle Duchene. Can you tell us anything about this "change"?'

'No, monsieur, I am afraid not, I have not seen Odette in several months.'

'But I understand — '

Mme Duchene gave her a glance of amused tolerance. 'Gina,' she said, 'has thrown family conventions overboard. A fond uncle left her a legacy and she has cut loose from home. I - I've scarcely had time to think of it. What on earth are you doing, Gina? And that reminds me' - she looked bewildered - 'how did Robert find you to telephone?'

She was in a bad position. All attention seemed focused on her. How she must have wondered, desperately, what we all knew! Galant had just said enough to stir up all manner of fears, without any explanations. Did Bencolin connect the second murder with the first, or either with her? He had not mentioned Claudine Martel's death at all. Did he possibly suspect that she was Estelle, the American singer? All these problems must have twisted through her mind in a horrible kaleidoscope, so that you had to admire her poise. She sat down carelessly; the wide-set blue eyes were expressionless now.

'You mustn't ask too many questions, Mamma Duchene,' she said. 'I'm just - enjoying myself. And I'm studying for the stage, so I've got to keep my headquarters a secret'

Bencolin nodded. 'Of course. Well, I don't think we shall bother you any longer. If you are ready, Jeff — ?'

We left diem among the dull shadows of the room. I could see that Bencolin was eager to be gone, and that Mine Duchene, despite her politeness, wanted to be left alone. But in the last few minutes I had noticed a decided change in Robiquet; he fidgeted with his tie, he cleared his throat, he kept a nervous eye on madam, as though he were wondering whether to speak. When we were tramping down the hall he laid his hand on Bencolin's arm.

'Monsieur,' he said, 'I - er - will you step into the library for a moment? I mean the drawing-room. The library is where ... That is. I have just thought of something. ...'

Once inside, he peered up and down the hall. Then he resumed:

'You were speaking up there of a - what shall I say? - a difference in Odette's behaviour of late?' 'Yes?'

'Why, you see,' deprecatingly, 'nobody had mentioned it to me. I arrived only last night. But I am in regular correspondence with a friend of hers, a certain Mademoiselle Martel, who keeps me informed. Yes. And -'

He was no fool, for all his mannerisms and assumption of dignity. That pale eye had caught the expression on Bencolin's face, and he said, sharply:

'What's the matter, monsieur?'

'Nothing. You are well acquainted with Mademoiselle Martel?'

'I will be frank. At one time,' he acknowledged, as though conferring a favour, 'I had considered asking her to be my wife. But she has no conception of a diplomat's duties. None! Nor does she understand the conduct that would be necessary as my wife. ... Men, of course' - a wave of his hand, judicially - 'are entitled to a little - ah - amusement, hein? But Caesar's wife; you know the quotation. Yes, certainly. I detect in her a certain hardness. Unlike Odette! Odette would listen when you talked. She thought a great deal of my career. . ., But I am wandering.'

He brought himself up with a jerk. Drawing out a violently coloured handkerchief, he mopped his ruddy face, and seemed to find difficulty in approaching the subject he had opened.

'What, precisely, are you trying to say, monsieur?' asked Bencolin. For the first time that day he smiled.

'We all,' Robiquet began again, 'used to be much amused at Odette's - ah - domestic qualities. Her refusal to go out with anybody but Robert Chaumont, and so on. That is to say, we pretended to be. For myself, I admired it. There would be a wife! Had I not grown up with her, I myself ., .' He waved his hand. 'But I remember, when we would be playing tennis at the Touring Club, a group of us, they would try to get Odette on a party. Everybody would laugh when she refused, and Claudine Martell would say: "Ah, her captain in Africa!" - and she would picture him twisting his big moustaches and waving his sword at the Riffs.'

'Yes?'

