one side, lay a black domino mask. The flagstones at the foot of the wall were splattered with blood.
Bencolin drew a long breath. He turned to Augustin.
And what do you know of
'Nothing, monsieur! I have lived in my house for forty years and I have not been through this door a dozen times. The key - I do not even know where the key is!'
The detective smiled sourly. 'And yet the lock is fairly new. And the hinges of the door are oiled. Never mind !'
I followed him down to the entrance which led to the street. Yes, the stone-flagged passage had a door, too. But it was open, entirely back against the wall. Bencolin let out a low whistle.
'Here, Jeff,' he told me, softly, 'is a real lock. A spring lock, but the burglar-proof variety known as the Bulldog. It can't be picked in any way. And yet it's standing open! Damn it! - I wonder. ... ' His eyes roved. 'When this door is shut, the passage must be completely black. I wonder if there's a light? Ah, here we are!'
Indicating a small, almost invisible button, at a height of about six feet in the brick wall, he pressed it. A soft illumination from up among the wooden supports glowed through the dingy passage. He let out an exclamation, and instantly shut it off.
'What's the matter?' I demanded. 'Why not leave it on? You'll want to examine those things— '
'Be quiet!' He spoke swiftly, with a suppressed eagerness. 'Jeff, for once in my career I have got to interfere with the nice procedure of the Surete. They would want to photograph and examine ; they would comb this passage until dawn. And I must risk the consequences: I can't let them do it. ... Quick now! Close this door.' He eased it softly shut. 'Now take your handkerchief and gather up that handbag and its contents. I must make a quick examination of the rest.'
Ever since he had entered here he had been moving on tiptoe. I followed his example, while he bent at the wall just above where the floor was splashed with blood. He was muttering to himself as he began to scrape at the floor there, and brush upon an envelope something that glittered in the ray of the flashlamp. Taking care that I overlooked nothing, I gathered up the handbag and its contents. A little gold compact, a lipstick, a handkerchief, several cards, a letter, an automobile key, an address-book, and notes and change of small denomination. Then Bencolin motioned me to follow him, and we went back through the museum door, through the dummy wall, and back to the platform of the satyr.
But the detective paused at the dummy wall, squinting up at the green light in the corner. He frowned in a puzzled way, and glanced back at the two doors; his eye seemed to be measuring.
'Yes' he said, half to himself, 'yes. If this' - he tapped the section of the wall - 'were closed, and the door to the passage were open, you could see that green light under the crack. .. . ' Swinging towards Augustin, he said, sharply: 'Think well, my friend! Did you tell us that when you left the museum at eleven-thirty or thereabouts you turned off all the lights?'
'Certainly, monsieur!'
‘I swear it.'
Bencolin knocked his knuckles against his forehead. 'There's something wrong. Very wrong. Those lights - that one, anyhow - must have been on. Captain Chaumont, what time is it?'
The change was so abrupt that Chaumont, who was sitting on the stairs with his chin in his hands, looked up dazedly.
‘I beg your pardon?'
'I said, what time is it?' the detective repeated.
Puzzled, Chaumont took out a big gold watch. 'It's nearly one o'clock,' he answered, sullenly. 'Why the devil do you want to know?'
'I don't,' said Bencolin. The man struck me as being slightly out of his head, and therefore I knew he was closest on the track of a discovery. 'Now, then,' he went on, 'we will leave Mademoiselle Martel's body here for the moment. Just one more look....'
He knelt again by the body. It had ceased to terrorize; with its vacant brown eyes, its disarranged hat, and its curious posture of comfort, it seemed less realistic than the wax figures. Picking up again the thin gold chain about the girl's neck, Bencolin studied it.
'It was a sharp yank,' he said, illustrating with a tug at the chain. 'The links are small, but they're strong, and they snapped completely.'
As he rose to lead the way upstairs, Chaumont interposed :
'Are you going to leave her down here alone?' 'Why not?'
The young man passed a hand vaguely over his eyes. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I suppose it won't hurt her. But she always had so many people around her - when she was alive. And the place is so dingy! That's what I loathe about it. It's so dingy. Do you mind if I stay down here with her?'
He hesitated, while Bencolin looked at him curiously.
'You see,' Chaumont explained, holding his face very-rigid, 'I can never look at her without thinking of Odette. .. . O God !' he said, tonelessly, and then his voice broke. 'I can't help it. .. !'
'Steady!' said Bencolin. 'Come upstairs with us. You need a drink.'
We went back across the grotto, out by way of the vestibule, and into Augustin's living-quarters. The decisive creak of the rocking-chair slowed down as Mile Augustin looked at us, biting off a thread. She must have seen by the expression of our faces that we had found more than we looked for; besides, the leather handbag was rather conspicuous. Without a word Bencolin went in to the telephone, and Augustin, fumbling in one of the cupboard's of the gloomy, gimcrack room, brought out a squat bottle of brandy. His daughter's eye measured the large drink he poured out for Chaumont, and her lips tightened. But presently she continued to rock.
I felt uneasy. A clock ticked, and the chair squeaked on. I felt that I should associate that room forever with the smell of cooking potatoes. Mile Augustin asked no questions ; her whole body was stiff and her fingers moved mechanically. The forces of some outburst were trembling and gathering round the blue-striped shirt she mended. Drinking a glass of brandy with Chaumont, I saw that his eyes were fixed on her, too. ... Several times her father started to speak, but we all remained silent and uncomfortable.
Bencolin returned to the room.
'Mademoiselle,' he said, ‘I want to ask —'
'Marie!' her father broke out in an agonized voice. 'I couldn't tell you! It's murder. It's —'
'Please be quiet,' said Bencolin. ‘I want to ask mademoiselle, when you turned on the lights in the museum tonight.'
She did not spar by demanding to know what he meant. She put down the sewing with steady hands, and said: 'Shortly after papa had gone to see you.'
'What lights did you put on ?'
‘I turned on the switch which controls those in the centre of the main grotto and the staircase to the cellars.' 'Why did you do this?'
She regarded him placidly, without interest. 'It was a perfectly natural action. I thought I heard somebody moving about in the museum.'
'You are not a nervous woman, I take it?'
'No.' Not a smile, not a curl of the lip; though all nervousness, you knew, was with her a subject for contempt.
'Did you go to investigate?'
'I did. ... ' As he continued to look at her with raised eyebrows, she went on: 'I looked through the main grotto, where I thought I heard the noise, but there was nothing. I was mistaken.'
'You did not go down the staircase?'
'I did not.'
'How long did you keep the lights on ?'
'I am not sure. Five minutes, possibly more. Now will you explain to me' - she spoke out very sharply, and half raised herself in the chair - 'what is the meaning of this talk of murder?'
'A girl,' Bencolin told her slowly, 'a certain Mademoiselle Claudine Martel, has been murdered. Her body was placed in the arms of the satyr at the turn of the staircase. ... '
Old Augustin was plucking at Bencolin's sleeve. His bald head, with the two absurd tufts of white hair behind
