A Nest of Spies
by Pierre Souvestre · English · Gutenberg #29029 · 605,364 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Nest of Spies
Author: Pierre Souvestre
Marcel Allain
Release date: June 3, 2009 [eBook #29029]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29029
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NEST OF SPIES ***
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Suzanne Shell, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE FANTÔMAS DETECTIVE NOVELS
A NEST OF
SPIES
BY
PIERRE SOUVESTRE
AND
MARCEL ALLAIN
AUTHORS OF
"FANTÔMAS," "THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE,"
"MESSENGERS OF EVIL," ETC.
NEW YORK
BRENTANO'S
1917
Copyright, 1917, by Brentano's
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SUDDEN DEATH 1
II. DOCUMENT NO. SIX 13
III. BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE 26
IV. A CORDIAL RECEPTION 35
V. THEY ARE NOT AGREED 43
VI. CORPORAL VINSON 51
VII. THE SECOND BUREAU 65
VIII. A SINGER OF THE HALLS 77
IX. WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE 88
X. AUNT PALMYRA 96
XI. THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTÔMAS 104
XII. A TRICK ACCORDING TO FANDOR 115
XIII. JUVE'S STRATAGEM 122
XIV. BEFORE A TOMB 130
XV. THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP 138
XVI. AT THE ELYSÉE BALL 149
XVII. IN THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ENEMY 158
XVIII. IN THE NAME OF THE LAW! 162
XIX. THE MYSTERIOUS ABBÉ 171
XX. MAN OR WOMAN 180
XXI. A CORDIAL UNDERSTANDING 187
XXII. HAVE THEY BOLTED? 195
XXIII. LONDON AND PARIS 204
XXIV. AN APPETISER AT ROBERT'S BAR 212
XXV. THE ARREST 218
XXVI. WILHELMINES'S SECRET 225
XXVII. THE TWO VINSONS 232
XXVIII. AT "THE CRYING CALF" 240
XXIX. "I AM TROKOFF" 246
XXX. APPALLING ACCUSATIONS 260
XXXI. A CARAVAN DRAMA 271
XXXII. FREE AND PRISONER 281
XXXIII. RECONCILIATION 292
XXXIV. A FANTÔMAS TRICK 298
XXXV. AT THE COUNCIL OF WAR 309
XXXVI. AMBASSADOR! 320
* * * * *
A NEST OF SPIES
I
SUDDEN DEATH
She sought in vain!
The young woman, who was finishing her toilette, lost patience. With a
look of annoyance she half turned round, crying, "Well, Captain, it is
easy to see that you are not accustomed to women's ways!"
This pretty girl's lover, a man about forty, with an energetic
countenance, and a broad forehead adorned with sparse locks, was
smoking a Turkish cigarette, taking his ease on a divan at the far end
of the room.
He jumped up as if moved by a spring.
For some time the captain had followed with his eyes the gestures of
his graceful mistress; like a good and attentive lover he guessed what
she required. He rushed into the adjoining dressing-room and returned
with a little onyx cup in which was a complete assortment of pins.
"There, my pretty Bobinette!" he cried, coming up to the young woman.
"This will put me into your good graces again."
She thanked him with a smile; took the needed pins from the cup, and
quietly finished dressing.
Bobinette was a red-haired beauty.
The thick braids of her abundant tresses, with their natural waves and
curls, fell to where the lines of neck and shoulders meet, their tawny
hues enhancing the milky whiteness of her plump flesh. This young
creature was of the true Rubens type.
It was half past three in the afternoon of a dull November day. A kind
of twilight was darkening the ground floor flat in the quiet rue de
Lille, where the two lovers were together.
For some months now Captain Brocq had been on intimate terms with this
intoxicating young person, who answered to the nickname "Bobinette."
Her features, though irregular, were pleasing. Sprung from the people,
Bobinette had tried to remedy this by becoming a past mistress of
postures, of attitudes. Like others of her kind, from her very
childhood she had learned to adapt herself to whatever company she was
in, picking up almost intuitively those shades of taste, of tact,
which can transform the most unconsidered daughter of the people into
the most fastidious of Parisiennes.
It was the contrary as regards Captain Brocq, an artillery
staff-officer and attached to the Ministry of War. Notwithstanding his
intellectual capacities and his professional worth, so highly valued
by his chiefs, he always remained the man of humble origin, somewhat
gauche, timid, who was evidently better fitted to be at the head of a
battery on the bastions of a fortress than frequenting the gossipy
clubs of officials or society drawing-rooms. Brocq, who had passed out
of the Military Academy exceedingly well, had been given an important
post recently: a confidential appointment at the Ministry of War.
During the first years of his military life Brocq had been entirely
preoccupied by his profession. Of a truth, as pretty Bobinette had
just told him, he was not at all "a man accustomed to women." This was
why, when verging on forty, his heart, as young, as fresh as a
student's, had suddenly caught fire when he happened to meet
Bobinette.
Who was this woman?
Brocq could not place her with that mathematical exactitude dear to
his scientific mind. She puzzled this honest man, who fell deeper and
deeper in love with her. Whenever they met, and their first tender
effusions were over, the lovers exchanged ideas, and always on the
same subject.
* * * * *
Bobinette had completed her toilet. In leisurely fashion she came over
to her lover and seated herself beside him. Brocq, who was thinking
deeply, remained silent.
"What are you thinking about?" Bobinette suddenly asked, in a chaffing
tone. "Have you solved a new problem, or are you thinking of a dark
woman?"
Brocq smiled. Amorously he put his arm round the girl's supple
figure; drawing her to him, and burying his lips in her abundant and
perfumed hair, he murmured tenderly:
"I am thinking of the future, of our future."
"Good gracious me!" replied Bobinette, withdrawing herself from his
arms. "You are not going to bore me again with your ideas of
marriage?"
The captain made a movement of protestation; but Bobinette went on:
"No, no, old dear, no chains for me! No gag, no muzzle for me! We are
both independent, let us remain so! Free! Long live liberty!"
Brocq now got in a word: "In the first place," he said, "you know
quite well you would do a very stupid thing if you married me; I have
not the usual dowry, far from it! Then I am not of your world. Can you
see me in a drawing-room, playing my tricks with the colonel's wife,
the general's wife, with the whole blessed lot of them? Zut! I am just
what I am, just Bobinette."...
Brocq now got in a word: "In the first place," he observed, "as
regards the dowry, you know very well, my pretty Bobinette, that I
have already taken steps about it, on your behalf--now don't protest!
It gives me pleasure to make your future safe, as far as I can: a
modest competence. On the other hand, I am not a society man, and if
you wish it."...
The captain drew nearer his mistress and brushed her lips with his
moustache.
Bobinette drew back, got up from the divan, stood in front of her
lover, erect, arms crossed, her look sullen: "No, I tell you, I wish
to be free, my own mistress."...
Brocq grew impatient: "But in spite of your ideas of independence, my
poor darling, you are always in a state of servitude! Why, only to
give one example, for the last two years you have been content to
occupy an inferior position in the house of this Bavarian diplomat--or
Austrian--I don't know what he is?"
"Naarboveck?" asked Bobinette, surprised. "But don't imagine that I am
the Baron de Naarboveck's servant: still, if it were otherwise, I
can't play proud. I can't bring out the title-deeds and pedigree of
my ancestors for inspection!"
"It's not a question of that," observed Brocq.
Bobinette had launched forth. She continued:
"But that is the question. You are always imagining that I have things
given me to do which lower me. I have told you a hundred times how it
was I went to the Naarboveck's. One day the poor man came to the
hospital: he was almost beside himself. His daughter Wilhelmine, who
is barely nineteen, had just been taken ill--it was typhoid fever--he
was obliged to go away and leave her--not a soul in whose care he
could leave the child with confidence. I was recommended to
Naarboveck. I came, I nursed Wilhelmine. This went on for a month,
then for two, then three--now we are the best friends in the world.
Wilhelmine is a girl whom I love with all my heart; the baron is an
amiable man, all kindness and attention.... It is true that I am now a
kind of companion, in an 'inferior' position, as you choose to put it
in your absurdly vain and jealous way of looking at things; but, my
dear man, there are ways and ways, and I assure you I am treated as
one of the family. And, besides, you ought to consider that it was
precisely at the Naarboveck receptions we met."
With the utterance of these last words Bobinette glanced at Captain
Brocq as if she would annihilate him: the remembrance of their first
meeting seemed more odious to her than pleasing.
Brocq, whose eyes were obstinately lowered, saw nothing of this. He
suggested: "I am not the only one you have met at M. de Naarboveck's.
There is that handsome cuirassier, Henri de Loubersac."...
Bobinette crimsoned. She shrugged her shoulders. "How stupid you are!
Lieutenant Henri does not give me a thought, if he comes to the
house."...
Brocq interrupted: "Yes, I know he comes on account of the fair
Wilhelmine." His tone was conciliatory. Once more he drew Bobinette to
him; but she seemed to object more and more strongly to the captain's
caresses. Glancing at a clock on the mantelpiece she cried: "Why, it
is four o'clock! High time I should leave."
Brocq, who had followed her glance, added, suddenly serious: "My
faith! I must call at the Ministry!"
Both rose. Bobinette took up her hat and went to the looking-glass.
Brocq exchanged his jacket for a black coat. He went into his study,
separated from the other room by a heavy curtain.
"Bobinette!" he called.
That young person responded to his call, but with no show of haste.
She found the captain seated before his bureau rummaging in an immense
drawer crammed full of papers.
"You know, my little Bobinette, that I have made you my sole legatee,"
cried the captain, with an adoring look at the pretty girl who
suddenly appeared in the doorway. He continued his search among his
papers: they were in great disorder.
"I wished to show you--it's a question of spelling your name
correctly. You are called Berthe, are you not?"
The girl had come forward. She quickly caught sight of a mauve sheet
of paper on the blotting-pad. A few lines were traced on it.