'You asked upstairs, a while ago, whether she had been interested in anybody else. The answer is, definitely, no. But' - Robiquet lowered his voice, his pale eyes looking very intent - 'by a recent letter I received from Claudine, I understand that Chaumont has been - playing round, and Odette knew it. There! Understand me, I say nothing against him. It is only natural for a young man, if he is careful about it —⁵

I glanced at Bencolin. This piece of information, worded in Robiquet's mealy-mouthed fashion, was very difficult to believe. It did not sound at all like Chaumont. Studying Robiquet's ruddy, sharp-nosed face, imagining the delicate steps he took in furtherance of his career ('It is only natural for a young man, if he is careful about it — ' Thus spoke his smalt, cautious soul), I doubted this information. It was petty, and it was mean. But obviously Robiquet believed it. Bencolin, to my surprise, manifested the greatest interest.

' "Playing about"?' he repeated. 'With whom, monsieur?'

'That Claudine did not say. She mentioned it in passing, and said, rather mysteriously, not to be surprised if Odette had her fling yet'

'No person even hinted at?'

'None.'

'You take this, then, to be responsible for her altered attitude towards him?'

'Well - not having seen Odette for some time, I, of course, didn't know of any altered attitude until you mentioned it upstairs. But it made me remember.'

'Have you the letter with you by any chance?'

'Why - why' - his hand went automatically to his inside breast pocket - 'I may have, at that! I received it not long before I left London. A moment, please.'

He began to sort over letters which he drew from his pocket, muttering to himself. Then he frowned, put them back, and reached for his hip. He had caught the eagerness in Bencolin's tone, and his new prominence as a witness of possible importance made him even more flustered. It was just as well. On this small matter of feeling our eyes fixed on him, of searching in a hurried and fumbling fashion for the letter, rested a whole series of events by which we were to be led to the solution of the case. From his hip pocket he drew a wallet and some more papers, but his hand slipped on the back of his coat. Out fell an envelope, an empty cigarette-package, and an object which tinkled on the parquet floor and lay there gleaming in the low lights from beneath the blind. . ..

It was a small silver key.

For a moment I felt again that constriction in the chest. But Robiquet treated it casually, not even noticing us. He was reaching down to pick up the wallet, muttering an exclamation of annoyance, when Bencolin stepped swiftly past him.

'Allow me, monsieur,' he said, and picked up the key.

I also had taken a few steps forward, involuntarily. I saw the key in Bcncolin's palm as he held it out. It was rather larger than the sort which generally fits a spring lock. It bore in finely-engraved characters the name 'Paul Desmoulins Robiquet,' and the number 19.

'Thank you,' Robiquet murmured absently. 'No, I don't seem to have the letter here. I can get it if you like. ...'

He looked up, startled, his hand still oustretched to take the key. Bencolin was holding it there just beyond him.

'Forgive me for seeming to pry into your private affairs, monsieur,' the detective said, 'but I assure you I have good reason. I am much more interested in this key than in the letter. ... Where did you get it?'

Still staring at his level eyes, Robiquet became first nervous, and then very much alarmed. He swallowed hard.

'Why, it can't possibly interest you, monsieur! It - it is only something private. A club I belong to. I have not been there for a long time, but I brought that key along from London in case, during my stay, I should want to — '

'The Club of Coloured Masks, in the Boulevard de Sebastopol?'

Now Robiquet became really rattled. 'You know about it? Please, monsieur, this must not become known! If my friends - my superiors in the service - know I belonged to that club, my career — !' His voice was rising.

'My dear young man, it is quite all right with me. I shall never mention it.' Bencolin smiled genially. 'As you yourself have expressed it, "young men ... " ' He shrugged. I am only interested because certain other events, not concerning you in the least, have intrigued my curiosity.'

'I still think’ Robiquet returned stiffly, 'it is my own affair.'

'May I ask how long you have been a member?'

'About - about two years. I have been there only half a dozen times in my life! In my profession it is necessary to be discreet.'

'Ah, yes. And what is the significance of this number, nineteen, on the key ?'

Robiquet froze. He set his lips in a hard line. With repressed fury he said: 'Monsieur, you have admitted that the matter does not concern you. It is a secret! Private. Not for strangers. And I refuse to tell you anything. I see by your emblem that you are a Mason. Would you divulge, if I asked you the — ?'

