Bencolin turned sharply. 'Leading where?'
'Why - why, to a sort of covered passage going to the Boulevard de Sevastopol. But I never open the door to that passage. It is always iocked.'
Slowly the beam moved from the foot of the wooden door to the base of the statue. It was starred in a crooked trail with splashes of blood. Stepping carefully to avoid them, Bencolin approached the wall and pushed it. A section of the dummy stonework swung inwards. I was close beliind him, and I saw that it concealed a stuffy cubbyhole, with a flight of stairs going down towards the Chamber of Horrors, and, parallel with the dummy woodwork, another heavy door. On my sleeve I felt Augustin's trembling fingers while Bencolin examined with his light the lock of this outer door.
'A Yale lock,' he said, 'and the latch isn't caught. This door has been used to-night, anyhow.'
'You mean it's open ?' Augustin cried.
'Stand back!' Bencolin said irritably. 'There may be footprints in this dust.' He whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket, twisted it round his fingers, and turned the knob of the outer door.
We were in a low stone passage, still parallel with the back of the museum. It was apparently a sort of alleyway between this house and the one next door; some forgotten builder had roofed it over with tin and wooden supports, so that it was not more than seven or eight feet high. Of the house next door we could see only a blank brick wall, and, far down to the left, a heavy door without a knob. The left-hand end of the passage terminated also in a brick wall. But towards the right of the dark tunnel we could see a little light filtering in from the street; we could hear a swish of tyres and a dim honking of traffic.
In the middle of the damp flagstones, directly in the path of Bencolin's light, lay a woman's white washleather handbag, its contents scattered. I remember how the figured black design on that bag stood out against the white, and the silver catch glimmered. Over against the brick wall opposite, its elastic band torn from 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 this?'
'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!'
'All of them? You are sure, now?'
‘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.