The Waxworks Murder

In the heavy unnatural silence, Marie Augustin's voice boomed.

'The knife is gone,' she said.

Yes. there was his bluish hand clutching at a chest thick with blood, but no knife protruded from it. My companion's breath whistled through her nostrils. We did not think; we knew that we were very close to murder which was not done in wax. The weird, yellowish light seemed to grow even more dim. ... I ducked under the iron railings and went up among the figures of the tableau, and she followed me ....

The boards in the flooring of that mimic-room creaked under my feet. A little shiver seemed to run through the figures there; I noticed that the serving-woman's foot was almost out of the cloth slipper she wore. By passing inside that railing, you actually seemed to step into the past. The waxworks was blotted out. We were in a dirty brown-painted room high up in old Paris of the Revolution. There was a map hanging disarranged on the wall. Through the window, past the brick wall where dead vines hung, I thought I could see the roofs of the Boulevard Saint-Germain. We, like the figures, were simply frozen after the horror of a murder committed here. I turned, and the serving-woman leered at me, the soldier's eyes were fixed on Marie Augustin.

All of a sudden Marie screamed. ... There was a creak, and one of the window-panes swung open. A face was pushed through, looking at us.

Framed in the window, it showed huge white eyeballs and irises pushed up under the upper lids. Its mouth hung open in a sort of hideous grin. Then the mouth was obscured by a gush of blood. It gurgled, its head twitched sideways, and I saw that there was a knife projecting from the neck. It was the face of Etienne Galant.

He uttered a sort of whimpering moan. He plucked once at the knife in his throat, and then pitched forward over the sill into the room.

The Killer of the Waxworks

I stop here, momentarily, in the writing. Even the tracing down of that scene on paper brings it back so vividly that it shakes my nerves and I feel only the exhaustion I felt then. As the climax of all that night's events, I think that it might have broken steadier nerves than mine. Ever since I had entered the club at eleven-thirty, the terrific pace had steadily mounted until almost anybody, I believe, would have been at the breaking-point. For weeks afterwards, Galant's face rode my nightmares, as I saw it in that single awful instant before he crashed through the window at our feet. A leaf, brushing my window at the dead of night, or even the sudden creak of a casement, would bring it back with such clearness that I shouted for lights....

So I hope I shall not be accused of weakness if I say that I remember nothing very clearly for half an hour. Later, Marie Augustin told me that everything was very quiet and orderly. She says that she shrieked and ran, falling over the iron railings; that I caught her and carried her upstairs, quietly; and that we went in to telephone Bencolin. Our talk was to discuss, with the utmost seriousness, what a bad bump on the head you could get if you tumbled on that railing and hit the stone floor.. . .

But I don't remember that. The next thing which comes back with any clearness is the frowsy room with the horsehair furniture, and the shaded lamp on the table. I was sitting in a rocking-chair, drinking something, and across from me stood Bencolin. In another chair Marie sat with her hands over her eyes. Apparently I must have told the whole story, rather clearly, to Bencolin, for I was just describing Galant when memory returned. The room seemed to be full of people. Inspector Durrand was there, and half a dozen gendarmes, and old Augustin in a wool nightshirt.

Inspector Durrand was looking somewhat pale. When I had finished, there was a long silence.

'And the murderer - got Galant,' he said, slowly.

Again I found myself talking, in a coherent and even normal way. 'Yes. It simplifies things, doesn't it? But how he got down there I don't know. The last time I saw him was up in his room, when he set his thugs on me. Maybe an appointment...'

Durrand hesitated, gnawing at his under lip. Then he came forward, put out his hand, and said, gruffly: 'Young man .. . shake hands, will you?'

'Yes,' said Bencolin. 'It wasn't bad, Jeff. And that knife .. . messieurs, we were all fools. We have Mademoiselle Augustin to thank for showing us.'

Leaning on his stick, he looked at her. Her face was pinched as she lifted it, but she met his gaze mockingly. The flame-coloured gown was disarranged.

'I owed it to you, monsieur, from last night,' she said, coolly. 'And I think you will have to accept my analysis of the crime, after all.'

Bencolin frowned. 'I am not sure that I can go all the way with you, mademoiselle. We shall see. In the meantime —'

'Have you looked at the body?' I demanded. 'Was he stabbed with the knife from the wax figure?'

'Yes. And the murderer took no trouble to hide finger-prints. The case is complete, Jeff. Thanks to you and mademoiselle, we now know everything, including the details of Mademoiselle Duchene's death.' He stared sombrely at the lamp. 'Hic jacet Etienne Galant! He will never settle his debt with me now.'

'How the devil did he get behind that window? That's what I can't understand.'

'Why, it seems fairly clear. You know that enclosed stair, between the walls, which goes down from the cubbyhole behind the various tableaux from the Gallery of Horrors?'

'Yes. You mean the place where you go to fix the lights ?'

He nodded. 'The murderer stabbed Galant either in that cubbyhole or close to it. Galant must have started to run; he tripped and fell down the stairs, and then he must have crawled behind the tableaux, trying to find a way out. He was just at the end of his rope when he found that window in the Marat group. And he died before we got here.'

'The - the same person who killed Claudine Martel?'

'Undoubtedly. And now . . . Durrand!'

'Yes, monsieur?'

'Take four of your men and get into the club. Smash the door, if necessary. And if they feel like putting up a fight —'

A tight little smile went over the inspector's face. He squared his shoulders and pulled his hat farther down. In a pleased tone he asked, 'What then?'

'Try the tear gas first. If they still feel nasty, use your guns. But I don't think they will. Don't put anybody under arrest. Find out when and why Galant went out to-night. Search the house. If Mademoiselle Prevost is still there, bring her here.'

'May I request,' said Marie Augustin still coolly, 'that you do this, if possible, without alarming the guests?'

'I am afraid, mademoiselle, that a certain amount of alarm is inevitable.' Bencolin smiled. 'However, it will probably be best to dismiss all the guests before getting down to business, Durrand. All servants are to be held. Under cover of the exit, you ought to be able to find Mademoiselle Prevost. She may still be in room eighteen. That's all. Try and be quick about it.'

Durrand saluted and beckoned to four of his gendarmes. One of the others he stationed in the vestibule, and sent the sixth out to the street. Then there was a silence. I settled back in the chair, nerves twitching, but blissfully at peace. Anything now, I thought (oh, very wrongly!), must come in the nature of an anti-climax. There was pleasure in everything: in the ticking of a tin clock, in the coal fire burning beneath an old black-marble fireplace, in the shaded lamp and the worn tablecloth. Sipping hot coffee, I glanced at my companions. Bencolin, gaunt in his black cloak and soft dark hat, poked moodily at the rug with his stick. Marie Augustin's shoulders gleamed in the lamp-light; her big eyes were fixed on a sewing-basket with a sort of cynical pitying look. You couldn't feel anything now. I couldn't, at least. There was a sort of numbness of shock which prevented thoughts, or emotions of any kind. We were spent. There was only the fire snapping, and the friendly tick of the clock.. . .