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.
'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
'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.. . .
Then I became aware of old Augustin. His grey flannel nightshirt stretched almost to his feet and gave him an absurd appearance. On top of a long, scrawny neck his head was bent forward; the fan of white whiskers wagged, and the red eyes kept blinking and blinking with an expression of solicitude. Tiny and bobbing he flopped across the room in a pair of leather slippers much too large. In his hands he had a black dusty shawl.
'Put this round your shoulders, Marie,' he urged, in his piping voice. 'You'll catch cold.'
She seemed on the point of laughing. But he was very serious. He arranged the ugly thing on her shoulders with a nicety, and her amusement died. 'Is - is it all right, papa ?' she asked gently. 'You know now.'
He gulped. Then he turned his old eyes on us with some savagery.
'Why, of course, Marie. Anything you do - is all right. I'll protect you. You trust - your old daddy, Marie.'
Patting her shoulder, he continued to defy us with his eyes.
'I will, papa. Hadn't you better go to bed?'
'You're always trying to send me to bed,
Very slowly Bencolin removed his cloak. He put hat and stick on the table, drew out a chair, and sat down, his fingers tapping his temple. Something in the look he directed at Augustin attracted my attention....
'Monsieur’ Bencolin said, 'you are very fond of your daughter, are you not?'
He spoke idly. But Mile Augustin reached up and grasped the old man's hand with abruptness, as though she were thrusting herself before him. It was she who said:
'What do you mean ?'
'Why, certainly he's right!' piped the old man, tightening his thin chest. 'Don't press my hand, Marie. It's swollen. I--'
'And no matter what she might have done, you would always shield her, wouldn't you?' the detective continued, still idly.
'Yes, naturally! Why do you ask?'
Bencolin's eyes seemed to be looking inward. 'The standards of the world,' he said, 'should be at least understandable. I don't know. They are altogether mad, sometimes. ‘ wonder how I should feel. . .'
His voice trailed off, rather puzzled, and then he passed a hand across his forehead. In a steady, rather vicious voice Marie interposed:
'I don't know what this means, monsieur. But it would strike me that you had business of more import than sitting here talking about the 'standards of the world'. Your business is to arrest a murderer.'
'That's just it,' he agreed, nodding in a preoccupied way. 'My business is - to arrest a murderer.'
He spoke almost sadly. The ticking of the tin clock seemed to have slowed down. Bencolin examined the toe of his shoe, moving it about on the carpet. He observed :
'We know the first part of the story. We know that Odette Duchene was enticed here, and we know by whom; we know that she fell from a window, and then was stabbed by Galant. . . . But our real, terrifying killer? Mademoiselle, who stabbed Claudine Martel and Galant?'
'I don't know! That is your affair, not mine. I have told Monsieur Marie why I think it was a woman.' 'And the motive ?'
The girl made an impatient gesture. 'Isn't that clear enough? Don't you agree that it was vengeance?'
'It was vengeance,' said Bencolin. 'But a very extraordinary sort of vengeance. I don't know whether any of you could understand, or even whether ‘ understand. It's an odd crime. You explain the theft of the key by saying that a woman - who was avenging the death of Mademoiselle Duchene by killing Claudine Martel - used it to enter the club. H'm.
There was a knock at the door. It had an almost portentous effect.
'Come in!' said the detective. 'Ah ... good evening, Gap-tain! You know all the people here, I think?'
Chaumont, very straight but somewhat pale, entered the room. He bowed to the others, cast a startled look at the bandages round my head, and then turned towards Bencolin with an exclamation on his lips... .
'I took the liberty,' said the detective, 'of summoning Monsieur Chaumont here after I heard from you, Jeff. I thought he would be interested.'
'I - I hope I don't intrude?' Chaumont asked. 'You sounded excited over the telephone. What - what has happened?'
'Sit down, my friend. We have discovered a number of things.' Still he did not look at the young man, but kept his eyes on his shoe. His voice was very quiet. 'For example, your fiancee, Mademoiselle Duchene, met her death at the direct instigation of Claudine Martel, and of Galant also. Please don't get excited, now. . ..'
After a long pause Chaumont said: 'I - I'm not excited. I don't know what I am.... Will you explain?'