"Ah! you wretch!" she cried, while she glanced through the words. She
pretended to be angry. "I've caught you! You were writing to a woman!
Ho, it starts well:
"'_My own darling adored one, how long the hours seem when I
await._'"...
Captain Brocq shouted with laughter.
"Ah, here's a joke! Why, it is you who are jealous now!"
Bobinette questioned him with a look. He explained:
"But, you great idiot, don't you understand that I was writing to you,
and that only a couple of hours ago! You know I am always afraid you
will not come to our meeting-place, and you are always late!"
Bobinette, reassured, now helped Brocq to go through his drawer
methodically.
There could be no doubt of it--the captain was a most untidy man.
Family letters, papers covered with figures, handwritten military
documents, even some bank-notes, were jumbled together in great
disorder.
Bobinette noticed her own handwriting on some sheets of paper. How
well she knew them!
She feigned anger. "It is abominable to compromise me like this!" she
cried. "See! My letters! Love letters! Intimate letters lying about
like this! No, decidedly!"...
Brocq put her right. "No, no, my pet! Your precious letters are most
carefully preserved by me--put together--see--there they are--there
are not many of them--but not one is missing!"
"You are sure of that?"
"I swear it."
Bobinette reflected. The captain, however, returned to the adjoining
room, hoping to come across the deed of gift he had set his mind on
finding. "Come with me, Bobe!" he called. He opened a little writing
desk. He thought his mistress had followed him, but she had remained
in the study.
"Bobinette!" he called again, astonished to find himself alone.
She lingered.
Brocq went back.
He collided with the girl who, with a furtive gesture, slipped
something into her muff.
"Well," said he.
"Well, what now?" she retorted.
They gazed at each other for a moment in silence.
"What were you doing?" questioned Brocq suspiciously.
"Nothing," answered Bobinette coldly.
But the captain caught hold of her hands. He was uneasy, almost angry:
"Tell me!"
The red-haired beauty jumped back with a defiant air: "Very well,
then! I have taken my letters, they belong to me! I wish to have them!
It disgusts me to think that they are left lying about your rooms. Do
you think it funny that your orderly should read them to his
country-woman? That your concierge should know all about them? I
declare men like you have not a scrap of tact, of nice feeling!"
"Bobinette!" the captain implored her.
"No, no; and again, no!" cried the girl more and more angrily. "I have
them. I keep them!"
The captain grew pale. She added, a little more gently:
"But, you great stupid, they are of no importance! I'll give them back
to you later--when you are good. You are behaving like a schoolboy!
Come, kiss me! Tell your little Bobe that you are not angry with her!
If you don't I shall cry!"
Already she was beginning to sob, and great tears were dropping.
Captain Brocq, struck dumb, gazed at her sorrowfully. And whilst he
clasped her in his arms, anxiety strained at his heart, anguish
convulsed his soul. Did she really love him, this woman with her
whimsical ways, her independent attitude, this elusive woman who never
gave herself entirely? Was he the dupe of a comedy? Did she consent to
these meetings three times a week through pity, through sympathy only,
or through habit, or, worse still, for some mercenary reason? And this
when he himself would have given up everything so that he might not
miss them! Ah, if that were the truth! The captain felt an immense
void opening in the depths of his lonely soul. He apologised in a low
voice, hurriedly, with bent head, humbly, and Bobinette listened with
curled lip and haughty air: She bore no malice, she declared. Then, a
few moments later, for she was really much upset and did not wish to
show it, she hurried away, dropping a hasty kiss on her lover's
forehead as a token of peace. How ardently he wished that this peace
might last.
"I am very much behind time," she had murmured by way of farewell.
Directly his mistress had gone, Brocq went to the window, watched her
turn the corner of the rue de Lille, enter the rue des Saints-Pères,
and go towards the quays. While he watched her he was trembling. A
roll of paper was sticking out of Bobinette's muff. Brocq knew this
paper: its appearance and colour were familiar to him. Nevertheless,
his mind was so full of his love affair that he immediately forgot
this detail. But, in a minute, the turn of events forced him to recall
it.
"In Heaven's Name!" shouted Captain Brocq, as a violent blow from his
clenched fist made the scattered papers on his bureau tremble. "By
Heaven! It is impossible!"
When he found himself alone, sadly alone in his little flat, Brocq saw
it was five o'clock, and more than time to start for the Ministry of
War. Hastily putting on overcoat and hat, he had hurried into his
study to look for the big leather portfolio he always carried when
taking his work from the office to his own home.
Owing to his special knowledge of fortress artillery Brocq had been
requested to put the finishing touches to a confidential report on the
defences of the eastern forts of Paris and the distribution of the
effective forces of the companies of mechanics in time of
mobilisation. He had searched feverishly in his drawers for this
report, which was of no great bulk. For the last ten minutes he had
anxiously searched, but in vain: he could not find a trace of it!
"It is impossible!" he cried. He swore aloud as if the better to
convince himself. "The title is in big letters, '_Confidential_,' in
red, and twice underlined. Oh, it is quite impossible that it should
pass under my eyes unperceived!"
Again the distracted man ransacked his papers and shook his portfolio.
Almost beside himself with exasperation, he cried: "My excellent
Bobinette, by her rummaging, has put the finishing touch to this
confusion. Heaven knows, it was bad enough before!"
He paused. Anguish seized him. He fell into an arm-chair, while drops
of sweat broke out on his forehead. Suddenly he had remembered the
roll of papers sticking out of Bobinette's muff. He uttered a cry: "My
God! But supposing!"... He did not put the rest of his thought into
words. For an instant he had the idea that through thoughtlessness, by
mistake, an involuntary one assuredly, his mistress had taken this
document to wrap up her letters ... without suspecting. That was it!
No doubt she had carried off with her this secret plan of
mobilisation--but if the plan got lost? If it were dropped in the
street!
Brocq cursed his untidy ways once more. He would never forgive himself
for having allowed that girl to ransack his drawers--but he must act,
and at once! He must, without fail, find that mislaid document. Of one
thing he was sure--the document was not on the premises. Brocq jumped
up. "Good-day, Captain!"
* * * * *
"Good-day, Captain!"
The man in charge at the cabstand, on the quay des Saints-Pères, at
the corner of the bridge, saluted Brocq cordially.
Brocq, ghastly pale, his face showing signs of intense anxiety,
gasping for breath, asked: "Tell me! Just now, ten, five minutes
ago--did you not see a lady--young--she had red hair--did she not pass
this way? Come now!"
The cabstand than winked. "My faith, Captain, you are just in time.
Only a moment ago a lady, such as you describe, but prettier than
that, got into a taxi; she."...
"Ah!" interrupted the captain, "do you know what address she gave?"
"Why, yes I do. I was almost touching her when she spoke to the
driver."...
"Well?"
"Faith, what she said was 'Take me to the Bois,' and the cab turned by
the Saints-Pères bridge. Probably it went by the Tuileries quay
after."
"The number? The number of this taxi?"
"Why, we will ask the policeman at the kiosque: he has certainly
entered it, as usual."
Stamping with impatience inside a landaulet whose hood he had had
lowered that he might more easily see around him, Brocq had rushed off
in pursuit of Bobinette's taxi, 249--B.Z.
Shaking from head to foot, Brocq held in a tight grip his leather
portfolio, which contained all the documents he wished to lay before the
Ministry of War, less, alas! the mislaid plan of the eastern forts. He
scrutinised the Place de la Concorde, the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. He
was asking himself why Bobinette, after telling him she must hurry
away, had driven to the Bois as if she were one of the leisured crowd?
This troubled the lover in him as well as the soldier. Why had he rushed
after his mistress in this fashion? What definite reason had he? After
all, it was exceedingly improbable, surely, that she had carried away
this document without noticing it, for it was composed of three or four
large sheets of paper!... In that case, she must have lost it before
getting into the taxi. As to supposing for an instant that she had taken
it away intentionally--Brocq would not suppose it. Why should he? There
was nothing to lead him to think.
But, all the same!...
All the same, the captain had a presentiment, a conviction, an
instinctive certainty that, at all costs he must overtake
Bobinette--he absolutely must.
Why?
Brocq could not have said why. He did not reason about it. He felt: a
feeling as indefinable as it was irresistible drove him to pursue, to
continue the chase at top speed.
Again and again he had shouted to the astonished chauffeur, who was
driving his taxi as fast as the crowded street permitted: "Get on! In
the devil's name, go faster--faster!"
Night was falling. The close of this November day was particularly
beautiful. Behind the Arc de Triomphe a broad band of red on the
horizon reflected the setting sun in its winter glory. The breeze was
wafting the last red-brown leaves from the trees, turning them over
and over before they fell on the autumnal greensward and the black
earth of the empty flower-beds.
Rows of carriages were moving towards the Étoile. As they had cleared
the Rond-Point of the Champs-Elysées Brocq uttered a cry of joy. Some
fifty yards away his keen eye had caught sight of Bobinette's taxi: he
had identified the number.
"There it is!"
He urged the chauffeur to follow it up closely, regardless of
consequences.
"A moment more and we shall have caught up the 249," said Brocq to
himself. His landaulet was gaining ground.
The crowd of vehicles, the police holding them up where the roads
intersected, impeded the advance. Brocq, wild with impatience, could
not keep still. At last they reached the Place de l'Étoile. The
carriages, conforming to rule, rounded the monument on the right,
going more and more slowly owing to the increased crush. But the
captain felt relieved; only one cab, drawn by a horse, now separated
him from Bobinette's taxi, and assuredly her vehicle and his would be
abreast, side by side at the entry to the avenue of the Bois de
Boulogne.
Brocq loved Bobinette dearly, but frankly, if for a joke or
inadvertently she had carried off the document, he would give her a
piece of his mind. He would let her know that it would not do to play
tricks with things of that sort. Nevertheless, his heart was wrung
with anxiety.
