The Waxworks Murder

'Eh, weil! And, knowing we were looking for one of them, she might - I say she might - pass a warning, unobtrusively, to all members who might have gone through last night. How many times must I tell you, Jeff, that our salvation rests on having everybody believe, the police included, that this crime is a mere wanton robbery or rape? Don't you remember? - I fostered this idea in Mademoiselle Augustin's mind by saying, carelessly, that Mademoiselle Martel had probably never been in the museum in her life, she breathed more easily afterwards.... In God's name, consider that in those club members we are dealing with some of the greatest names in France! We don't want scandal. We can't 'sweat' the truth out of people, as your American forthrightness might like. .. . And here is another point. I am convinced that in some fashion Mademoiselle Augustin plays an important part in this affair. As yet I don't see how. And yet - there are hidden fires there, I am willing to swear! Somehow I think we shall find her bulking large in our thoughts before the case is finished, even though she sits placidly selling tickets. If her father knew .. . '

He was relighting the cigar, which had several times gone out that afternoon; now his hand jerked in mid-air and stopped. It stayed motionless until the flame grew large and toppled. But he did not notice. His eyes had taken on a frozen, startled stare.

In a whisper, as though to test incredible words, he repeated: 'Selling tickets. ... If her father ...'

His lips moved soundlessly. With a spasmodic motion he rose to his feet, rumpling his hair, staring ahead.

'What's the matter? What - - ?' I demanded, and paused as he made a fierce gesture. But still he did not see me. He took a few steps up and down, in and out of the shadows. Once lie let out an incredulous laugh, but he checked himself. I heard him mutter, 'Alibi ,.. that's the alibi,' and again; 'I wonder who the jeweller is? We've got to find the jeweller. 'Look here!'

'Ah, yes! But,' he argued, turning and addressing me with an appearance of easy good sense, 'if you had one, it would be inevitable. You have got to consider the wall. What else could you use. that would do it?'

'How about bromo-seltzer?' I suggested. ' ' 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.' Blast you!’

I sat down sullenly. His black mood was gone. He rubbed his hands together jubilantly. Then he picked up his glass and held it high.

'Observe a ceremony,' he urged, 'and join me. I drink to the most sportsman-like killer I have ever met. I drink to the only murderer in my whole experience who ever deliberately walked up and presented me with clues.'

How I Ventured into the Club of Masks

The Boulevard de Clichy, Montmartre.

Lights spangled in broken reflections on wet pavements. A whir and honk of taxis, and the murmur of a crowd which slides past with a kind of irregular shuffling. Orchestras blare out against radios. Saucers jar and clink on marble-topped tables, in cafes whose windows are dirty, and their clientele dirtier still; but the grimy windows are dazzling with lights. Floors smell of sawdust, there are many mirrors, the beer is watered, and whiskers flourish. Out of the din, hawkers cry silk neckties at five francs, under wild gas-flares. Visiting young ladies in white wraps and pearls step carefully over the swift water of gutters. Street-walkers, graven of face, with motionless black eyes, sit before glasses of coffee, and seem to be pondering. Forlornly, a consumptive hand-organ gurgles tinkling music. Pedlars, hoarse from talking, will exhibit cardboard thingummies which crow like a rooster when you pull the string, or paper skeletons which dance the can-can when you put a match behind them. Electric signs, red and yellow, flash away with their monotonous gaiety; and the scarlet wheel of the Moulin Rouge revolves on the night sky.

The Boulevard de Clichy, Montmartre. Pivot and pulse of night life, centre of all the tiny streets on which famous night clubs cling to the hill. Rue Pigalle, rue Fontaine, rue Blanche, rue de Clichy, all revolve on a glowing hub, and startled visitors are tilted into them down cobble-stoned ways. Your brain whirls with the bang of jazz. You are drunk, or you mean to get drunk. You have a woman, or you will have one shortly. Certainly unthinking people will tell you that Paris at night has lost its lure. In Berlin, in Rome, in New York (they will say), great, shining temples of hilarity have made Paris haunts seem cheap and dingy; and this they insist on as though they were pointing out the supremacy of the electric refrigerator over a cold well-spring, and it amounts to the same thing. As though efficiency were the object in drinking, or making love or humanly acting the fool. God save you, merry gentlemen! - if this is your object, you will never enjoy the grinning, slipshod way in which Paris does things. This childish mystery, this roar, this damp smell of fresh trees and old sawdust, this do-as-you-please easiness, this splattering of coloured lights, will never turn your head; but memories will be lost to your old age.

I looked soberly on the Boulevard de Clichy that night. And yet it had got into my blood with a reckless beat. The feel of the silver key in the pocket of my white waistcoat, and the mask tucked under the waistcoat also, brought into it a cold tingle of adventure.

At the last moment Bencolin's plans had been altered. He had got from the first commissioner the blue-print (they must be on file for every place of the sort) showing the room arrangement in the Club of Masks. It had only one entrance. Its rooms, without outside windows except for a few blind ones, were ranged round a quadrangle forming an open court. In the centre of the quadrangle, like a separate house, rose an immense structure whose domed roof was of glass. This was the great promenade hall, connected with the main body by two passages - one at the front, going to the lounge, and one at the rear, connecting with the manager's office.

It will be observed that all the private rooms on the first floor open, by a single door and window, on the narrow court where the great hall rises. Also, that these rooms are reached by four doors, one at each corner of the great hall - so that the possessors of these rooms may go to them without returning to the lounge. However, those having rooms on the two floors above must reach them by a staircase in the lounge, which is indicated in the plan by a black square beside the bar. Now a look at the plan of the floor above this will show that room 18, where Galant was to meet Gina Prevost, is directly above the one numbered 2 in the drawing; and Robiquet's room 19, above the one numbered 3.

Originally it had been Bencolin's idea to plant a dictograph in room 18. But the plan alone, to say nothing of what information we had been able to receive, would make this attempt too dangerous. Wires would have to be run from the window up over the roof. Considering that the club attendants would be doubly on guard, that there were no outside windows, and that any suspicious movement in the court could not fail to be observed, this design had to be abandoned. Bencolin fumed. He had not suspected such enormous obstacles, and it was too late now to undermine the club personnel.

In the end it had been determined that I should go, and that I should in some fashion contrive to be hidden in room 18 when the two arrived. It was a ticklish job, for the whole place was unknown territory. If I were caught, it would be like being caught inside a well. I could not in any fashion communicate with the outside. Nor could I be armed. Due to the temperamental qualities of jealous wives of husbands who might, being masked, find entrance, we understood that guests were given a polite scrutiny by a number of suave bruisers in evening clothes at the door.

Had I reflected, I should have known myself for a damned fool. But the prospect was too alluring. Besides, it was too early for that thick, half-pleasant hammering to begin in the chest at the approach of danger. The clocks had hardly struck ten when I sauntered along the Boulevard de Clichy towards the Moulin Rouge, Mile Prevost's act, we had ascertained, went on at eleven o'clock, and lasted until at least eleven-fifteen; considering encores, it would likely mean five minutes more. Afterwards she would have to change her clothes before departing for the club. Therefore, if I went to the Moulin Rouge, I should be able to hear at least a few minutes of her turn and leave in plenty of time to anticipate them in number 18. On her tapped telephone wires we had heard that she would appear on the usual bill; a slip in time was impossible.

So I went up the red-carpeted stairs of the Moulin Rouge under brilliant lights; I bought my ticket, surrendered coat and top hat to the vestiaire, and wandered towards the blare of jazz.