Bencolin laughed. 'Well, well’ he interrupted, deprecatingly, 'I think even you will have to admit, monsieur, that it is hardly the same thing. Knowing the purpose of this club, I can't help being amused.' Then he grew serious. 'You are determined not to answer my questions?'

'I am afraid you must excuse me.'

A pause. 'I am sorry, my friend,' mused Bencolin, shaking his head. 'Because a murder was committed there last night. Inasmuch as we do not know the names of any of the members, and this the first key that has come into our possession, it might be necessary to take you to the prefecture of police for questioning. The newspapers ... It would be sad.'

'A - a murder!' cried Robiquet, in a kind of yelp.

'Think, my friend!' I knew that Bencolin was with difficulty repressing a grin, but he lowered his voice and made it thrilling and portentous. 'Think what a story it would be for the newspapers. Think of your career. Prominent young diplomat held for questioning in a murder committed in a house of assignation! Think of the awful consternation in London, the turmoil in Parliament, the feelings of your own family, the —'

'But I didn't do anything! I — You're not going to take me to —'

Bencolin pursed his lips dubiously. 'Well’ he admitted, 'as I told you, the whole thing need never be mentioned. I don't think you had anything to do with the murder. But you must speak out, my friend.'

'O my God ! I'll tell you anything!'

It took some time to soothe him down. After he had mopped his face several times, and made Bencolin swear the most appalling oaths that he need not appear, Bencolin repeated the question about the number 19.

'Why, you see, monsieur,' Robiquet explained, 'there arc exactly fifty men and fifty women in the club. The men all have - rooms, do you see? some large, some small, according to the dues they pay. . .. That is mine. Nobody can use another's room. ... ' His very natural curiosity bubbled up under his fear. 'Who,' he asked, hesitantly - 'who was murdered ?'

'Oh, that doesn't matter. .. . ' Bencolin stopped short. I was trying to attract his attention, for I remembered the conversation between Gina Prevost and Galant, wherein the latter had said: 'You will go to our own number eighteen.' So I said, casually:

'Eighteen is the sign of the white cat.'

This cryptic utterance seemed to puzzle Robiquet, but Bencolin nodded.

'You say you have been a member for two years. Who introduced you?'

'Introduced me? Oh ! Well, no harm in telling that. It was young Julien D'Arbalay, the one who drove his own racing-cars, you know? Great for the ladies, Julien was —'

'Was?'

'He was killed in America last year. His car overturned at Sheepshead Bay, and — '

'Damnation! No lead there.' Bencolin snapped his fingers in irritation. 'How many of your friends - in your own set, I mean - are members?'

'Monsieur, believe me, I don't know! You don't understand. People are masked! And with the mask off, I never saw a single woman I knew. But I have walked in the big hall, where it is so dark you could scarcely recognize people if they wore no masks, and I have wondered who of my friends, even of my family, might be there! I swear it gives you shivers!'

Again the detective eyed him with that cold, publicity-threatening glance, but Robiquet met his gaze steadily. He was fighting to be believed, clenching his hands with earnestness; and it seemed to me, that he was telling the truth.

'You never even saw a person whose identity you suspected?'

'I have been there so few times! I have heard, though' -he looked round cautiously - 'that there is a sort of inner circle where the members are well known to one another, and that there is a woman who makes a regular business of getting new members. But I don't know who she is.'

Another silence, while Bencolin tapped the key against his palm.

'Imagine!' Robiquet said suddenly. 'Imagine going there masked, and meeting a girl, and - finding she was the girl you were engaged to. Oh, it's too dangerous for me! Never again! And murder. .. . '

'Very well. Now, monsieur, I will tell you what the price of my silence to the newspapers is to be. You shall lend me this key'

'Keep it! Murder!'

' — for a few days. Then I shall return it. I suppose the news of your return to France will be among the — er — social notes of the papers?'

'Why, I suppose so. But why?'