Supposing Bobinette had noticed nothing--if the document had fallen in
the street?
Suddenly the poor fellow saw Bobinette's taxi cut across the line of
carriages to the right and turn into the Avenue de la Grand-Armée.
Brocq's chauffeur did not seem to have noticed this: he continued in
the direction of the Bois de Boulogne.
"Oh, you idiot!" shouted the captain. And, in order to give his
instructions as rapidly as possible, he leaned almost entirely out of
the vehicle.
* * * * *
But a second or two had passed when the chauffeur stopped dead, that
he might see what had happened to his fare. Something must have
happened, for Brocq had abruptly stopped short in the midst of his
directions. He had collapsed on the cushions of the taxi, and remained
motionless.
Other vehicles surrounded the automobile. Some ladies passing in a
victoria noticed the captain.
"Look, my dear," exclaimed one of them, "do you see how pale that man
is? He seems to be ill!"...
At the same moment, the pedestrians were struck by the officer's
strange attitude. Brocq had suddenly subsided in a heap on the
cushion, his head had fallen to one side, his mouth was open, his eyes
were closed: he seemed to have fainted.
A crowd gathered at once.
The chauffeur got down, shook his fare by the arm, and the arm was
inert.
The crowd increased.
"A doctor!" cried a voice. "It is plain that this man is ill!"
A man stepped out from the crowd. His hair was white, he wore a
decoration ribbon, and he had descended from a private brougham. With
an air of authority he made his way through the curious onlookers, and
when a constable came forward he said: "Kindly make these people stand
away. I am Professor Barrell of the School of Medicine."
There was a murmur of respectful sympathy among the onlookers, for the
professor was famous.
This master of medicine with a sure hand had undone the collar, the
cravat of the mysterious sufferer, half opened his overcoat, put his
ear to the patient's heart, then, straightening himself, considered
the face attentively, not without a certain amount of stupefaction.
The constable made a suggestion: "Had we not better take this
individual to a chemist's?"
Professor Barrell replied in a low voice: "To a chemist's? Do so if
you wish ... but it is useless ... you would do better to go to the
police-station: this unfortunate man is dead--it is a case of sudden
death." The medical man added some technical words which this guardian
of the peace did not understand.
II
DOCUMENT NUMBER SIX
"Hullo!... Am I speaking to Headquarters of Police?"
"Yes?"
"To the sergeant?... Good!... It is the superintendent of the Wagram
Quarter who is telephoning.... They have just brought here the body of
an officer who has died suddenly, Place de l'Étoile, and I want you to
send me one of your inspectors.... This officer was the bearer of
important documents.... I must send them direct to the military
authorities.... Hullo!... Good.... You will send me someone
immediately?... An inspector will be here in ten minutes?...
Splendid!... Very good!"
The superintendent hung up the telephone receiver and turned to the
policeman, who stood motionless awaiting orders. He was visibly
embarrassed.
The police superintendent of the Wagram Quarter was a man of decisive
action. He possessed in the highest degree the quality, the most
precious of all for those of the police force, whose functions call them
to intervene continually in the most surprising adventures--presence of
mind.
A few minutes before this the taxi with its tragic burden had stopped
at his police-station, and the men on duty had carried in the body of
the unfortunate captain.
Called in all haste, the sergeant had immediately made a rapid
investigation. He examined the documents in the victim's portfolio.
"Here's a go!" he muttered--"'State of munition supplies!' 'Orders for
the eastern fortresses!' I do not want to keep such important
documents longer than I can help."
He had immediately telephoned to Headquarters. Reassured by the
sergeant's reply, the superintendent turned to the policeman.
"You have made out your report?" he asked curtly.
The honest guardian of the peace touched his cap, looked perplexed,
and scratched his head.
"Not yet, Monsieur. No time, Monsieur. But I will write it out at
once."
The superintendent smiled at his embarrassed subordinate. "Suppose we
do it together!"
"Let us see now! The deceased was a captain--isn't that so? The papers
found in his portfolio and the name written on it let us know that he
was called Brocq, and that he was attached to the Ministry. So much
for his identity. We will not trouble about his domicile, the Place
will tell us that! Now let us go into the details of the
accident--tell me, my man, exactly how his death occurred!"
Again the worthy guardian of the peace scratched his head with an
anxious look.
"I saw nothing of it, Monsieur," he replied.
"And the taxi-driver? You have his deposition?"
"He did not see anything either, Monsieur."
"Call this chauffeur."
A few minutes after, the superintendent dismissed the chauffeur. A
short interrogation revealed that the taxi-driver had not only seen
nothing, but that he could do nothing to help the enquiry.
The superintendent recalled the honest policeman.
"Come now! You are certain that the victim died immediately?"
"Well, you see, Monsieur, while I was dispersing the crowd, a doctor
came up, and it was he who told me how the dead man died!"
"This doctor did not point out to you the cause of death?"
"No, Monsieur. But he gave me his card."
The policeman drew from the pocket of his tunic a dirty note-book. He
took a card from it and handed it to his chief. "There, Monsieur!"
The magistrate looked at the name. _Professor Barrell, of the School
of Medicine_. Turning the card, he read aloud a few words in pencil:
"_Sudden death, which seems due to a phenomenon of inhibition._"...
"This professor did not explain what he meant by 'death due to
inhibition'?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Annoying!... I do not know what that means."
The superintendent was about to continue his enquiry when there was a
knock at his office door.
A policeman informed him respectfully: "There is an inspector,
Monsieur, from Headquarters detective department who asks to see you
on urgent business--he declares you have sent for him."
"Tell him to come in."
No sooner had this personage from "Headquarters detective department"
appeared in the doorway, than the superintendent rose, and advanced
with outstretched hands.
"You, Juve! I am delighted to see you! How are you?"
It was, in truth, the celebrated detective, Juve.
Juve had altered but little. He was always the same man; rather
thick-set, vigorous, astonishingly alive, agile, as youthful as ever,
in spite of his moustache turning grey, in spite of his rounded
shoulders which, at moments, seemed to bend under the weight of the
toils and fatigues of the past.
This magic name evoked memories of terrible stories, stories of
dangers encountered, endured, overcome; of brave deeds; of desperate
struggles with the worst criminals.
Juve! He was the man who, for ten years, had represented to all,
ability, audacity, limitless daring! He was the man who best knew how
to employ wiles and stratagems to secure the triumph of society in the
incessant combat it had to sustain against the innumerable soldiers of
the army of crime.
* * * * *
When the terrible Dollon affair had come to an end, Juve had been
blamed officially, and the detective could not help feeling angry and
exasperated, for, after all, if he had failed, he ought not to have
been treated as a culprit. Not a soul had had the slightest suspicion
of how the affair had ended. Not one of them knew the incredible
truth--how the marvellous, the redoubtable, the incredible Fantômas
had elected to make his escape at the very moment when Juve was
preparing to put the handcuffs on him.
And the detective, disheartened, but determined not to give up the
fight against this deep-dyed criminal whom he had been pursuing for
years, had asked for a few weeks' holiday, had lain snug, then had
returned to his post at Headquarters, had made a point of keeping in
the background, only awaiting the moment when he could resume his hunt
for the ruffian whom he looked on as a personal enemy.
Since then, nothing had happened to put him on the track of Fantômas.
No crime had been committed in circumstances which could leave him to
think that this elusive murderer was involved in it.
Our detective had begun to ask himself if, not having been fortunate
enough to arrest this king of assassins, he had not at any rate
succeeded in unmasking him, in compelling him to fly for his life, in
putting him out of power to do harm.
* * * * *
Rapidly the superintendent put Juve in possession of the incidents
which had led him to telephone to Headquarters.
"You have done well," said Juve. "Have you the portfolio of this dead
man?"
"Here it is, my friend."
Juve opened it.
"If you will allow it, Monsieur, I am going to make a complete list of
the contents. This list I shall leave with you. I shall take a copy:
that I shall deposit at the office of the Chief of Staff, obtaining a
receipt for it. This will relieve both you and myself of all further
responsibility on this head."
For some moments Juve and the superintendent occupied themselves in
going over the papers of the dead man. Suddenly the detective got up,
and, holding a paper in his hand, began walking up and down the room.
"You have read that?" he asked, turning to the superintendent.
"What is it? No."
"Read it!"
The superintendent read:
"_Inventory of the documents which were submitted to me by the Second
Bureau of the Staff Headquarters, for which I have signed a receipt,
and I have undertaken to return and deliver them up to the Second
Bureau of the Staff Headquarters, Monday, November 7th, when given a
receipt to that effect._"
"Well, what of it?"
"Well," replied Juve. "Compare the documents given on this list with
those we have found in this portfolio ... they tally."...
"Of course. That only proves, I imagine, that this officer died at the
very moment when he was on the way to his office to return the papers
entrusted to him. What do you see surprising in that?"
Juve shook his head. "I see, Monsieur, that what I feared is true:
yes, this is certainly the list of documents contained in this
portfolio, but."...
"But, one is missing!"
The two men checked the papers of Captain Brocq. Juve was right. There
was a document missing--Number Six.
"Whew!" murmured the superintendent. "How are we to know whether this
document has been dropped in the taxi, or has already been returned by
the captain, or whether."...
"Or whether it has been stolen from him," finished Juve.
The supposition which the detective had put into words was so grave,
so terrible, so weighty in its consequence that the superintendent
cried, in a shaking voice:
"Robbed! Robbed! But by whom? Where? How? On the way from the Place de
l'Étoile here? While the body was being brought to the police
station?... Juve, it's incredible!"
Juve was walking up and down, up and down. "I don't like affairs of
this sort, in which officers are involved, and most particularly
officers connected with the Second Bureau of the Military Staff: they
require the most careful handling.... You never know where they will
lead. These officers are, owing to their functions, the masters of all
the military defences of France.... Confound it!"
