The Waxworks Murder

'You've tested it out?'

'Naturally. It's just as he says; my best agent, Francoise Dillsart - you remember him in the Saligny case? - has all the testimony. The car-starter at the Moulin Rouge summoned the limousine at eleven-thirty precisely. He remembers, because Galant looked at his watch before getting in, and then towards the illuminated clock across the street; the car-starter automatically followed his glance.'

'Doesn't that in itself seem suspicious?'

'Not at all. Had he been trying to form an alibi, he would definitely have called the starter's attention to it; he could hardly have risked the psychological chance that the man would notice —'

'Still,' I said, 'a subtle man - -'

Bencolin twirled his stick, staring down the dim cloister. 'Turn right, Jeff. We'll go out on the other side; Madame Duchene, Odette's mother, fives on the Boulevard des Invalides. ... H'm. Subtle or not, there's the clock. The traffic in Montmartre is always congested at that hour. It would easily have taken him between ten and fifteen minutes -even longer than he said - to get from the Moulin Rouge to the night club. Under those circumstances it doesn't seem humanly possible for him to have committed the murder. And yet I am willing to swear he came into 'The Grey Goose' for the definite purpose of establishing an alibi! Unless —’

He stopped short. Then he smote his fist into his palm. 'What a dunce! Tiens! what a dunce, Jeff! That's it, of course.'

'Oh, yes,' I said, wearily, for I had known this habit before. 'I won't feed your vanity by asking you what .., But here's something. Last night, when you were talking to Galant, I thought you were tipping your hand entirely and telling him too much. Maybe you had a purpose. But, anyway, what you didn't tell him was the very reason why we connected him with Claudine Martel. I mean his name written on a piece of paper in her handbag. When he denied having known her, you could have smashed him with that.'

He looked at me with raised eyebrows. 'You are very naif indeed, Jeff, if you fancy that. Good God! Haven't you had enough police experience to know that people in real life do not scream and faint, as they do in the theatre, when they are faced with a piece of damaging evidence? Besides, that piece of paper may not mean anything.'

'Rot!'

'All the same, it was not in Mademoiselle Mart el's handwriting. I thought, when I first looked at it, that people do not themselves write down the full name, full address, and telephone number of a person they know very well. Had she been a friend of his, she would probably have scribbled, 'Etienne tel. Elysee 11-73.' As it was - well, I compared the handwriting with the names written in her address-book. It was not the same.'

'Then who — ?'

'It was in the handwriting of Mademoiselle Gina Prevost, who calls herself Estelle. ... Listen, Jeff. We seem to be manoeuvring this lady into a very bad position before we have even seen her. She went out early this morning. Pregel was on the watch, and immediately paid a little informal visit to her rooms. We had previously ascertained, at the Moulin Rouge, that she did not put on her act last night. She telephoned the manager that evening that she would be unable to go on, and she left her apartment, the concierge says, about twenty minutes past eleven....'

'Which would allow her time to reach the front entrance of the waxworks, by, say, twenty-five minutes to twelve. If she is the woman the policeman saw hanging about there—'

We had come out on the vast sweep of lawn which runs up to the front of Bonaparte's tomb. The gold dome was dull under a mottled sky. Bencolin stopped to light a cigar. Then he said:

'She was the woman. We have shown photographs to the policeman, and he identifies her. Oh, this morning has not been wasted ! - But let me tell you the rest. Pregel, as I told you, went to her rooms. He found specimens of handwriting. He also found a silver key and a scarlet mask.'

I whistled. 'Then - the scarlet mask, you said, indicates one with an accepted lover at the club?'

'Yes.'

'Galant's frequent visits to the Moulin Rouge ... and he took her home last night; she was waiting in the car. . . . Bencolin, when did she get into that car? Have you questioned the chauffeur?'

'She was not in the car when it left the Moulin Rouge, anyhow. No. I have not questioned the chauffeur, nor have I let Mademoiselle Prevost know we are even aware of her existence.'

I stared at him as we went down the driveway.