'Good ! Very good ! H'm. Number nineteen: is that across from or beside number eighteen?'

Robiquet reflected. 'I never paid attention, believe me! But it's beside it, I think. Yes!' He made an elaborate pantomime to himself, as though to get the location straight, 'Beside it, I remember.'

'Windows?'

'Yes. All the rooms look out on a sort of airshaft. But please — !'

'Better and better!' Bencolin put die key in his pocket and buttoned up his coat. Again he fixed a stern eye on Robiquet. 'Now, I don't need to warn you not to breathe a word of what you've told us to anybody. Is that clear?'

'I?' demanded the young man, incredulously. '‘ speak about it? Ha! What do you take me for? But you swear to me that you will keep your promise?'

'I swear!' said the detective. 'And now, my friend, a thousand thanks. Look at this afternoon's papers if you want to see who was killed. Good-day!'

The House of the Dominoes

Out in the street the wind had turned noticeably colder and the whole sky was murkily shot with black. Bencolin turned up the collar of his coat, grinning sideways at me.

'We have left a very much worried young man,' he commented. ‘I hated to do that, but this key . .. Invaluable, Jeff, invaluable! For the first time, we have luck. What I wanted to do we could have arranged without the aid of the key, but now it is a million times more simple.' He strode along with a fierce energy, chuckling to himself. 'Now you are going to tell me that Galant has made an appointment, after the Moulin Rouge show, with Mademoiselle Prevost. Aren't you?'

'I see you caught my hint.'

'Caught your hint? My dear fellow, I've been preparing for it all day! He tried to steal a march on me by coming to that house; but I anticipated that. Now she'll be afraid to see him for the rest of the day. He found out from the concierge at her place where she had gone. The concierge was instructed to tell him. Ho! We want him to have a long interview with her - to-night, where we can hear it.' He laughed in his deep, almost soundless fashion and slapped me on the shoulder. 'The old man's wits still work, in spite of what Galant said. . . . '

'That was why you had her come to Madame Duchene's?' -'Yes. And why I so carefully told Galant last night that we were not going to expose his club. Because he'll meet her there, Jeff. Do you see why it has been inevitable? More than that, do you see the sequence of events, likewise inevitable, which lead up to it?'

‘I do not.'

'Well, I'll give you an outline at lunch. But first tell me exactly what they said to each other.'

I told him, omitting, so far as I could remember, scarcely a word. At the end of it he slapped his hands together triumphantly.

'Better than I had hoped for, Jeff. Ah, but we're being dealt the right cards! Galant thinks that Mademoiselle Prevost knows who the murderer is, and he is determined to find out. He couldn't find out last night, but in the right rendezvous - it exactly squares with my theory.'

'But why this interest in law and order on Galant's part?'

'Law and order? Use your wits! It's blackmail. With the hold of a murder charge over somebody, Galant would add the tidiest threat of all to his collection of blackmail material. I've suspected this. ...'

'Wait a minute,' I said. 'Granted even a suspicion that Galant might meet this girl somewhere - though how you came to believe that, God knows! - granted that, why pick on the club? I should think that would be the last place he would go, knowing you suspect it.'

'On the contrary, Jeff, I thought it would be the very first place. Think a moment! . .. Galant has no idea we suspect Gina Prevost, or any other woman, of being tangled up in this; he said so himself, from what you tell me. Undoubtedly he strongly suspects that he is being shadowed by my men. (A shadow has been put on his trail, as a matter of fact, with orders to make himself as conspicuous as possible.) Now, if he meets Gina Prevost anywhere - at her apartment, or his house, or any public theatre or dance-place, we are almost bound to see her! We then commence to ask ourselves, he will reason "Who is the mysterious blonde lady?" We investigate, we find who she is, we discover she was near the scene of the murder ... and Galant has betrayed both of them! On the other hand, the club is safe. There are only a hundred keys, the lock is practically burglar-proof, and the police cannot get in to spy. Moreover, in an establishment of that sort they could both go in at different times, and police spying on the outside door would never in the world connect them with each other. ... Do you see?'