Juve stopped short. "You had better let me see the body of this poor
fellow."
"Certainly!"...
The superintendent led Juve towards one of the rooms, where the corpse
of Captain Brocq was: it had been laid down on the floor. Pious hands
had lighted a mortuary candle, and, in view of the position held by
the dead man, two of the police staff were keeping watch and ward
until someone came to claim the body of the deceased.
Juve examined the corpse. "A fine fellow!" he said quietly.
He turned to the superintendent.
"You told me just now that Prof. Barrell chanced to be present at the
moment of death?"
"That is so."
"What did he suppose was the cause of death?"
The superintendent smiled. "Now you have it! Possibly you can throw
light on it, my dear Juve, for I could hardly make head or tail of his
diagnostic. The professor claims that death is due to a _phenomenon of
inhibition_. What does that mean exactly?"
Juve shrugged his shoulders.
"Inhibition!... Peuh!... It is a learned word--very learned!"...
"Which means to say?"... pressed the superintendent.
"It does not mean anything."
Juve's tone was a mixture of contempt and anger. The superintendent
was staggered. Juve's anger increased.
"It does not mean anything," he repeated. "Inhibition! Inhibition! It
is the term reserved for deaths that are unexplained and inexplicable:
it is the term with which science covers herself when she does not
wish to confess her ignorance."
The magistrate was smiling now.
"So then, Juve, you conclude that Professor Barrell has declared that
this officer had died through inhibition because, in fact, he was
ignorant of the cause of death?"
"Exactly!" snapped Juve.
He was kneeling on the floor, bending over the body. Slowly, minutely,
he was examining it with his keen eyes, by the flickering light of the
mortuary candle.
He had examined successively the face of the dead man, then the arms,
the trunk, the shoulders, the whole body. He did not utter a word.
"What are you looking for in particular, Juve?"
"The cause of this _inhibition_," replied the detective, who
pronounced the word with unconcealed anger and resentment. He seemed
to harbour some subtle rancour regarding the doctor. Suddenly he got
up and, turning to the policeman, commanded:
"Undress this body!"
The superintendent interposed.
"What for?"
"It will be useful for your report."
"Come, now! In what way?"
"For that," said Juve, pointing a finger at the officer's short
coat....
"That? How that?... I don't see anything," protested the
superintendent.
Juve knelt down again, and made a sign to the superintendent to do
likewise.
"Look, Monsieur! Just bend down and look at this tiny graze on the
cloth."
"Yes!... Well?"
"Does that not tell you anything?"
"No it does not."
Juve rose and repeated his order. "Unclothe this corpse!"
Then, turning to the superintendent, he added:
"What that tells me is, that this man has been killed by a shot from a
gun or a revolver."
"Oh, come, now!"
"You will see."...
"The garment is not pierced."...
Juve began to smile.
"Monsieur," said he, "you must know that arms of high penetrating
power, firing projectiles of small diameter, grooved projectiles,
cause only the slightest graze in the materials they pass through: the
damage is almost imperceptible. Numerous experiments have demonstrated
this. You see the passage of the projectile is so rapid, its gyratory
movement so accelerated, that, in some way, the threads of the fabric
are not broken: they are only pushed aside. They come together again
after the passage of the ball, and unless a very careful examination
is made, one would never know that a projectile had perforated the
material."
The two policemen were undressing the corpse.
Scarcely had they undone the waistcoat than the shirt of the
unfortunate man was seen to have a spot of blood on it, in the region
of the heart.
"See," cried Juve. "It is just as I said: a ball of small diameter,
propelled by a formidable power of penetration, has caused immediate
death, producing a wound which has hardly bled at all, so precise and
clean has the wound been!"
Juve again bent over the corpse.
"It is plain to see that this officer's death has been caused by a
ball in the heart, right in the centre of the heart."
The superintendent now protested:
"But what you are telling us, Juve, is terrible, it is inadmissible!
How could this person have committed suicide without having been seen
in the act by someone? Without anyone finding his revolver? And that
at the very moment when he leaned out of the window of the vehicle to
give the chauffeur his instructions?"
Juve did not seem disposed to answer this. But, after remaining silent
for a minute or two, he took the superintendent by the arm in familiar
fashion, and drawing him away said: "Let us return to your office, I
have a couple of words to say to you."
When the superintendent and the detective had entered the room, when
they were alone together, when the detective had made sure that the
double door was shut tight, and that not a soul could hear them,
Juve, his hands resting on the writing-table, looked the
superintendent straight in the face. The latter, having seated himself
in his chair, waited for the detective to speak.
Juve spoke.
"We are thoroughly agreed, Monsieur, are we not, regarding the
conditions of the accident?... This officer has been shot through the
heart, when he was crossing the Place de l'Étoile in a vehicle, and at
the precise moment when he leaned over the door of that vehicle, and
this, without anyone having seen or heard what happened?"
"Yes, Juve, that is so. This suicide is incomprehensible!"
"It is not a case of suicide, Monsieur."...
"What is it, then?"
"A crime!"
"A crime!!!"
"This man has been killed by a shot from a gun, a shot fired from a
distance. No one saw the assassin do the deed: the Place de l'Étoile
was crowded with people. It was a shot fired from a distance, because
of an important point, Monsieur. The deceased was attached to the
Second Bureau of the Ministry of War. At the time of his death he was
the bearer of important documents: one of these important documents is
missing! I assure you, Monsieur, this not only determines the fact of
the crime, but furnishes us with the motive for that crime!"
The superintendent of police stared at Juve, speechless. At last he
said:
"But it is impossible! Absolutely impossible, I tell you! What you are
inventing now is impossible!... You forget that a shot from a gun, a
shot from so powerful a weapon, makes a noise. Why, deuce take it, the
detonation must be heard!"
"No, Monsieur! There are now weapons which are perfectly silent. For
example, there are guns in which liquefied carbonic acid is used,
which fires a projectile at more than 800 yards, and all that can be
heard is a sharp snap when the projectile speeds off."...
"But, look here, Juve! Such a crime as this partakes of the nature of
a romance! The criminal must have taken aim in the midst of a crowd!
Who, do you suppose, would have been mad enough to attempt it? What
scoundrel would ever have run such a risk?"
Juve, very calm, very much master of himself, was standing in front of
the superintendent. His arms were crossed: he seemed to defy him, as
though he knew beforehand that in him he was to encounter the
incredulity of the average person.
"You ask me," replied he, "what criminal could be daring enough to do
this? What criminal would have carried out such a murder successfully?
Sir, that murderer's name is synonymous with all the maddest attempts,
with every kind of atrocity, with every species of cruelty, with all
the talents!"...
"And, it is."...
Juve suddenly stopped short, as if he were afraid of the word he was
about to pronounce.
"By jove!" he declared, "if I knew the name of the guilty person, I
would go and arrest him!"...
* * * * *
While the unfortunate Captain Brocq collapsed inside his carriage,
mortally struck by the mysterious shot, pretty Bobinette, who could
have had no idea of the accident to her lover, following hard in her
wake, continued her drive. She ordered her chauffeur to stop at the
riding-alley which passes behind the Chinese Pavilion.
A lingering ray of sunshine still illuminated the thickets of the
Bois, but already those out for an airing were hastening towards the
city, when Bobinette, discharging her taxi, entered the little path
which runs beside the equestrian's track.
She seemed full of the joy of life, stepping smartly along,
appreciating the pleasure of this quick, free, independent walk. Soon,
however, her pace slackened. She spied an unoccupied seat, looked at
her watch, and sat down. She cast a sharp glance towards the far end
of the path.
"We are both up to time," she murmured, recognising a figure still
some distance away.
Bobinette drew from her muff a small roll of papers.
The advancing person was a seedy-looking individual, stooping,
seemingly bent under the weight of a bulky accordion. He looked about
sixty; his long white beard, untrimmed and badly neglected, disguised
the lower half of his face, while his luxuriant moustache, and his
long hair, arranged artist fashion, largely hid the upper part of his
countenance.
A beggar? Not at all! This personage would most certainly have spurned
such an epithet with a gesture of offended disdain. Live by charity?
Not he! Was not his accordion there to show that he possessed a
regular means of livelihood? He claimed to be a musician.
He was well known throughout one quarter of Paris, was this poor old
man who chanced to be passing along that path in the Bois de Boulogne.
He was a perfect specimen of the unsettled type of human being,
savagely enamoured of liberty, going from court to court playing with
wearied arms the ballads of the moment, indifferent to their melodies,
to their rhythms, to their beauties, to their ugliness.... No one knew
his real name. They called him _Vagualame_; for his plaintive notes
inspired sad thoughts and an indefinable trouble of the nerves in
those unlucky enough to listen to him for a time. This nickname stuck
to him.
He was quite a Parisian type, this Vagualame: one of those faces at
once odd and classic, such as one comes across in numbers on the
pavements, known to all the world, without anyone knowing exactly who
they are, how they live, where they go, or whence they come....
* * * * *
The old man had, on his side, caught sight of Bobinette. He hastened
towards her as fast as his legs permitted; and as soon as he was near
enough to speak to her without raising his voice, he questioned her:
"Well?" It was the interrogation of a master to a subordinate.
"Well?" he repeated. His tone was anxious.
Bobinette calmed the old man's apprehensions with a nod. "It's done,"
said she.
Holding out to him the roll of paper, she added: "I could only get
them at the last minute; but I've got them, and I don't fancy he
suspects anything."
As Bobinette uttered these last words, the old accordion player
chuckled sneeringly:
"So that's what you think? As a matter of fact, it is evident that he
suspects nothing now!"
The way in which the old man pronounced the word "now" puzzled the
girl.
"What do you mean?"
"Captain Brocq is dead."
"Dead!"
Although she did not love her lover much, at this startling piece of
news Bobinette had jumped up, wringing her hands in horror. She grew
strangely pale.
