The Waxworks Murder

'That's a lie,' Chaumont said, swiftly and coldly. 'Look here! And as for Mademoiselle Duchene —'

I heard Bencolin swear under his breath. He interposed: 'Captain, will you be so good as to keep out of this?'

' "Duchene",' Galant was repeating. ' "Duchene" ? I never heard that name. Besides, it's too common. What about her?'

'She does not concern us. ... Let me continue with Mademoiselle Martel,' said Bencolin. 'She was found tonight, stabbed through the back, in the waxworks whose rear door communicates with the passage.'

'In the waxworks? - Oh! Oh, yes, I know the place you mean. Tiens! that is too bad! But I thought you said she was killed in the passage?'

'She was. Her body was later carried in, through an open door, to the museum.'

'For what purpose?'

Bencolin shrugged. But there was a twinkle in his eye; he was enjoying himself. These two had a subtle way of communicating, so that you fancied Galant heard Bencolin's unspoken words: 'Why, that is our solution,' Aloud the detective asked:

'Are you acquainted with Monsieur Augustin or his daughter?'

'Augustin? No. I never heard. . .. Wait, yes, of course! That is the owner of the waxworks. No, monsieur, I have not the pleasure.'

A falling log dropped with a rattle in the fireplace, and a shower of sparks flickered yellow lights on Galant's face. He was all thoughtful concern - an admirable witness, choosing his words carefully. Under it lay an edge of satire. Now that it had come merely to fencing, he felt that he was in no danger. The quiet was jarred by Bencolin's laugh.

'Oh, come now!' he suggested. 'Think, my friend! Don't you want to consider?'

'What do you mean?' Elaborate casualness!

'Why, only this. For the information about your place I have previously given, I take no credit. It was supplied me long ago by our own agents. But when I visited the waxworks to-night, certain facts were manifest.'

Bencolin examined the palm of his hand, as though he were consulting notes. His face puckered, he went on :

'The street entrance to the passage, we know, is carefully guarded by a burglar-proof lock, for which special silver keys are given to members. The club wishes its outer entrance to be impregnable. But there is another entrance to this passage! - the back of the museum. Now, with all these precautions, is it reasonable to suppose that the club-owners would have neglected this back way? Is it reasonable to suppose that they would have left unnoticed a door with an ordinary spring lock, opening from the inside of the museum, through which any casual prowler could step into the passage? Of course not. Then I noticed that this museum door had a very new lock, freshly oiled and in excellent working order. Yet Monsieur Augustin assured me, with evident sincerity, that the door was never used and that he had lost the key. His daughter's attitude, however, intrigued my interest. ...

'Well, well, it is rather obvious, isn't it? Monsieur Augustin's daughter, who takes care of everything for a rather doddering father, has seen a way to capitalize the Musee Augustin aside from its waxworks display. Going into the museum would make an excellent blind for those of its members who were afraid of being caught! They could go to the rear and step in without the need of a key - though, of course, they must be club members —'

'One moment!' Galant interposed, raising his hand. 'This Mademoiselle Augustin could not refuse to admit everybody to the museum except club members, could she? The general public —'

Bencolin laughed again. 'My friend, I am not so ingenuous as to suppose that those two entrances - i.e., from the street through the bulldog-locked door, and from the back of the museum through the door that can be opened from inside - are the sole barriers to be overcome. No, no! The door into the actual club has yet to be passed. This also must be opened with the silver key, I am told, and subsequently the key must be shown to a man on guard inside. So, whichever way a member entered, he must have his key.'

Galant nodded. He seemed to be examining the matter as an abstract problem.

'Some inkling of this situation in the museum,' said Bencolin, 'had come to me before I visited it. At the prefecture of police, my friend, we are thorough. We have a department which is in communication with the Ministry of State, and with the three leading banking institutions of France. We receive monthly lists of the citizens of Paris whose incomes or bank balances are larger than their occupations warrant. Very often, in that way, we are able to pick up evidence which will be useful - later. When, this afternoon, we recovered the body of a woman who was last seen going into the Musee Augustin - (Oh, yes, don't look surprised! Two murders have been committed) - when we did that, I looked over the bank balance of Mademoiselle Augustin as a matter of routine. She was credited with nearly a million francs. Incredible! Then, to-night, the source of it became plain.

Bencolin spread out his hands. He was not watching Galant, but I was. I thought I saw again the expression of smugness, of Fierce secret triumph, creeping behind Galant's eyes, as though he laughed in his brain, as though he said, 'Still you don't know. ... !' But Galant lazily tossed his cigarette into the fire.

'So you are convinced, then, that I do know this charming lady?'

'You still deny it?'

'Oh, yes. I have already told you I am only a member.'

"I wonder, then,' Bencolin said musingly, 'why she expressed such agitation at the mention of your name.'

Galant's fingers descended softly on the neck of the cat. ...

'There were other things, too,' said the detective. 'We had quite a talk, mademoiselle and I; we questioned and answered without saying what we meant, though each of us understood. Several things are clear. Her father does not know that she is using the museum for that particular purpose, and she does not want him to know. She is afraid; the old man is proud of his place, and if he knew .. . well, we can't speculate on that. Also, my friend, she definitely had seen Mademoiselle Martel before.'

'What makes you think that?' Galant's voice has risen slightly.

'Oh, I am convinced of it. Yet you - you never saw Mademoiselle Martel before, I think you said? Also you do not know Mademoiselle Augustin. A tangled affair, I am afraid.' He sighed.

'Look here,' Galant returned, a little hoarsely. 'I am getting tired of this. You break in on my house to-night. You make stupid accusations, for which you could pay in court. My God ! I am tired!'

He rose slowly from his chair, dropping the cat; his big face looked ugly and dangerous.

'It is time to end this. You will go, or I will have you thrown out of the house. As for murder, I can prove that I had nothing to do with it. I do not know at what time it was supposed to be committed —'

'I do,' said Bencolin placidly.

'Is there any reason to bluff me ?'

'My friend, I would not take the trouble to bluff you or anybody else. I say that I know almost to the very second when the murder was committed. There is a piece of evidence which tells me.'

Bencolin spoke in a level, almost indifferent voice. There was a line between his brows and he scarcely looked at Galant. 'Evidence!' - so far as I knew, there was no evidence as to just when, during a period of over an hour. Claudine Martel had been stabbed. But we all knew that he was telling the truth.

'Very well, then,' agreed Galant. He nodded, but his eyes were glazed. ‘I dined, about eight o'clock, at Prunier's in the rue Duphot. You can verify it there, and also that I left there about nine-fifteen. As I was leaving there, I met a friend - a certain Monsieur Defarge, whose address I will give you - and we stopped at the Cafe de la Madeleine for a drink. He left me about ten o'clock, and I got in my car and was driven to the Moulin Rouge. Since it has become a dance-hall, you can easily get corroboration from the attendants; I am well known there. I sat in one of the boxes off the dance-floor, where I stayed for the eleven o'clock stage-show. It was over by half past eleven. I then went in my car in the direction of the Porte Saint-Martin, with die intention - you perceive that I do not conceal it - of going to the Club of Masks. When I reached the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Denis, I changed my mind. That must have been ... well, in the vicinity of eleven forty-five, I judge. So I went to the night club called "The Grey Goose", where I sat down to drink with two girls. You, monsieur, entered there not many minutes afterwards, and I dare say you saw me. Certainly I saw you. I trust that accounts for my movements. Now - when was the murder committed?'