I whistled. 'You mean,' I said, 'that when old Augustin locked up the museum at eleven-thirty, he locked the murderer in?'
'Yes. Locked him in - in the dark. Now, clearly, anybody who wanted to get out when Augustin closed up, could have got out; it was no accident. The killer waited there deliberately, knowing that Mademoiselle Martel would enter the passage. It did not matter which way she came - museum or street door - he would have her. And he could hide himself very nicely in that cubbyhole behind the dummy wall where the satyr stands.'
As he paused to light a cigar, eagerly, his hands trembling as he saw the recital unfold, my first ominous thought came back.
'Bencolin,' I said, 'might it necessarily have been somebody from outside who was locked in the museum?'
'What do you mean?' The match flame lit briefly the gleam of his eyes. He was touchy when you questioned any point of his reconstruction, and he spoke irritably,
'The Augustin woman was alone in the museum. There is that queer affair of her turning on the lights on the staircase — you remember? She said she thought somebody was moving about in the museum. ... By the way,' I said, remembering suddenly, 'how the devil did you know she had ? You asked her about it, and she admitted it, but there was no indication. . . . '
'Oh, yes, there was!' he corrected, recovering a little of his good humour. 'Jeff, precisely what are you trying to tell me? That Marie Augustin committed the murder?'
'Well ... no, not exactly. There isn't the shadow of a motive. And I can't see why she would have stabbed the girl and then taken the trouble to lug the body in and dump it right in her own museum, where it pointed directly to her. But her presence alone there - and the lights — '
He gestured with the red end of his cigar. I could sense his satirical grin.
"You are insistent on those lights. Let me explain actually what happened,' suggested Bencolin. He leaned forward again, his voice becoming grave. 'First, we have Mademoiselle Martel in the passage. Second, we have the murderer in the cubbyhole. Third, we have Mademoiselle Prevost waiting outside the museum.... What has happened in the meantime? The Augustin woman is, as you say, alone in their living-quarters. Imagine it! She glances out of the window giving on to the street. In the light of the street lamp she sees - as the policeman saw - the face of Gina Prevost and she sees Gina Prevost pacing up and down nervously. Now, whatever her faults, Mademoiselle Augustin is a conscientious young lady; she earns her money from whoever pays it. And she knows what the other wants. To refuse entrance may mean the loss of a lucrative position. So she switches on the lights .. . the central ones, you recall, and those on the staircase which leads to the door into the passage ... so that the visitor's way may be illuminated. Then she unbolts the big front entrance of the museum.
'And Mademoiselle Prevost is gone! It is nearly twenty minutes to twelve and she has decided to go in by the other way. The street is deserted. Marie Augustin is puzzled, doubtful, and suddenly a bit suspicious. Was this (she might wonder) by any chance a trap of some kind ? I can see this resolute young lady peering up and down the rue Saint-Appoline, thinking. Then she bolts the door again. She walks into the museum, I fancy, as a matter of habit; she stares round in that green gloom....
'In the meantime, what has happened in the passage behind? The murderer has been waiting, since eleven-thirty, in the cubbyhole between the dummy stone wall and the museum door into the passage. At eleven-thirty the lights have been turned out in the museum. The killer is in complete darkness. Shortly afterwards he hears the door to the Boulevard de Sebastopol being unlocked. It opens, and the figure of a woman is outlined, very dimly, against the lights from the boulevard outside....'
In that high room under the rain, I saw the scene take form. Our darkened room; the dull yellow bar of light from the alcove, with Bencolin's satanic face bent forward and his hand half lifted against it; the scurry of rain on the windows, and the thin mutter of traffic - all this dissolved into the damp passageway he pictured. The boulevard door was opening, throwing a spangled glimmer like moonlight. A woman stood there, Bencolin's low voice quickened :
'It is Claudine Martel. She is coming into the passage, where she is to wait (let us say) for Gina Prevost. She is silhouetted there, but too dimly. The murderer does not know - he cannot know, since he came by way of the museum - that this is his victim, Mademoiselle Martel. He thinks this is she. But he must make sure, and it is too dark to be sure.
'He must have undergone some horrible moments of indecision while he hears her pacing up and down the passage in the dark. He hears her footsteps on stone, the click of her heels, but he cannot see her. She paces here, Mademoiselle Prevost paces outside the waxworks, and there are three hearts beating heavily; all because the museum has been closed at eleven-thirty and the lights turned out. .. . Jeff, if Claudine Martel had illuminated the passage by pressing that light-button at the entrance! If she had done that, the whole tale would have been different. But she didn't. This we must know from that vital statement of Mademoiselle Prevost, which you heard, "It was dark."
'Note now how the time must synchronize with each act, in order to get the situation as we found it, and see what inevitably followed:
'It is precisely eleven-forty. Gina Prevost determines to enter the passage by way of the boulevard door. So she leaves the front of the waxworks, and turns up into the Boulevard de Sebastopol. Immediately afterwards, Mademoiselle Augustin turns on the lights inside the museum, and, in doing so, she switches on that green light which is in the corner of the staircase beside the satyr. As I pointed out to you, with the dummy wall and the museum door into the passage both open, the green light would shine faintly into the passage beyond . . . just enough for a person to be recognized at close range.. . .
'Seeing the light, Claudine Martel whirls round. It falls green on her face as she stares, and she sees before her the silhouette of the murderer. As she retreats a step towards the brick wall, he hesitates no longer. She has not even time to scream before he pulls her against him and drives the knife into her back. . ..’
'And this, Jeff, occurs at the very instant when Gina Prevost unlocks the boulevard door with her silver key and opens it!'
He paused, his voice tense, and the cigar had gone out in his fingers. My blood pounded at the suggestion of that scene: the dull green glow, the murderer's thrust, just as the lock clicked to the turn of the silver key, and another woman's figure loomed in the passage. How the murderer's heart must have turned over in a sick wrench when he saw it!
A long silence, eerie with portent, like small fingers stroking the nerves, and the ceaseless gurgling splash of the rain . ..
'Jeff,' the detective continued, slowly, 'what went on in that passage we can only guess. Thus far we have been able to reconstruct with tolerable certainty, but the sequel — ? The light was so dim that the murderer could have recognized his victim only at close quarters. Therefore it is not reasonable to say that Gina Prevost, being some distance away, could have recognized either murderer or victim. Clearly, however, judging by her talk with Galant, she must have known at least who the victim was.
'It is inconceivable that she ran down to investigate. She must have seen the gleam of the knife, the blood, the fall of the body; she knew it was murder, she saw a killer turning his face towards her, and she would not be likely to want to see much more....
'She screamed and ran, leaving the door open. Therefore we must believe that Claudine Martel, with the dagger buried under her shoulder-blade, must have cried out some words. Gina Prevost recognized the voice and knew that it was her friend who had been stabbed. If we assume this, we must assume something more than a cry or a scream; Gina Prevost could scarcely have known, from a mere outcry, whose voice it was. Words, Jeff; several words!' He paused, and then his low voice rolled through the gloom: 'We may say then, that, with death clouding her brain, Claudine Martel cried out, echoing along those hollow walls, the name of her murderer.'