The Waxworks Murder

'Why - why' - his hand went automatically to his inside breast pocket - 'I may have, at that! I received it not long before I left London. A moment, please.'

He began to sort over letters which he drew from his pocket, muttering to himself. Then he frowned, put them back, and reached for his hip. He had caught the eagerness in Bencolin's tone, and his new prominence as a witness of possible importance made him even more flustered. It was just as well. On this small matter of feeling our eyes fixed on him, of searching in a hurried and fumbling fashion for the letter, rested a whole series of events by which we were to be led to the solution of the case. From his hip pocket he drew a wallet and some more papers, but his hand slipped on the back of his coat. Out fell an envelope, an empty cigarette-package, and an object which tinkled on the parquet floor and lay there gleaming in the low lights from beneath the blind. . ..

It was a small silver key.

For a moment I felt again that constriction in the chest. But Robiquet treated it casually, not even noticing us. He was reaching down to pick up the wallet, muttering an exclamation of annoyance, when Bencolin stepped swiftly past him.

'Allow me, monsieur,' he said, and picked up the key.

I also had taken a few steps forward, involuntarily. I saw the key in Bcncolin's palm as he held it out. It was rather larger than the sort which generally fits a spring lock. It bore in finely-engraved characters the name 'Paul Desmoulins Robiquet,' and the number 19.

'Thank you,' Robiquet murmured absently. 'No, I don't seem to have the letter here. I can get it if you like. ...'

He looked up, startled, his hand still oustretched to take the key. Bencolin was holding it there just beyond him.

'Forgive me for seeming to pry into your private affairs, monsieur,' the detective said, 'but I assure you I have good reason. I am much more interested in this key than in the letter. ... Where did you get it?'

Still staring at his level eyes, Robiquet became first nervous, and then very much alarmed. He swallowed hard.

'Why, it can't possibly interest you, monsieur! It - it is only something private. A club I belong to. I have not been there for a long time, but I brought that key along from London in case, during my stay, I should want to — '

'The Club of Coloured Masks, in the Boulevard de Sebastopol?'

Now Robiquet became really rattled. 'You know about it? Please, monsieur, this must not become known! If my friends - my superiors in the service - know I belonged to that club, my career — !' His voice was rising.

'My dear young man, it is quite all right with me. I shall never mention it.' Bencolin smiled genially. 'As you yourself have expressed it, 'young men ... ' ' He shrugged. I am only interested because certain other events, not concerning you in the least, have intrigued my curiosity.'

'I still think’ Robiquet returned stiffly, 'it is my own affair.'

'May I ask how long you have been a member?'

'About - about two years. I have been there only half a dozen times in my life! In my profession it is necessary to be discreet.'

'Ah, yes. And what is the significance of this number, nineteen, on the key ?'

Robiquet froze. He set his lips in a hard line. With repressed fury he said: 'Monsieur, you have admitted that the matter does not concern you. It is a secret! Private. Not for strangers. And I refuse to tell you anything. I see by your emblem that you are a Mason. Would you divulge, if I asked you the — ?'

Bencolin laughed. 'Well, well’ he interrupted, deprecatingly, 'I think even you will have to admit, monsieur, that it is hardly the same thing. Knowing the purpose of this club, I can't help being amused.' Then he grew serious. 'You are determined not to answer my questions?'

'I am afraid you must excuse me.'

A pause. 'I am sorry, my friend,' mused Bencolin, shaking his head. 'Because a murder was committed there last night. Inasmuch as we do not know the names of any of the members, and this the first key that has come into our possession, it might be necessary to take you to the prefecture of police for questioning. The newspapers ... It would be sad.'

'A - a murder!' cried Robiquet, in a kind of yelp.

'Think, my friend!' I knew that Bencolin was with difficulty repressing a grin, but he lowered his voice and made it thrilling and portentous. 'Think what a story it would be for the newspapers. Think of your career. Prominent young diplomat held for questioning in a murder committed in a house of assignation! Think of the awful consternation in London, the turmoil in Parliament, the feelings of your own family, the —'

'But I didn't do anything! I — You're not going to take me to —'

Bencolin pursed his lips dubiously. 'Well’ he admitted, 'as I told you, the whole thing need never be mentioned. I don't think you had anything to do with the murder. But you must speak out, my friend.'

'O my God ! I'll tell you anything!'

It took some time to soothe him down. After he had mopped his face several times, and made Bencolin swear the most appalling oaths that he need not appear, Bencolin repeated the question about the number 19.

'Why, you see, monsieur,' Robiquet explained, 'there arc exactly fifty men and fifty women in the club. The men all have - rooms, do you see? some large, some small, according to the dues they pay. . .. That is mine. Nobody can use another's room. ... ' His very natural curiosity bubbled up under his fear. 'Who,' he asked, hesitantly - 'who was murdered ?'

'Oh, that doesn't matter. .. . ' Bencolin stopped short. I was trying to attract his attention, for I remembered the conversation between Gina Prevost and Galant, wherein the latter had said: 'You will go to our own number eighteen.' So I said, casually:

'Eighteen is the sign of the white cat.'

This cryptic utterance seemed to puzzle Robiquet, but Bencolin nodded.

'You say you have been a member for two years. Who introduced you?'

'Introduced me? Oh ! Well, no harm in telling that. It was young Julien D'Arbalay, the one who drove his own racing-cars, you know? Great for the ladies, Julien was —'

'Was?'

'He was killed in America last year. His car overturned at Sheepshead Bay, and — '

'Damnation! No lead there.' Bencolin snapped his fingers in irritation. 'How many of your friends - in your own set, I mean - are members?'

'Monsieur, believe me, I don't know! You don't understand. People are masked! And with the mask off, I never saw a single woman I knew. But I have walked in the big hall, where it is so dark you could scarcely recognize people if they wore no masks, and I have wondered who of my friends, even of my family, might be there! I swear it gives you shivers!'

Again the detective eyed him with that cold, publicity-threatening glance, but Robiquet met his gaze steadily. He was fighting to be believed, clenching his hands with earnestness; and it seemed to me, that he was telling the truth.

'You never even saw a person whose identity you suspected?'

'I have been there so few times! I have heard, though' -he looked round cautiously - 'that there is a sort of inner circle where the members are well known to one another, and that there is a woman who makes a regular business of getting new members. But I don't know who she is.'

Another silence, while Bencolin tapped the key against his palm.

'Imagine!' Robiquet said suddenly. 'Imagine going there masked, and meeting a girl, and - finding she was the girl you were engaged to. Oh, it's too dangerous for me! Never again! And murder. .. . '

'Very well. Now, monsieur, I will tell you what the price of my silence to the newspapers is to be. You shall lend me this key'

'Keep it! Murder!'

' — for a few days. Then I shall return it. I suppose the news of your return to France will be among the — er — social notes of the papers?'

'Why, I suppose so. But why?'