'Then,' I said, 'you deliberately played in to his hands and told him all you knew about the club, so that he would bring about a meeting between liimself and this girl?'

'A meeting which I could overhear! - or one of my operatives could overhear, anyhow. Yes.'

'But why such an elaborate plan?'

He scowled. 'Because, Jeff, Galant is an elaborate criminal. Question him, grill him, torture him even, and you would learn just what he wanted you to know, not a word more. We're dealing with superlatively nimble wits, and our only hope is to outmanoeuvre him. I knew he would meet that girl again, before I even knew who the girl was.'

'Meet her "again",' I said gloomily. 'Yes, Granted you knew he had met her the first time.'

'Oh, that was clear! You shall hear it in good time. Now, thanks to our friend Robiquet, we have overcome our difficulties easily. The stronghold could be entered but tliis key makes it child's play. We have the room next to his, a window giving on an airshaft. ... Jeff, he'll have to possess magical powers if he divines it. Do you know,' he asked, abruptly, 'what was the most significant point in his conversation with Gina Prevost ?'

'Her knowing very probably who committed the murder.'

'Not at all. I could have told you that. It was the statement of hers, "It was dark." Remember it! Now for a little visit to the rue de Varenne before lunch. We are going to see Mademoiselle Martel's parents.'

We had stopped at the corner of that winding street, which runs through the heart of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. I hesitated, and said:

'Look here. These scenes with hysterical parents .. . they make me squirm. If we're to go through anything like that one a while ago, I'd prefer to be absent.'

Slowly he shook his head, staring at a lamp-bracket in one dark-stained wall. 'Not with tiiese people. Do you know them, Jeff?'

'Heard the name, that's all.'

'The Comte de Martel is of the oldest, most unyielding stock of France. "Family honour," with them, is an almost morbid thing. But, for all that, the old man is a fierce republican; don't, by the way, make the mistake of addressing him by his title. They come of a line of soldiers, and he is prouder of his rank of colonel than anything else. He lost an arm in the war. His wife is a little old woman, almost completely deaf. They live in a gigantic house, and they spend their time playing dominoes.'

'Dominoes?'

'Hour after hour,' said Bencolin, nodding sombrely. 'The old man was a great gambler in his youth. Not so much gambler as what you call "plunger"; the kind who doesn't reason, but bets huge sums on an even chance at anything. Dominoes - he must get a sardonic pleasure in that!' Still the detective hesitated. 'This has got to be handled carefully. When they learn where their daughter was murdered . . . well, Jeff, this "family honour" obsession is devilish difficult.'

'Has Chaumont told them?'

'I most fervently hope so. And I hope he was careful not to mention the club. I think, though, that they would consider the waxworks almost as bad. However — '

Vast spaces are hidden from Paris. The gardens of the Faubourg Saint-Germain come with the suddenness of an illusion when these tall old walls open their gates. You would swear that the avenues of trees stretch away for miles, that pools are enchanted and flower-beds spectral, and that no such spacious countryside can exist in the very centre of Paris traffic. Here are stone houses, gabled and turreted, on phantom estates. In summer, when all the flower hues flame against green, and the trees sparkle with sunlight, these houses still seem proud and forlorn and ghostly. But in autumn their gables against grey-white sky make you feel you have strayed into a countryside which is a thousand leagues from Paris or reality, and which exists only in time. A light in a window startles you. On these gravel walks at twilight you might meet an unlighted coach, with footmen and four white horses, and you would realize, in the wind and thunder of its passing, that the passengers had been dead two hundred years.

I do not exaggerate. When the outer gates of the Martel estate were opened by an old man in a concierge's lodge, and we walked up a gravel drive sprouting with weeds, Paris had entirely ceased to exist. Automobiles were not yet invented. The lawn looked gutted with the brown patterns of dead flower-beds, mingling with yellow, where leaves were plastered in soggy patches under the trees. From the back of the house, which was mournful in iron scrollwork, we heard a rustle, the play and creak of a chain, and then the barking of a dog. It yelped and resounded through die damp twilight in these gardens; it had its echo down rustling vistas behind. As though in reply, a light shone out from a window on the ground floor.