"Yes, dead!" replied Vagualame coldly. "Kindly sit down please! See to
it that you play your part! You are a young woman speaking to an old
beggar, and you are not to forget it."
Bobinette sat down mechanically. She questioned him, and her voice was
trembling.
"Dead? What has happened, then?"
"What has happened is that you have played the fool! Brocq saw clearly
that you had stolen the document from him."
"He saw?"...
"Yes, he saw it! I had my suspicions, fortunately!... Then this cursed
captain threw himself into a taxi and followed you.... At the moment
when your own auto turned on the Place de l'Étoile, his was going to
meet it! Brocq was already hailing you, and you would have been caught
without a doubt had I not come to the rescue."
"Great Heavens! What have you done?"
"I have just told you. Clic-clac! A bullet in his heart, and he
remains on the spot."...
Bobinette was dumbfounded. She did not speak for a minute or two. Then
she asked anxiously:
"But where were you?"
"That does not concern you!"
"What must I say, then, if, by chance, I am questioned?"
"What must you say! The truth."...
"I am to confess that I knew him?"
Vagualame tapped his foot impatiently.
"How stupid you are! There is one thing you must understand. At the
present moment it is almost certain that this good fellow's identity
has been established. The devil's in it if some policeman is not at
his domicile already and if enquiry is not being made into the life of
Captain Brocq. To learn that he is on terms of acquaintanceship with
your patron, de Naarboveck, is child's play! To prove that he has
received a visit from you to-day, to prove that you were his
mistress--or, at the very least that you had come on an errand from
Naarboveck's daughter, Wilhelmine, why anybody can discover that!
To-morrow you will read the details in all the papers, for the
reporters are going to get hold of this affair: it is inevitable!
Consequently, do you not deny anything: it would only compromise you
to no good purpose. You will say."...
Vagualame stopped short. He raised the accordion which he carried
slung over his shoulder, saying in a whisper:
"People are coming. I leave you. I will see you again, if necessary.
Do not be anxious. I take all on my own shoulders. Attention!" And
suddenly changing his tone, he began to speak in a voice calculated to
excite pity:
"Grateful thanks, kind lady! The good God will rain blessings on you
for it.... I thank you, kind lady!"
Vagualame moved off.
III
BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE
Despite the gusty wind and squalls of icy rain which deluged Paris,
despite the early morning hour, although it was one of those first
dark days of November which depress humanity, Jérôme Fandor, the
journalist, editorial contributor to the popular evening paper _La
Capitale_, was in a gay mood, and showed it by singing at the top of
his voice, at the risk of rousing the neighbourhood.
In his very comfortable little flat, rue Richer, where he had lived
for a number of years, the young journalist was coming and going
busily: cupboards, drawers, wardrobes, were opened wide, garments,
piles of linen, were spread about in all the rooms. On the dining-room
table a large travelling bag lay open: into this, with the aid of his
housekeeper, Jérôme Fandor was feverishly packing the spare things he
required, and was talking in joking fashion with his old servant,
Angélique.
Presently she asked, rather anxiously:
"Are you likely to be away a long time, sir?"
The journalist shook his head and murmured:
"I should like to be, but you don't suppose we journalists get
holidays of that sort!"
Still anxious, Angélique went on:
"Perhaps you intend to change your housekeeper when you return,
Monsieur Fandor? Nevertheless----"
"You are really mad, Angélique! Have I not told you twenty times that
I am going away for a fortnight's holiday? Never for a moment have I
thought of getting rid of you--quite the contrary! I am delighted with
the way you do your work. There now! I shall go by way of Monaco--I
promise to put five francs on the red for you!"
"On the red?" questioned old Angélique.
"Yes. It's a game. If red's the winner there will be a present for
you! Hurry off now and bring up my trousers!"
Whilst his housekeeper hastened downstairs, Fandor went to the window
and, with a questioning glance, considered the dull grey sky.
"Disgusting weather!" he murmured. "But what do I care for that? I am
going to the sun of the South--ah, to the sun!" He laughed a great
laugh of satisfaction. How he had looked forward to this holiday, how
he had longed for it!--this holiday he was going to take now, after
two-and-twenty months of uninterrupted work! During those months, in
his capacity of chief reporter to _La Capitale_, scarcely a day had
passed without his having some move to make, some strange happening to
clear up, even some criminal to pursue; for Jérôme Fandor belonged to
that species of active and restless beings who are ceaselessly at
work, ready for action, bent on doing things: an activity due partly
to temperament, partly to conscience. Added to this, his profession
interested him enormously.
At the commencement of his career--and that of journalism is a ticklish
one--he had been greatly helped by Juve, whose knowledge and advice had
been invaluable to him. Fandor had been involved--particularly during
the last few years--in the most sensational crimes, in the most
mysterious affairs, and, whether by chance or voluntarily, he had played
a real part in them. He had not been content to take up the position of
onlooker and historian only.
Fandor had made his post an important one: he had to be seriously
reckoned with. He had enemies, adversaries far from contemptible, and
time and again the journalist who, with his friend Juve, had taken
part in terrible man-hunts, had attracted towards himself venomous
hatreds, all the more disquieting in that his adversaries were of
those who keep in the shade and never come into the open for a
face-to-face tussle.
Finally, and above all, Fandor, coupled with his friend, detective
Juve, had either distinguished himself gloriously or covered himself
with ridicule, but in either case he had attracted public attention by
his epic combats with the most deadly personality of the age--the
elusive Fantômas.
But our holiday-making journalist, whistling the latest air, all the
rage, gave no thought to all that. He was reveling in the idea that a
few hours hence he would be installed in a comfortable sleeping
compartment, to awake next morning on the wonderful Côte d'Azur,
inundated with light, drenched in the perfume of tropical flowers,
bathed in the radiance of eternal summer.
Ah, then, eight hundred miles and more would separate him from the
offices of _La Capitale_, of the police stations, of wretched dens and
hovels with their pestilential smells, would separate him from this
everlasting bad weather, from the cold, the wet, which were the
ordinary concomitants of his daily existence. To the devil with all
that! No more copy to feed printer and paper with! No more people to
be interviewed! Hurrah! Here were the holidays! It was leave of
absence, and liberty.
The telephone bell rang.
Fandor hesitated a moment. Should he answer it?
According to custom, the journalist "had left" the evening before: he
could plead his leave, which was in order, and say, like Louis XIV,
"After me the deluge!"
This famous saying would have suited the moment, for it was at that
instant precisely that an inky cloud burst over Paris and emptied
torrents of water over the darkened city.
Perhaps a friend had rung him up--or it was a mistake! So arguing,
Fandor unhooked the receiver.
Having listened a moment, he instinctively adopted a more respectful
attitude, as if his interlocutor at the other end of the line could
see him.
Fandor replied in quick monosyllables, closing the conversation with
these words:
"Agreed. Presently, then chief."
As the journalist hung up the receiver his expression changed: he
frowned, and pulling at his moustache with a nervous hand, fretting
and fuming.
"Hang it! It only wanted this," he grumbled.
Fandor had been called up by M. Dupont, of _L'Aube_, the well-known
opportunist deputy, who was the manager of _La Capitale_ as well. M.
Dupont was only a nominal manager, and generally contented himself
with writing up his editorial without even taking it to the office. He
left the real management to his son-in-law, whose function was that of
editor-in-chief. Thus Fandor had been extremely astonished when his
"Head," as he was called in the editorial department, had rung him up.
M. Dupont had summoned him to the Chamber of Deputies, for three
o'clock in the afternoon: his chief wished to give him some
information for an article on a matter which interested him
particularly. Fandor was puzzled, anxious.
What could it be? The chief could not know that he was taking his
holiday.
"Bah!" said he, "Dupont evidently does not know. I will go to our
meeting-place and will explain my approaching departure to him, and
the devil's in it if he does not pass on this bit of reporting to one
of my colleagues!"
"Madame Angélique," continued Fandor in a joyous voice, turning to the
breathless old housekeeper who had just come back laden with parcels,
"Get me lunch quickly. Then you must strap up my portmanteau. This
evening I am going to make off, whatever happens!"
* * * * *
For two hours, interminable hours they seemed, Fandor had waited for
M. Dupont in the Hall des Perdus[1] of the Palais-Bourbon. The deputy
was at a sitting of the Chamber. If the ushers were to be believed,
the discussion was likely to go on interminably. Several times our
young journalist had thought he would simply make off without word
said, excusing himself on the score of a misunderstanding when eight
hundred odd miles lay between him and the directorial thunders. But he
was too scrupulous a journalist, too professionally honest to follow
the prompting of his desires.
[Footnote 1: Hall of the Wandering Footsteps.]
So, champing his bit, Fandor had stood his ground.
As he was looking at his watch for the hundred and fiftieth time, he
quickly rose and hastened towards two men who came out of a corridor:
they were M. Dupont and a personage whom Fandor recognised at once.
He bowed respectfully to them, shaking hands with the cordial M.
Dupont, who said to his companion:
"My dear Minister, let me present to you my young collaborator, Jérôme
Fandor."
"It is a name not unknown to me," replied the minister; then, having
innumerable calls on his time, he quickly disappeared.
A few minutes after, in one of the little sitting-rooms reserved for
Parliamentary Commissions, the manager of _La Capitale_ was conversing
with his chief reporter.
"It was not to present me to the minister that you sent for me, my
dear Chief--unless you intend to get me an appointment as sub-prefect,
in which case."...
"In which case?" questioned M. Dupont gently.
Fandor's reply was frank.
"In which case, even before being nominated, I should tender you my
resignation: it is not a profession which tempts me much!"
"Reassure yourself, Fandor, I have no intention whatever of sending
you to live in the provinces: but if I asked you to see me here, it
was with reference to a very delicate affair about which I mean to
give you _instructions_--I insist on this word."
"Good," thought Fandor. "It's all up with my holiday!"
