Bencolin laughed, with a sort of tired savagery, and rapped with his knuckles on the mantelpiece. 'But you won't! Don't I know, monsieur, that you are waiting to settle with me in another way ?'
'Perhaps.' Silkily pleasant, even yet!
'Now, why I am really here to-night,' Bencolin resumed, with a slight gesture as though he were discussing a business deal, 'is to inquire about the newest aspect of your business. ...' 'Ah!*
'Oh, yes, I know about it. There has been opened, in a certain part of Paris, an institution unique of its kind. You are pleased to call it the Club of Coloured Masks. The idea, of course, is not new - there are places of the same nature - but this one has an elaborateness to which the others would not aspire. Membership in the club is restricted to those names in the very select Almanach de Gotha, and the fees are enormous. The names of the members are, theoretically, kept with the utmost secrecy.'
Galant blinked a little. He had not suspected Bencolin knew this. But he shrugged.
'Now,' he said, 'I really think you are mad. What is the purpose of this club?'
'A social gathering of men and women. Women unhappy in marriage, women who are old, women looking for a thrilclass="underline" men whose wives are a bore or a terror, men in search of adventure - these meet and mingle, the woman to find a man who pleases her, the man to seek out a woman who does not remind him of his wife. They cross in your great hall, which is dimly lighted and muffled with thick hangings - and they all wear masks. One may not know that the masked lady he sees, and who appeals to him, and who leads him for private speech into the corridors off your great hall - one may not know that this seductive charmer is the very dignified woman whose sedate dinner he attended the night before. They sit and drink, they listen to your hidden orchestra, then they vanish into the depths of their amour. ... '
'You say "my" great hall,' Galant snapped, ' "my" hidden orchestra —'
'I do. You own the place. Oh, not in your own name! It is, I believe, in the name of some woman. But you are the controlling element,'
'Even so - I do not, of course, admit it - the place is perfectly legal. Why should it interest the police?'
'Why, yes, it is legal. It furnishes you with the best blackmail evidence you are ever likely to get, since the members do not know you are the proprietor. But if they insist on going there, I suppose it is their own look-out. ... ' Bencolin bent forward. 'However, I will tell you why it interests the police. In the passage leading to your club - a passage which is directly behind the waxworks known as the Musee Augustin - a woman named Claudine Martel was murdered tonight. Will you tell me, please, what you know about it?'
Mademoiselle Estelle
Gal ant's countenance was blurred before my eyes. I heard Chaumont's sudden gasp, and I saw him jump in the firelight, but his figure was like a ghost's. For I was looking at that narrow stone-flagged passage behind the museum. At its left end I saw that significant door without a knob; at the right, giving on the street, the door with the burglar-proof spring lock, which stood ajar. I remembered the pushbutton in the hall, which controlled soft lights there, and, lying beside bloodstains on the floor, a black mask with a torn elastic.. . .
From a distance, as though it were booming down that very corridor, came Galant's voice.
'I can offer proof,' urbanely, 'that I have no connexion whatever with the club you mention. If I am a member -what then? So are others. I am able to demonstrate that I was nowhere in the neighbourhood to-night.'
'Do you know what this means?' cried Chaumont, who was trembling.
'Sit down, Captain!' Bencolin's voice became sharp. He made a movement forward, as though he feared an outburst from Chaumont.
'But - if that's true - O God ! you are crazy! He's right!
You arc. It can't be. It ' Looking round desperately,
Chaumont caught Bencolin's eye. Then he sank down in his chair. He seemed now to be wearing uniform and holster, a puzzled soldier with sunken eyes, seated on a foolish gilt chair in a foolish, over-decorated room.
A long silence. Odette Duchene, Claudine Martel, the Club of Coloured Masks. ...
'Let me tell you a little more of what I know, Monsieur Galant,' Bencolin was saying, 'before you make any more comments. As I have pointed out, the club is apparently owned and operated by some woman; the name does not matter, for it is obviously assumed. Further: contacts with the upper world — that is to say, the securing of new members for the club - is also done by a woman. At the prefecture we do not know the name of this woman; she clearly belongs to the upper circles and approaches trustworthy people who might be interested. Let that part of it pass. You run an expensive, high-strung, dangerous menage (if relatives should find out!), and I dare say your own large bodyguard is forever on hand to prevent trouble, A tragedy there, with the newspapers publishing the whole story and the members afraid to go again lest their dear ones discover - why, you are undone.'
With steady fingers Galant took out a cigarette-case.
'Being myself only a member,' he said, 'I cannot, of course, understand all this. Nevertheless, I think you said a murder was committed in the passage outside the entrance. That need not involve the club.'
'Ah, but it does. For, do you see, this passage is actually a part of the club-rooms. You enter it from the street through a door with a special lock, which is always fastened. Members are provided with a special key for this door. It is a silver key, stamped with the name of the member. Therefore — ?' Bencolin shrugged.
'I see.' Galant lighted a cigarette, still impassive, and blew out the match. He seemed again to admire the absolute steadiness of his hand. 'In that case, I suppose, the newspapers will get the story, and the full account of the club.'
'They will get nothing of the kind.'
'I - I beg your pardon ?'
'I said,' Bencolin repeated complacently, 'they will get nothing of the kind. That is what I came here to tel! you.'
After another long pause, Galant murmured: 'I do not understand you, monsieur. Therefore I admire you,'
'Not a word of this whole affair will leak into the .newspapers. The club will continue on its usual cheerful course.
By no word will you intimate what has occurred to-night. . .. There is another interesting feature of the club also. ''Coloured masks'' is no idle term. I am informed of the signs by which members may be guided. Those who have no lover, but are merely looking at random for someone who pleases them, wear black masks. Those who are seeking out a definite person wear green. Finally, those who are there by assignation with some definite person, and will speak to no other, wear - as a hands-off signal - scarlet. The mask found in the passage to-night was black.... I ask you again, by the way, what you know of the murder.'
Now Galant was again in his element. He relaxed. Letting smoke drift out of his weird nose, he sat back and eyed Bencolin whimsically.
'My dear fellow, I know nothing. You tell me a crime has been committed there. It is sad. Oh, most tragic. Nevertheless, I don't know who was murdered, or how, or why. Will you enlighten me ?'
'Are you acquainted with Mademoiselle Claudine Martel?'
Galant frowned at his cigarette. Then he looked up, startled. I would have defied anybody to tell when this man was lying and when he was evading answers by telling the simple truth. Now I was at a loss; he seemed to be genuinely astonished.
'So?' he muttered. 'Eh, but this is odd! Why, yes. The Martels are a very good family. I used to have some slight acquaintance with the girl. Claudine Martel!' He chuckled. 'A member of the club! Well, well!'