'For the moment, Jeff,' he said, 'we must let Galant think we know nothing of his connexion with her, or her connexion with the club. If you will be patient, you will see why. Her telephone wires have been tapped, for a purpose you will learn also. And for the greater part of the day I have seen to it that she will be out of Galant's reach. I think we shall find her at the home of Madame Duchene, where we are going now.'

We said no more while we went out through the gates, round to the left, and up the Boulevard des Invalides. Mmc Duchene, I knew, was a widow, who before the death of her husband had been conspicuous in the sedate rooms of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. She lived in one of those dingy-looking houses of grey stone whose dinner- tables are served with the deftest cooking and the oldest port. A man could turn to the right here at the rue de Varenne and wind his way through the gloomy streets of the Faubourg, without ever suspecting the vistas of gardens that lie behind, or the old jewel-boxes shut up in cracked dark walls.

The door was opened by a young man who stood very stiff and nervous, appraising us. At first I took him for an Englishman; his hair was black, thick, and neatly trimmed; his face was very ruddy, with a long nose and thin lips, and his eyes pale blue. The impression was heightened by the black double-breasted suit, cut thin at the waist and full at the trousers, and the handkerchief in his sleeve. But his carriage was too unnatural; he seemed always to be watching himself out of the corner of his eye, and to refrain from making gestures. Consequently, in those few minutes of introduction he had rather the look of a mechanical toy whose clockwork is not properly functioning. He said:

'Ah, yes. You are from the police. Please come in.’

He had greeted us with a somewhat patronizing look before he recognized Bencolin. Now he became almost effusive. He had a trick of moving backwards, as though he were manoeuvring not to hit any chairs in the way.

'You are related to Madame Duchene?' the detective asked.

'No. Oh, no,’ said the other, deprecatingly. He smiled. 'Permit me. My name is Paul Robiquet. I am an attache of the French embassy in London, but just now                'A wave of his hand, which he checked instantly. 'They sent for me, and I was permitted to come. I am a very old friend. I grew up with Mademoiselle Odette. Now I fear the arrangements would be too much for Madame Duchene. The funeral, you see? Please come this way.'

The hall was almost dark. Portieres were almost drawn over a door at the right, but I could smell the thick odour of flowers, and a chill went through me. It is more difficult to overcome this childish fear of death when a human being lies placidly in a new and shining coffin than even when that human being is first struck down in blood. The last is merely horrifying or pitiful, but the first has that ordered and grizzly practicality which says: 'You will not see this person ever more.' I had never seen Odette Duchene, in life or death. But I could visualize her lying there, because I remembered the smile on that misty face in the photograph, and the clear, impish eyes. Every dust-mote in the old hail seemed to be impregnated with that sickening heaviness of flowers, to catch the throat.

'Yes,' Bencolin was saying conversation all)', as we went into a drawing-room on the left, 'I came here early last evening to inform Madame Duchene of the - the tragedy. The only other person I remember seeing was Captain Chaumont. Is he here now, by the way?'

'Chaumont?' the other repeated. 'No. Not at present. He was here earlier this morning, but he had to go. Won't you sit down?'

This room, too, had its blinds drawn, and no fire burnt below the great white-marble mantelpiece. But it was a room of mellowness and grace, where people had lived graceful lives. The old blue walls, the gilt-framed paintings, the soft chairs companionably worn. Here, through many years, wit had waited on the coffee, and death could not make it ugly. Above the mantelpiece there was a large portrait of Odette as a girl in her early teens, chin in her hands, looking out. The great dark eyes, the wistful eagerness of her mouth; illumined the lonely room; and when I caught again the thick sweetness of flowers I felt a lump in my throat.

Bencolin did not sit down. ‘I came to see Madame Duchene,' he said, in a low voice. 'She is - well ?'

'She takes it hard. You can understand,' said Robiquet, clearing his throat. He was trying to keep his diplomatic calm. 'The shock. It was horrible! Monsieur, have you - do you know who did this? I have known her all