'I hope the brute's not loose,' said Bencolin. 'They call him Tempest. He's the most vicious — Hallo!'

He stopped short. From under a copse of chestnut trees at our right a figure darted out. It ran with a horrible hopping motion, as though it were not human. You could see the rags of an overcoat fluttering from its back as it disappeared into another clump of trees; then only the wind rasped through the gardens and the dog's barking suddenly died.

'We're being watched, Jeff,' said Bencolin, after a pause. 'Shakes you up, eh? It did me. That's one of Galant's men, on your life. The dog scared him out.'

I shivered. A heavy drop of rain spattered on the leaves, then another. We hurried up to the house, past a line of old hitching-posts, into the shelter of the porch. This porch, apparently, was an addition from the last century, for iron link-brackets were still in the walls. It must have been a gloomy enough place for a young girl like Claudine Martel. Behind the dead vines I saw a few wicker chairs covered with bright chintz, and the breeze was fluttering the pages of a magazine which lay open on a padded swing.

The front doors were already being opened at our approach.

'Come in, messieurs,' said a deferential voice. 'Colonel Martel has been expecting you.'

A manservant led us into a dim hall, very spacious, panelled in black walnut. It was not shabby, but it needed an airing: it smelled of old wood, of dusty hangings, of brass-polish and waxed floors. Again I caught that scent of clothes and hair, as at the waxworks; but these, I could not help feeling, were the clothes and hair of dead people; and the walls, dark red stain above their panels, exhaled an indefinable reek of decay. We were ushered into a library at the back of the house.

At a mahogany table, on which burnt a shaded lamp, sat Colonel Martel. At the rear of the room, above tall bookcases, there were diamond-paned windows of blue and white glass. You could see the silver rain thickening, and pale flickers of light were on the face of the woman who sat motionless, her hands clasped, in the shadow of the bookshelves. About them both was an atmosphere of stiff waiting, of tears that would never be shed, and of doom. The old man rose.

'Come in, messieurs,' he said in a deep voice. 'This is my wife.'

He was of medium height, very stocky, but bearing himself with the utmost rigidity. His face, rather sallow of complexion, would have been handsome had it not been so fleshy. The light was reflected on his big bald skull: his eyes, sunken under thick brows, had a sort of grim bright glaze. I saw a play of muscles tightening the mouth under a large moustache, sandy-white in colour and drooping at the corners, and I saw the folds of his chin flatten over a high collar with a narrow band of cravat. His dark clothes, though somewhat old-fashioned in cut, were of the finest cloth, and there was an opal stud in his shirt. Now he was bowing towards the shadow.

'Good-day!' sang the woman's voice, high and shrill like that of many deaf people. The eyes in her faded, bony face searched us; her hair was completely white. 'Good-day! Bring chairs for the gentlemen, Andre!'

Not before the servant had brought them out and we were seated near the table did the Comte dc Martel sit down himself. I saw on the table a set of dominoes. They had been built up like blocks for a sort of toy house, and I had a sudden vision of him sitting there for long hours with steady hands, patiently building them up, patiently taking them down, like a solemn child. But now he sat looking at us grimly and fixedly, fingering a piece of blue paper like a part of a telegram.

'We have heard, monsieur,' he said at length.

The atmosphere was getting on my nerves. I saw the woman nodding her head in the background, straining to catch each word; and it seemed to me that shattering forces were gathering round this house, to tear it down.

'That is as well, Colonel Martel,' said Bencolin. 'We are relieved of an unpleasant duty. I speak to you frankly: there now remains only to get all the information we can about your daughter. ..."

The other nodded deliberately. For the first time I noticed that he was fingering that paper with only one hand; his left arm was missing and the sleeve was tucked into his pocket.