He tried to ask this question before his chief went into details, but
M. Dupont interrupted him with a movement of his hand.
"You will leave for your holiday a few hours later, my dear fellow,
and you can take eight days in addition."
Fandor bowed. He could not dispute his chief's decision--and he had
gained by this arrangement.
"My dear Fandor," said his chief, coming to the main point, "we
published yesterday evening, as you, of course, know, a short
paragraph on the death of an artillery officer, Captain Brocq....
There is something mysterious about his death. Captain Brocq who,
owing to his functions, was attached to the Second Bureau of the Staff
Headquarters, that is to say, the Intelligence Department, was in
touch with different sets of people: it would be interesting to get
some information about them. I mentioned this just now to the Minister
of War, and to the Minister for Home Affairs: both are agreed, that,
without making too much noise about this incident, we should institute
enquiries, discreet, of course, but also pretty exhaustive. You are
the only man on the paper possessed of the necessary tact and ability
to carry the thing through successfully."
* * * * *
An hour later, under the pouring rain, Fandor, with turned-up
trousers, his greatcoat collar raised, was walking stoically along the
Esplanade des Invalides, which was feebly lighted by a few scarcely
visible gas-jets. He reached the other side of the Place à la rue
Fabert; looked at the number of the first house in front of him,
followed the pavement a moment, turning his back on the Seine, then
reached the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg by way of the rue de
l'Université.
Fandor repeated to himself the final words of his chief's
instructions.
"Interview Baron de Naarboveck; get into touch with a young person
called Bobinette; find out who and what are the frequenters of the
house where this well-known diplomat lives."
Our journalist was not anxious as to the result of his interview; it
was not his first experience of the kind, and this time his task was
rendered especially easy, owing to the letter of introduction which M.
Dupont had given him, in order that he might have a talk with M. de
Naarboveck, who lived in a sumptuous mansion in the rue Fabert.
Fandor did not go straight ahead to this interview: his method was not
so simple. After identifying the front of the house, wishing to know
the immediate neighbourhood thoroughly, he went all round the mass of
houses which limited the rue de l'Université; he went through the
Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg, in order to discover whether the house was
double or single, if it had one or two exits. Fandor was too much a
detective at heart to neglect the smallest detail.
His inspection was soon done. The house possessed two entrances; that
in the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg was for the use of the servants and
common folk only. The front door opened on the rue Fabert. A courtyard
at the back separated it from the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg.
The house consisted of three storeys, and a ground-floor approached by
a few steps.
Fandor returned to the Esplanade des Invalides, and walked up and down
under the trees for some time, watching the comings and goings of the
neighbourhood. At a quarter to seven he had looked at his watch, and,
not seeing any light in the first-floor rooms, the shutters of which
were not yet closed, he concluded that the inmates had probably not
come in.
Just then Fandor saw an automobile, a very elegant limousine, draw up
before M. de Naarboveck's house. A man of a certain age descended from
it, and vanished in the shadow of a doorway: the door had opened as
the carriage stopped.
"That's de Naarboveck," thought Fandor.
Then he saw the carriage turn and move away.
"The carriage goes in: the master does not go out again," deduced
Fandor.
A short time after, the chauffeur, having taken off his livery, came
out of the house and went away.
"Good," remarked Fandor. "The man I am after will not budge from the
house to-night."
The next to enter were two young women: then some twenty minutes
passed. The rooms on the first floor were lit up, one after the other.
The house was waking up. Fandor was making up his mind to ring when a
motor-car brought a fourth person to the door. It was a young man,
smart, distinguished-looking, very fair, wearing a long thin drooping
moustache: movements and appearance spoke his profession: an officer
in mufti, beyond question.
Fandor once more encircled the house; he had reached the door opening
on to the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg when he saw a confectioner's boy
slip into the house.
"M. Dupont told me de Naarboveck lived alone with his daughter,
therefore he has people dining with him this evening," reasoned the
journalist. He then decided to dine himself, and return an hour and a
half later. Naarboveck well dined and wined could give him more time,
and would be the easier to interview.
Three-quarters of an hour later Fandor left the humble eating-house,
where he had dined badly in the company of coachmen and
house-servants, but fully informed as to the private and public
existence of the person he was going to interview. He had set his host
and his table neighbours gossiping to such purpose that he could tell
at what time de Naarboveck rose in the morning, what his habits were,
if he fasted on Fridays, and what he paid for his cigars.
* * * * *
"Monsieur de Naarboveck, if you please?"
Jérôme Fandor had rung the bell of the front entrance in the rue
Fabert. It was just striking nine. A house-porter of the correct stamp
appeared.
"He lives here, Monsieur."
Fandor offered his card, and the letter of introduction from M.
Dupont.
"Please see that these are handed to Monsieur de Naarboveck, and find
out if he can receive me."
The porter, having decided that the visitor was too well dressed to be
left waiting on the steps, signed to the young man to follow him. The
porter rang, and a footman in undress livery immediately appeared, and
took card and letter from the porter.
The servant looked consideringly at Fandor's name engraved on the
card, stared at this unknown visitor, hoping he would definitely state
the purpose of his visit, but the journalist remained impassive, and
as his profession was not indicated on his card the servant had to be
satisfied with his own curiosity.
"Kindly wait here a moment," said the footman, in a fairly civil tone
of voice. "I will see if my master is at home."
Fandor remained alone in a vast hall, furnished after the Renaissance
manner. Costly tapestries covered the walls with their imposing
pictures, their sumptuously woven epics.
The footman quickly returned.
"Will Monsieur kindly follow me?"
Relieved of his overcoat, Fandor obeyed.
One side of the hall opened on a great double staircase, the white
stone of which, turned grey with the passing of time, softened by a
thick carpet and ornamented by a marvellous balustrade of delicately
wrought iron-work, a masterpiece of the XVIIth century.
The lackey opened a door which gave access to a magnificent
reception-room, sparsely furnished with pieces of the best Louis XIV
period. Mirrors reflected the canvases of famous painters, family
pictures of immense artistic value, and still more valuable as
souvenirs.
Traversing this fine apartment, they passed through other drawing
rooms furnished in perfect taste. Fandor reached the smoking-room at
last, where Empire furniture was judiciously mingled with pieces made
for comfort after the English fashion, the tawny leather of which
harmonised marvellously with the blood-red of the ancient mahogany and
with its ancient bronzes.
The lackey pointed to a chair and disappeared.
"By jove!" said Fandor, half aloud, "this fine fellow has done himself
well in the way of a dwelling-place!"
The journalist's reflections were interrupted by the entrance of an
exceedingly elegant young lady.
Fandor rose and saluted this charming apparition.
IV
A CORDIAL RECEPTION
The journalist had naturally expected to see Monsieur de Naarboveck
enter the room: in his stead came this pretty girl.
"Be seated, I beg, Monsieur," she entreated.
"She is his daughter," thought Fandor. "I am given the go-by: the
diplomatist is not going to see me! I am sorry for that, but, on the
other hand, here is this delicious creature."
"You asked to see Monsieur de Naarboveck, did you not? It is for an
interview, no doubt. Monsieur de Naarboveck makes it a point of honour
never to get himself written about in the newspapers, therefore you
must not be surprised."...
The charming girl paused.
Fandor bowed and smiled. He said to himself:
"I shall have to listen for five minutes to this delightful person
assuring me that her father does not wish to talk; after that he will
come himself, and will tell me all I want to know."...
Thus he listened with divided attention to the pretty creature's
words. Then he interjected:
"Monsieur, your father."...
His companion smiled.
"Excuse me!" she said at once. "You have made a mistake: I am not
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, as you seem to imagine. I am
merely her companion: I dare add, a friend of the house. They call me
Mademoiselle Berthe."...
"Bobinette!" cried Fandor, almost in spite of himself. He immediately
regretted this too familiar interjection; but that young person did
not take offence.
"They certainly do call me that--my intimates, at least," she added
with a touch of malice.
Fandor made his apology in words at once playful and correct. He must
do all in his power to make himself agreeable, fascinating, that he
might get into the good graces of this girl; for she was the very
person whom it behooved him to interrogate regarding the mysterious
adventure, the outcome of which had been the death of Captain Brocq.
Bobinette had answered Fandor's polite remarks by protesting that she
was not in the least offended at his familiar mode of address.
"Alas, Monsieur," she had declared, in a tone slightly sad, "I am too
much afraid that my name, the pet name my friends use, will become
very quickly known to the public; for, I suppose, what you have come
to see M. Naarboveck about is to ask him for information regarding
this sad affair we have all been thinking so much about."
"Now we have come to it!" thought Fandor.
He was going to take the lead in this conversation, but the young
woman did not give him time.
She continued in a rapid tone, on one note, almost as if she had
repeated a lesson learned by heart.
"Baron de Naarboveck, Monsieur, cannot tell you anything that you do
not already know, except--and there is no secret about it--that
Captain Brocq used to come here pretty regularly. He has dined with
the Baron frequently, and they have worked at several things
together.... Several of his friends, officers, have been received here
as well: M. de Naarboveck is very fond of company."...
"And then he has a daughter, has he not?" interrupted Fandor.
"Mademoiselle Wilhelmine, yes."
Fandor nearly added:
"A daughter to get married."
It seemed clear to him, that in spite of her timid and reserved airs,
this red-haired beauty seemed to like the idea of playing a part in
the drama.
"Mademoiselle," questioned Fandor, "it has been reported that
yesterday afternoon you had occasion to meet Captain Brocq, some hours
before his sad end?"
The young woman stared fixedly at the journalist, as if to read his
thoughts, as if to divine whether or not he knew that not only had she
met Captain Brocq, but had spent some time with him alone.
Fandor did know it, but he remained impenetrable.
Bobinette, very much mistress of herself, said quite simply:
"It is a fact Monsieur, that I did see Captain Brocq yesterday. I had
to give him a message."
