The Waxworks Murder

'Between eleven-forty and eleven forty-five, exactly.'

All Galant's wrath seemed to evaporate. His tensity relaxed and he looked past Bencolin's shoulder to smooth his hair by his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. Then he shrugged.

'I don't know how you can be so sure. But it helps me. I think the car-starter at the Moulin Rouge will tell you that it was shortly after eleven-thirty when I left. There is, I recall, an illuminated clock in a shop almost immediately across the street. So then, allowing for a ten-minute drive -it is some little distance - the parking of the car, and my arrival at "The Grey Goose" about eleven forty-five ... is it conceivable that I could have killed Mademoiselle Martel, carried her body into the waxworks, and returned to the night club, without any blood on me, at that time? Of course, you can question my chauffeur. But I don't suppose you will believe him.'

'I thank you,' said Bencolin, smoothly, 'for your story. It was not necessary. You have not been accused, or even -so far as I am concerned - suspected.'

'You admit, then, the impossibility of my guilt?'

'Oh, no.'

Galant's lips pressed together in an unpleasant fashion. He thrust his head forward. 'Frankly, why are you here?'

'Why, merely to tell you that you need fear no ugly publicity for your club. A friendly gesture, you see.'

'Now please listen to me. I am a quiet man.' Galant's slight gesture indicated the bleak room. 'I have only hobbies. My books. My music' - his eye travelled to the great harp in the corner - 'and my little pet, Mariette here. .. . But, my dear fellow, if any police spies are discovered in that club you speak of —'

He allowed his voice to trail away and he smiled. 'So good-evening, messieurs. My house has been honoured by your visit.'

We left him standing motionless in the firelight, the white cat beside him. He was fingering his nose musingly as the door closed. The servant let us out into the damp-smelling garden, which was as a well under the cold starlight. When the outer gates had closed behind us, Chaumont seized the detective's arm.

'You told me to keep quiet,' he said heavily, 'and I did. Now I want to know. Odette! Docs this mean that Odette was going - there? Don't stand there like a dummy; tell me! Why, that club, it's only a kind of glorified — '

'Yes.'

The light of a street lamp fell wanly through the trees on Chaumont's face. He did not speak for a long time.

'Well,' he muttered at length, squinting up at the light -'well, anyway, we - we can keep it from her mother.'

It was a sort of eager catching at consolation. Bencolin studied him in the dim light. He put his hand firmly on Chaumont's shoulder.

'You deserve to know the truth. Your Odette was - well, she was entirely too naive, like yourself. Not the army, not anything else, will ever teach you a thing about life. The fact is your Odette was probably enticed there as a joke. Monsieur Galant is fond of jokes like that. . . . Damn you, be still!' His fingers dug into the young man's shoulder and he yanked Chaumont round to face him. 'No, my friend. You are not going back to see Galant. I will attend to that.'

There was a tense silence in the rustling street while Chaumont writhed in the detective's grip.

'Had she wanted to go there,' Bencolin asserted, still calmly, 'she would in all likelihood have come out alive. You don't understand Monsieur Galant's sense of humour.'

'You mean, then,' I said, 'that this Galant is responsible for these - enticements and murders.'

Slowly releasing his grip, Bencolin turned; he looked suddenly bewildered and despondent.

'That's die rub, Jeff. I don't believe he is. Such a course is entirely consistent with him, but - there are too many things against it. The crimes lack smoothness; they are too clumsy; they are not like our friend's technique and they point too directly to him. Besides ... oh, I could name a dozen reasons from the evidence to-night! Wait. We are going to see what he did before he came home.'

He rapped the ferrule of his stick sharply against the pavement. Down the Avenue Montaigne a figure detached itself from the shadows of the trees and sauntered in our direction. Nodding to us to follow, Bencolin walked to meet him.

'To-night,' he explained, 'when I was fairly certain that the waxworks and the club were related to the murder of Mademoiselle Duchene - before even we found Mademoiselle Martel's body - I made a phone call, you may remember. I had seen Monsieur Galant in the night club, and I thought his presence was too .. . well, fortuitous. It is not a usual haunt of his, and he is not generally seen, this fastidious scholar, pretending drunkenness and fondling street-walkers anywhere. So I telephoned from the waxworks for a man to shadow him, provided he was still at "The Grey Goose." Here is the result.'

We had halted in the deep shadow of a tree which retained much of its foliage. The red end of a cigarette pulsed there; then it was tossed away in a glowing arc as a man stepped forward.

'In short, it looked too much as though Monsieur Galant were preparing an alibi for something, before I had the vaguest idea what that something was,' said Bencolin. 'Well, Pregel?'

'I found him at the night club when I arrived,' answered a voice. The faint glow from the street lamps shone on a starched shirt-front, and the voice was commanding; for the Surete does not take chances of having its agents recognized as agents. 'That was at twelve-twenty precisely. He waited fifteen minutes longer, and left. I had thought at first he was drunk; that was a pretence. He left "The Grey Goose" and walked round the corner. His car, a Hispano limousine numbered 2X-1470, was parked two streets away. The chauffeur was waiting and I thought there was a woman in the rear seat. At first I could not be sure. He entered the limousine. I took a taxi and followed. ... '

'Yes?'

'They drove to Number 28, rue Pigalle, Montmartre, a small apartment house. The street was full of people and I got a good look at the limousine's occupants as they left it. There was a woman with him, a very good-looking blonde who wore a fur piece and a brown hat.'

'The lady again,' Bencolin sighed. 'What then?'

'I was almost positive I recognized her, but when they had gone upstairs I showed my credentials to the concierge and asked who the woman was. It is the new singer at the Moulin Rouge - she is supposed to be an American - who goes under the name of Estelle.'

'It may explain why Monsieur Galant is so well known at the Moulin Rouge. H'm, yes. Go on.'

'He stayed upstairs about an hour. Then he came down, entered the limousine, and was driven directly to a garage farther up this street. He walked down here and entered his house. ... ' The voice grew embarrassed; it left its monotonous tone and became hesitant. 'I - er - it happens that I am a great admirer of - the lady's singing. I- I have a magazine photograph from Paris Soir here, if you wish to verify what I say.'