'I like your straightforwardness, monsieur,' he assented. 'You will not find either madame or myself weak-kneed at this time. When may we - have her back ?'

Again I shivered, regarding those glazed bright eyes. Bencolin replied:

'Very soon. You know where Mademoiselle Martel was found?'

'In a certain waxworks, I believe' - the rumbling voice rose mercilessly - 'stabbed through the back. Speak out. My wife cannot hear you.'

'Is she really dead?' sang the woman, suddenly. The cry jabbed through all of us. M. Martel turned cold eyes, slowly, to regard her. A big grandfather clock ticked in the silence; seeing his look, madame subsided with blinking eyes, her face pinched, eagerly still.

'Our hope is,' Bencolin went on, 'that her parents can throw some light on her death. When was she last seen alive?'

'I have tried to think of that. I am afraid' - this time the merciless voice was directed against himself - 'I am afraid I have not kept good account of my daughter. All that I left to her mother. A son, now..! But Claudine and I were

almost strangers. She was active, gay; a different generation.' He pressed his hand hard to a spot just over his eyes, staring at the past. 'The last time I saw her was at dinner yesterday evening. On the same day, once a month, I always go to the home of the Marquis de Cerannes to play cards. It is a ritual we have observed for nearly forty years. I went last night about nine o'clock. At that time, I know, she was still in the house, for I heard her moving about in her room.'

'Do you know whether she had intended to go out?'

'I do not, monsieur. As I have said,' his mouth tightened again, 'I did not follow her doings, I left my instructions with her mother as to what Claudine should do, and I rarely observed. This - is - the - result.'

Watching madame, I saw a bright, rather pitiful expression come into her face. An old-school father and a doting, rather simple-minded mother. From what I had been able to deduce earlier, Claudine Martel was not at all like Odette. She would be able to get away unsuspected with almost anything. I saw that the same thought was in Bencolin's mind, for he inquired:

'You were never in the habit of waiting up for her, I take it?'

'Monsieur,' the old man said, coldly, 'in our family we have never thought it necessary.'

'Did she entertain her friends here frequently?'

'I was compelled to forbid it. Their noise was unsuited to our home and I feared it might disturb the neighbours. She was permitted, of course, to invite her own friends to our receptions. She declined. I discovered that she wished to serve our guests with what are called "cocktails" ... ' A faint, contemptuous smile, which twisted the thick muscles of his jaw. 'I informed her that the Martel wine-cellar was unsurpassed in France, and that I did not feel called on to insult my old friends. It was the only time we ever had words. She asked me, in an almost screaming voice, whether I had ever been young. Young!'

'To return, monsieur. You say you saw your daughter at dinner. Did her behaviour seem as usual, or should you have said there was anything on her mind ?'

M. Martel fingered one end of his long moustache, his eyes narrowed.

'I have thought of that since. I noticed it. She was - upset.'

'She wouldn't eat!' shrilled his wife, so abruptly that Bencolin turned to stare at her. The colonel had spoken in a low voice, and both of us wondered how she had heard.

'She is reading your lips, monsieur,' our host explained. 'You need not shout. ... That is true, Claudine scarcely ate at all.'

'Should you say that her behaviour was due to excitement, or fright, or precisely what?' 'I do not know. Both, perhaps.'

'She wasn't well!' cried madame. Her sharp face, which once must have been beautiful, turned from side to side, and her faded eyes looked at us appealingly. 'She hadn't been well. And the night before that I heard her crying in the middle of the night. Sobbing!'

Every time that queer, high voice, hovering on the edge of tears, trembled from the shadows under the rain-splattered windows, I felt an impulse to grip the edge of my chair. I could see that her husband was fighting to keep his self-control; his mouth was pulled down and the lids fluttered over harsh eyes.

‘I heard her! And I got up, and went into her room just as I did when she was a baby, and she was crying in bed.' After a gulp the woman went on: 'And she didn't snap at me. She was nice to me. And I said, "What's the matter, dear? Let me help you." And she said, "You can't help me, mother; nobody can help me!" She was like that all the next day, and last night she went out. . . .'