"You will think me very inquisitive," continued Fandor, who pretended
not to look at the young woman, in order to put her more at her ease,
but who, in reality, did not lose a single change of expression on her
pretty face, for he could watch its reflection in a mirror. "You will
think me very inquisitive, but could you tell me the nature of ...
this communication?"
Bobinette replied, quite naturally:
"To be sure I can, Monsieur. Baron de Naarboveck is giving an
entertainment here shortly, and the captain was going to take part in
it. As he was very much of an artist we counted on his doing some
menus in colour for us: I simply went to see him with a message from
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine."...
The conversation stopped short.
Fandor had turned around quickly. Behind him--doubtless he had been
there for some moments--a man was standing. Fandor had not heard him
enter the room. He was a man of a certain age. His moustache was quite
white: he wore the whiskers and imperial of 1850.
Fandor recognised Baron Naarboveck. He was going to apologise for not
having noticed his entrance, but de Naarboveck smiled at the
journalist with apparent cordiality.
"Pardon me, Monsieur Fandor, for not having received you myself, but I
had a guest: moreover, Mademoiselle Berthe must have told you what my
views are regarding interviews."...
Fandor made a slight gesture. The baron continued:
"Oh, they are definite, unalterable! But that will not prevent you
from taking a cup of coffee with us, I feel sure. I have the highest
esteem for Monsieur Dupont, and the terms in which he has recommended
you to me are such that, from now on, I have not the slightest
hesitation in treating you as one of ourselves, as a friend."
Monsieur Naarboveck put his hand familiarly on the young journalist's
shoulder, and led him into the next room.
It was a library: a very lofty room. It was soberly and elegantly
furnished. Before a great chimney-piece of wood, two young people were
standing, and were chatting very much at their ease.
They paused when Fandor entered.
Close behind followed Mademoiselle Berthe.
Fandor bowed to the two young people.
Naarboveck made the introductions:
"Monsieur Jérôme Fandor--Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, my
daughter--Monsieur de Loubersac, lieutenant of cuirassiers."
Silence reigned after these formal introductions. If Fandor was in
certain measure satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken, he
was really bored by this involuntary intrusion into a family gathering
which mattered little to him. He felt he had been caught. How the
devil was he going to escape from this wasp's nest? His eye fell on a
timepiece. Seeing the hour, he thought:
"Had it not been for this Brocq fellow, and that fool of a Dupont, I
should now be in the train asleep, and rolling along towards
Dijon!"...
Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, with the ease of a well-bred woman,
offered the journalist a cup of boiling hot coffee.
Mademoiselle Berthe suggested sugar.
Monsieur de Naarboveck, as if he had suddenly remembered something,
said to him:
"But you bear a name which recalls many things, Monsieur Jérôme
Fandor! It was you, of course, famous journalist that you are, who,
some time ago, was in constant pursuit of a mysterious ruffian whom
they called Fantômas?"
Fandor, a little embarrassed, smiled. It seemed to him something quite
abnormal to hear Fantômas mentioned in this gathering, so simple, so
natural, so commonplace.
Surely, this criminal, his adventures, the police, and even reporting,
must partake of the fantastic, the imaginary--it must all be Greek to
such conventional people.
Nevertheless, as Monsieur de Naarboveck spoke, Mademoiselle Berthe
drew close to the journalist and gazed at him with curiosity.
"But tell me, Monsieur, may I ask you a question? Perhaps it is my
turn to be inquisitive--but then, so were you just now!"
Fandor laughed. Decidedly this young and pretty person was charming.
"I am certainly bound to reply to you as you wish, Mademoiselle!"
Nodding with a mischievous look, and casting a glance at the Baron
asking his approval--he signified his consent by a nod--she demanded
with an innocently curious air:
"Do tell me, Monsieur, who this Fantômas is?"
Fandor stood speechless.
Ah, this question, which this young woman had asked so naturally, as
if it referred to the most simple thing in the world, how often had he
asked himself that same question? During how many sleepless nights had
his mind not been full of it? And he had never been able to find a
satisfactory answer to "Who is Fantômas?"
Fandor had been asking this question for years. He had, after a
fashion, vowed his existence to the search for this mysterious
individual. How often, and often, in the course of his investigation,
in the midst of his struggles with criminals during his long talks and
conferences with Juve, had he not thought that he had run the bandit
to earth, identified him, was going to drag his personality out into
the broad light of day--and then, suddenly, Fantômas had disappeared.
Fantômas had made a mock of him, of Juve, of the police, of everybody!
For weeks, for months, all trace of him was lost completely; then one
fine day he would produce a drama, it might be a big drama, which took
public opinion captive, it might be a drama in appearance
insignificant, and then each one saw and followed traces which were
more or less normal and ordinarily probable. Fandor and Juve, Fandor
alone, or Juve isolated, following the indications which only their
perspicacity enabled them to discover, still and always felt the
presence, the trace of this monster, this being so enigmatical, so
indefinable, who was terrorising humanity.
Then implacable and dangerous pursuits, redoubtable struggles, were
the order of their days and nights.
Juve, Fandor, the representatives of justice, one and all, united to
reduce the circle in which this ruffian revolved, and at the moment
they were about to catch him, he would fade away, leaving them as
their only spoil, the temporary personality with which he had clothed
himself, and under which he had momentarily deigned to make himself
known.
Now behold, here was this little red-haired creature, Bobinette, who
asked for the solution of this formidable, incomprehensible,
unprecedented thing, wanted it straight away.
"Who is Fantômas?"
Fandor's attitude, his expression showed how surprised he was at such
a question.
M. de Naarboveck emphasised and justified the journalist's
astonishment.
Then, in a rather dry, hard voice, Monsieur de Loubersac gave his
opinion:
"My dear Baron, don't you think that for several years past we have
been made sufficient fools of with all these Fantômas tales? For my
part, I don't believe a word of them! Such a powerful criminal has no
chance nowadays, that is to say, if he exists. One must see life in
its true proportions and recognise that it is very commonplace."...
"But, Monsieur," interrupted Mademoiselle Berthe, who, covered with
blushes, scarcely dared raise her eyes to the handsome lieutenant,
"but, Monsieur, for all that, Fantômas has been much talked about!"
The young officer looked the red-haired beauty up and down, bestowing
on her but a cursory glance. Fandor noticed that Bobinette was greatly
troubled by it. Following this little by-play, he immediately got a
very clear impression that if the lieutenant did not consider the
pretty girl worthy of much consideration, she, on her side, seemed
very much influenced by all that this elegant and handsome young
officer said or did.
Fandor had noticed, too, while the talk went on, that Mademoiselle de
Naarboveck was deeply moved, and looked sorrowful. She was a graceful
girl, in all the freshness and brilliancy of her twenty years, with
large eyes, soft and luminous. Her natural disposition was evidently a
bright and gay one, but this evening sadness overshadowed her, and to
such a point that, in spite of her efforts to be lively and pleasant,
she could not hide her sad preoccupation.
M. de Naarboveck, who had been watching Fandor closely, said to him,
in a low voice:
"Wilhelmine has been very much upset by this terrible accident which
has overtaken our friend, Captain Brocq, and we."...
Just then, the harsh sarcastic tones of de Loubersac broke in afresh:
"In conclusion," exclaimed the lieutenant, "I maintain that Fantômas
is an invention, a more or less original one, I am ready to admit, but
an invention of not the least practical interest. Just an invention of
the detectives, this Fantômas; or, it may be of the journalists only,
who have made the gaping public swallow this hocus-pocus pill--this
enormous pill!" The lieutenant stared at Fandor defiantly. "And let me
add, I speak from knowledge, for, up to a certain point, I know all
these individuals!"
Fandor was not in the least impressed by the lieutenant's aggressive
declarations. He regarded him calmly--there was a touch of irony in
his gaze: at the same time, he did not clearly understand de
Loubersac's last phrase.
The excellent Monsieur de Naarboveck murmured in his ear:
"De Loubersac, you know, has to do with the Second Bureau at the
Ministry of War: the statistics department."...
* * * * *
It was only at half past eleven that Fandor had been able to tear
himself away from the de Naarboveck house.
Fandor wandered on the boulevards a long time before he returned to
his flat.
On his table, near his portmanteau ready strapped for departure, he
found the Railway Guide lying open at the page showing the lines from
Paris to the Côte d'Azur! He would not look at the seductive
time-table. He rushed to his portmanteau, undid the straps in furious
haste, dragged out his clothes, which he flung to the four quarters of
the room. For the moment he was in a towering rage.
"And now, confound it! That Brocq affair is not clear! It's no use my
trying to persuade myself to the contrary! There is some mystery about
it! Those officers! This diplomat! And then this questionable person,
neither servant, nor lady accustomed to good society, who has to me
all the appearance of playing not merely a double rôle, but at the
least a triple, perhaps a quadruple!... Good old Fandor, there's
nothing for it, if you want to go South, but to see friend Juve and
get some light on it all."
Having come to this conclusion, Fandor went to bed. He could not
sleep. There was one word which ceaselessly formed itself in luminous
letters before his mind's eye--a word he dare not articulate. It was a
synthetic word which brought into a collected whole facts and ideas;
it was the summing up of his presentiments, of his conclusions, of his
fears; the word which said all without defining anything, but
permitted everything to be inferred: that word was--_Spying_!
V
THEY ARE NOT AGREED
As one who had the privilege of free entry to the house, Fandor opened
the front door of Juve's flat with the latchkey he possessed as a
special favour, traversed the semi-darkness of the corridor and went
towards his friend's study.
He raised the curtain, opened the door half-way, and caught sight of
Juve at his desk.
"Don't disturb yourself, it is only Fandor!"
The detective was absorbed in the letter he was writing to such a
degree that he had never even heard the journalist enter. At the sound
of his voice Juve started.
"What! You! I thought you had flown yesterday, flown South!"
