The Waxworks Murder

- see - a wax face, and glass eyes. So I went up and asked my daughter, who was on duty at the door, whether she had sold a ticket to anybody answering the description of Madame Louchard. She had not. I knew it.'

'What did you do then?'

'I went to my rooms and drank some brandy. I am subject to chills. I did not leave them until after closing- time....'

'You were not, then, taking tickets that day?'

'There were so few people, monsieur!' die old man responded, snuffling. He went on in a dull voice : 'This is the first time I have mentioned the matter. And you tell me I am mad. Perhaps. I don't know.'

He put liis head down in his hands.

After a time Bencolin rose, putting on a soft dark hat which shaded his narrow, inscrutable eyes. The furrows were deep from his nostrils down past his bearded mouth. He said:

'Let us start for the museum.'

We guided Augustin, who seemed half blind, out again into die din of the cafe, where the tango music burst forth again with an almost unnerving shock. My mind went back to that first man whom Bencolin had pointed out here, the man with the crooked nose and the queer eyes. He sat in the same corner, a cigarette glowing between his fingers; but he sat with the rigidity and glassy stare of a drunken man. His companions had deserted him. He contemplated a large pile of saucers on the table, and he smiled.

When we mounted the stairs to the street the garishness of the square was somewhat dimmed. The great stone arch of the Porte Saint-Martin rose up black against the stars; a wind tore at the tattered brown raiment of trees, and pushed dead leaves along the pavement with a scratching sound as of small nervous feet. A few cafe windows were alight, against which you could see the shadows of waiters stacking chairs. Two policemen, in gloomy conference on the corner, saluted Bencolin as we crossed the Boulevard Saint-Denis and turned down the Boulevard de Sebastopol to the right. We saw nobody. But I had a feeling that we were watched from doorways, that people were pressing back against the walls, and that behind the tiny chinks of light from closed shutters a subdued and stealthy activity paused, momentarily, as we went by.

The rue Saint-Appoline is a short and narrow street, its blinds drawn furtively. A noisy bar and dance-hall is at the corner, with shadows whisking past its murky curtains; but beyond it no gleam showed save a lighted red numeral, 25, on the left. Directly opposite this we stopped before a high doorway witii twisted stone pillars and doors bound in iron. A grimy sign, gilt lettering almost illegible, read :

 'Musee Augustin. Collection of Wonders. Founded by J. Augustin, 1862. Open 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. - 8 p.m. to 12 p.m.'

In response to Augustin's ring the doors were opened with a clanking of bolts. We stood in a small vestibule, apparently open to the public during the day. It was illuminated by a number of dusty electric bulbs, set into the ceiling to form the letter A.

On the walls more gilt lettering testified to the extraordinary quality of the horrors to be found within and to the educational value of seeing the Spanish Inquisition practising torture, the Christian martyrs thrown to the lions, and a number of celebrated people stabbed, shot, or strangled. The naivete of these announcements did not lessen their allure. The man must be dead and buriable who does not respond to a healthy curiosity about things morbid. Of all our company, I noticed, the sober and commonsense Chaumont seemed to look at these announcements with the most appreciative glance. His dark eyes took in every word when he thought we were not watching him.

But I was looking at the girl who had let us in. This must be Augustin's daughter, but she did not resemble her father in the least. Her brown hair, which she wore in a long bob, was pulled behind her ears; she had heavy eyebrows, a straight nose, and brown-black eyes of such an electric, probing quality of watchfulness that they seemed to start from her head. She looked at her father as though she were surprised he had not been run down and hurt by a car in the street.

'Ah, papa!' she said, in a quick voice. 'These are the police, eh? Well, we have closed up and lost business for you, messieurs.' She frowned on us. 'Now I hope you will tell us what you want. I hope you have not listened to papa's nonsense ?'

'Now, my dear, new!' Augustin protested soothingly. 'You will please go in and put all the lights on in the museum —'

She interrupted in a brusque voice: 'No, papa. You do that, I want to talk to them.' Then she folded her arms, looking at him steadily until he nodded, smiled in a foolish way, and went to open the glass doors at the back. Then she went on: 'Step this way, if you please, messieurs. Papa will call you.'

She led us through a door at the right of the ticket-booth, communicating with living-quarters. It was a sitting-room, dingily lighted, running chiefly to lace, tassels, gimcrack ornaments, and an odour of boiled potatoes. Then she took up her position behind a table, still with folded arms.

'He is much of a child’ she explained, nodding towards the museum. 'Speak to me.'

Bencolin told her the facts briefly. He did not mention what Augustin had told us; he spoke in an almost careless manner, conveying that neither the girl nor her father could have had anything to do with the disappearance. But, studying Mlle Augustin, I realized that this was the very thing which made her suspicious. She regarded Bencolin's heavy-lidded eyes, wandering about the room absently, with a fixed look which became somewhat glassy. I thought that her breathing grew a trifle quicker.

'Did my father - comment on this?' she demanded, when he had finished.

'Only to say,' Bencolin answered, 'that he did not see her leave.'

'That is correct.' The fingers of the girl's folded arms tightened round her biceps. 'But I did.' 'You saw her leave?' 'Yes.'

Again I saw that play of muscles along Chaumont's thin jaws. He said: 'Mademoiselle, I dislike to contradict a woman, but you are mistaken. I was outside the whole time.'

She looked at Chaumont as though she were noticing him for the first time. She looked him up and down, slowly, but his eyes did not move.

'Ah! And how long did you remain, monsieur?'

'Until at least fifteen minutes after closing-time.'

'Ah!' the girl repeated. 'That accounts for it, then. She stayed to chat with me on her way out. I let her out after the doors were closed.'

Chaumont clenched his hands in the air, as though he were faced with a glass wall behind which this woman, unassailable, stared back.

'Well, in that case, our difficulties are solved,' murmured Bencolin, smiling. 'You chatted with her for fifteen minutes, mademoiselle?'

'Yes.'

'Of course. There is just one point we of the police are not certain of,' Bencolin said, wrinkling up his forehead. 'We believe some clothes are missing. How was she dressed when you spoke to her?'

A hesitation. ‘I did not notice,' Mile Augustin replied quietly.

'Well, then,' cried Chaumont, squaring himself, 'tell us what she looked like! Can you do that?' 'An ordinary type. It would fit many.' 'Light or dark?'

Another hesitation. 'Dark,' she said, rapidly. 'Brown eyes. Large mouth. Small figure.'

'Mademoiselle Duchene was dark. But she was fairly tall, and she had blue eyes. God in heaven!' snapped Chaumont, clenching his hands again. 'Why won't you tell the truth?'

'I have told the truth, I may have been mistaken. Monsieur must realize that many people go through here in a day, and I had no special reason to remember this one. I must have been confused. My statement remains : I let her out of here and I have not seen her since.'

Old Augustin came in at diat moment. He saw the frozen tension in his daughter's face, and spoke hurriedly:

'I have put the lights on, messieurs. If you want to make extensive examinations, you must use lamps; the place is never bright. But proceed, I have nothing to hide.'

Bencolin halted in an irresolute manner as he was turning towards the door. At that moment Augustin's