Fearing an outburst, Colonel Martel had turned to regard her again; his one big fist clenched and his empty left sleeve trembled. Bencolin took care to fashion his words carefully with his lips when he addressed her:

'She told you what was troubling her, madame?'

'No. No. She refused.'

'Had you any idea?'

'Eh?' A blank look. 'Trouble her? What would trouble a poor little child ? No.'

Her voice had become a whimper. The booming and decisive tones of her husband took up the gap.

'A little more information, monsieur, I learned from speaking to her and to Andre, our butler. In the neighbourhood of nine-thirty o'clock, Claudine received a telephone message. Shortly after that she seems to have left the house. She did not tell her mother where she was going, but promised to return by eleven.'

'A message from a man or a woman ?'

'They do not know.'

'Was any part of the conversation overheard?'

'Not by my wife, naturally. But I questioned Andre closely on that point. The only words he overheard were these : "But I didn't even know he was back in France !" '

' "I didn't even know he was back in France," ' the detective repeated. 'You have no idea to whom these words referred?'

'None. Claudine had many friends.' 'She took a car?'

'She took the car,' asserted the other, 'without my permission. It was returned to us this morning by a man from the police; I understand it had been left close to the waxworks where she was found. Now monsieur!'

His fist pounded slowly on the table, shaking the edifice of dominoes. His eyes had a dry glitter as they fixed Bencolin.

'Now, monsieur!' he said again. 'The case is in your hands. Can you tell me why my daughter, why a Martel, should be found dead in a waxworks in that dingy neighbourhood ? That is what I want most to know.'

'It is a formidable problem, Colonel Martel. At the present moment I am not sure. You say she had never been there before?'

'I do not know. In any event' - he made a heavy gesture - 'it is clearly the work of some thug or sneak-thief. I want him brought to justice. Do you hear, monsieur? If necessary, I will offer a reward large enough to — '

'I hardly think that will be necessary. But it brings me to the chief question I wanted to ask. When you say "the work of a thug" you perhaps know that your daughter was not robbed - robbed, I mean in the ordinary sense. Her money was untouched. What the murderer took was some object which hung on a slender gold chain round her neck. Do you know what it was ?'

'Round her neck?' The old man shook his head, frowning and biting at his moustache. 'I can't even imagine. It was certainly none of the Martel jewels. I keep them locked up, and they are worn by my wife only on formal occasions. Some trinket, perhaps; it could scarcely be anything of value. I never noticed ..."

He glanced over inquiringly at his wife.

'No!' she cried. 'Why, that's impossible! She never wore anything like a necklace or a locket; she said it was old-fashioned. I'm sure! I would know, monsieur!'

Every lead seemed to end in a blind alley, every clue produced nothing. We were silent for a long time, while the rustle of the rain grew to an uproar and the windows blurred to darkness. But, instead of disappointing Bencolin, this last piece of information appeared to stimulate him. He had an air of repressed exultation; the light of the lamp made long triangles of shadow under his cheek-bones and showed a gleam of teeth in a smile between small moustache and pointed beard. But his long eyes were still sombre as they moved from M. Martel to his wife. With a whir of weights the grandfather clock began to chime twelve. Each hoarse note beat with a slow finality, as of the grave, and intensified the nervous tension. M, Martel looked at his wrist, frowned, and then glanced up at the clock in a polite intimation that it was growing late.

‘I do not think,' Bencolin observed, 'that we need question you any further. The solution does not lie here. Any attempt to go into Mademoiselle Martel's affairs farther than we have done will, I think, be futile. I thank you, madame, and you, monsieur, for your help. Rest assured that I will keep you informed of our progress.'

Our host rose as we did. For the first time I noticed how the interview had shaken him; his stocky body was still rigid, but his eyes were blank and baffled with despair. He stood there in his fine clothes and linen, as for a gala day, the lamplight shining on his bald head. . . .

We went out of the house into the rain.