Fandor smiled a woeful smile.
"I did expect to get away yesterday evening. Juve, in my calling, as
in yours, it is the height of stupidity to make plans. You see! Here I
am still--stuck here!"
Juve nodded assent.
"Well, what then?" he asked.
"Well, what do you think, Juve?"
The detective leaned back in his chair and considered his young
friend.
"Well, my dear Fandor, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
Fandor did not seem much disposed to answer. He had taken off his hat
and overcoat. Now he drew from his pocket a cigarette-case. He
selected one and lighted it carefully, seeming to find a veritable
delight in the first whiffs which he sent towards the ceiling.
"It's a fine day, Juve!"
The detective, more and more astonished, considered the journalist
with the utmost attention.
"What's the matter with you, Fandor?" he said at last.
"Why are you carrying on like this? Why are you not on your
travels?... Without being inquisitive, I suppose you have your head
full of other things than the state of the weather?"
"And you, Juve?"
"How? I?"
"Juve, I ask you why you are so upset?"
The detective folded his arms.
"My word, Fandor, but you are losing your head. You think, then, that
I am thoroughly upset?"
"Juve, you look like a death's-head!"
"Really?"
"Juve, you have not been to bed!"
"I have not been to bed, have I not? How do you know that?"
Fandor approached the writing-table and pointed to the corner, where a
series of half-smoked cigarettes were ranged side by side.
"Ah, I do not doubt, Juve, but that they tidy up your study every
morning; but, here are twenty-five cigarette ends, lying side by side:
you certainly have not smoked all those in one morning, consequently
you have lighted them during the night, and consequently you have not
gone to bed."
Juve's tone was bantering.
"Continue, little one, you interest me."
"And, to cap it all, the ends of your cigarettes have been
chewed, bitten, mangled,--an indisputable sign of high nervous
tension--therefore."...
"Therefore, Fandor?"
"Therefore, Juve, I ask what is wrong with you--that's all!"
The detective fixed the journalist with a piercing look, trying to
guess what he was aiming at. But Fandor was too good a pupil of Juve
to let him have the slightest inkling of his feelings. There was an
enigmatic smile on his lips whilst he awaited Juve's reply.
The detective quickly decided to speak out.
"I am looking into a very serious affair which interests me greatly."
"Grave?"
"Possibly."
This did not satisfy Fandor. He seated himself on the corner of the
writing-table and considered his friend.
"See now, Juve, answer me if you can see your way to it.... Your
attitude makes me sure that important things are in the air: you are
in a very emotional condition, and that for some reason I have not
fathomed. Can I be useful to you? Will you not let me share this
secret?"
"Will you tell me yours?"
"In three minutes."
Juve sat for a few minutes deep in thought. Then in a changed voice, a
solemn voice with a sharp note in it, he said:
"You know about Captain Brocq's sudden death, of course?... Let me
tell you that I have discovered it was an assassination. It's this
affair I am giving all my attention to."
When there was mention of the Brocq affair, Fandor started. Here was a
strange coincidence. Since last night had not his own mind been
distressed by the mysteries he divined in this strange death? And now
here was Juve also upset by his examination of this same affair.
Fandor drew up a chair, placed himself astride it, facing Juve,
putting his elbows on the back and holding his head between his hands.
"You are looking into this Brocq affair, Juve?... Very well! So am
I!... You have read my articles?"
"They are very interesting."
"They lack conclusiveness, however!... But, as things are, I could not
do better, not having any precise information and facts to go upon.
Are you quite certain about the facts yourself? Do you know who has
struck the blow?"
"Don't you suspect, Fandor?"
Juve did not give him time to reply. He half rose from his seat, and,
bending close to Fandor, looked him straight in the eyes.
"Tell me, my boy! Suppose that after six months of truce, six months
of tranquillity, your whole existence is again violently upset? If you
understood that the efforts and dangers and struggles and tenacity of
six long years were entirely wasted, and that the results you thought
you had achieved did not exist--that you had to begin all over
again--that once more you had to play a match with not only your life
for stakes, but your honour as well--tell me, Fandor, would you not be
stirred to your depths?"
Our journalist feigned indifference: it was the best way to draw Juve
on, he well knew.
"What do you mean, Juve?"
"What do I mean, my boy? You shall hear! Do you know who killed
Captain Brocq?"
"No! Who?"
"Fantômas!"
At this sinister name Fandor jumped up as though thunderstruck.
"Fantômas?... You accuse Fantômas of having killed Captain Brocq?"
Juve nodded assent.
The two men stared at each other in horror-struck silence.
Fantômas!
What a flood of memories, horrid, menacing, that name evoked! There
flashed through Fandor's mind all that he knew of the atrocities which
could be imputed to Fantômas. He seemed to live over again the recent
years of continual struggle, of almost daily contest with the
mysterious criminal--Fantômas!... But had not Juve declared--and not
so long ago--after the drama of rue Norvins,[2] when the elusive
monster had been driven to flight--had not Juve declared that Fantômas
had vanished for good and all! Now, at this precise moment, he was
accusing this criminal of a fresh crime!... Fandor thought, too, of
the conclusions he had himself arrived at, whilst studying the Brocq
affair from his own point of view: that it was a drama of spies and
spying.... Surely either he was mistaken--or Juve was!... Was it a
murder, or a political assassination?... No longer pretending
indifference, he questioned Juve anxiously:
[Footnote 2: See _The Exploits of Juve_, vol. ii, _Fantômas Series_.]
"You accuse Fantômas? In the name of death and destruction, why?"
Juve had regained his self-possession. By pronouncing the word
"Fantômas," by giving utterance to his secret fears, he had relieved
his feelings.
"Fandor!" said he, in a quiet voice: "Consider carefully all the
details and circumstances of this drama! In open day, on one of the
most frequented promenades of Paris, an officer falls mortally wounded
when passing in a taxicab, going possibly to some appointed
meeting-place in one of the restaurants of the Bois. His taxi is
surrounded by a crowd of vehicles, and without having time even to see
his attacker, without anyone having seen him, Brocq collapses,
mortally wounded, killed as though in battle, by a shot, a mysterious
shot, fired from a weapon of the most perfect kind.... Come now,
Fandor! Is that not a crime worthy of Fantômas?"
But the journalist was not convinced.
"True, this crime is worthy of Fantômas, but I do not think Fantômas
has committed it.... You go too far, Juve! You are the victim of your
hobby. Believe me, you exaggerate--you cannot trace every strange and
subtle crime to this criminal!"
"If you do not attribute this crime to Fantômas, then at whose door do
you lay it?" demanded the detective, who was well aware that he must
guard against being the victim of a Fantômas obsession.
"Juve," replied Fandor, "I have been charged by Dupont to look into
the Brocq affair, and have had to postpone my holiday to do it--that
is how you see me this morning.... Well, I have begun my enquiry, and
am trying to find out the exact truth regarding this unfortunate
officer's death.... I have visited certain of his relations,
interviewed the people who have known him, I have been able to get
into touch with this Bobinette, who seems to be the last person who
approached him a little before his assassination, and I have also
arrived at a conclusion."
"And that is--Fandor?"
"A conclusion, Juve, which does not involve Fantômas in the slightest
degree, a conclusion which, I assure you, has the advantage of being
more certain, plainer, more absolutely definite than yours."...
"And that is--Fandor?"
"Juve, this officer belonged to the Second Bureau of the Staff
Officer's Headquarters."...
"Yes, and?"...
"Juve, when an officer of the Second Bureau disappears in such tragic
conditions, do you know what one presumes to be the reason of that
disappearance?"
"What?"
"Juve, I assert that if Captain Brocq is dead it is because there is a
spy in the pay of a foreign power, who, being under supervision,
perhaps on the point of being arrested, has resolved that the captain
must die in order to save himself.... A document has been stolen, and
it is precisely this fact which makes me disbelieve in the
intervention of Fantômas."...
"You do not believe me, Juve?"
The detective shrugged his shoulders.
"No, I do not think you are right.... In the first place, Fantômas is
capable of everything--capable of the theft of a document for which a
foreign power would pay him very highly, just as there is no other
kind of theft he is not capable of.... And then, dear boy, a spy, a
traitor in the pay of a foreign power would not dare to attempt the
crime to which we are giving all our attention--not in that particular
way at any rate. There is only one person who would risk
that--Fantômas."
Fandor's laugh had a note of mockery in it. He let Juve see that he
thought his ideas on this subject were very simple indeed.
"It is your hobby which always inspires you," he repeated.... "Beyond
question I am the first to believe in the audacity of Fantômas ... and
if I do not know all the secrets of terror hidden in this word
'spying,' I am ready enough to be convinced.... But, look here, Juve,
I know the world of spies, I have studied them, I know what they are
capable of attempting, ... and I do not speak lightly when I tell you
that the assassination of Brocq is a political crime."
Juve continued to shake his head, quite unconvinced.
Fandor continued:
"Juve, believe me! Who says 'spy,' says 'capable of anything.' The
officers of the Second Bureau are, in short, the true directors of the
police spy system; they know all the shameful mysteries whereby some
individual reputed honest, honourable in appearance, is in the pay of
the foreigner. They know the traitors. They know who sells France and
who buys France. Every day they are in relation with the agents
belonging to all classes of society, lawyers, commercial men, small
shopkeepers, commercial travellers, railway servants, women of the
world, women of the pavement, thousands of individuals who continually
travel about the country, holding it in a network of observations,
notes, remarks, the result of all of which might be that some one
power would have immediately the advantage over some other, because it
knew the weak points where it could launch its attack.... You know,
Juve, that they are people who do not shrink from anything when their
interest is at stake. You know that the man who betrays, who spies,
who is an informer, is always disavowed by the country who employs
him.... You know that those who are taken in the act are punished to
the utmost, consequently they will stick at nothing to save themselves
from being caught. Do you not think that in this spy-world there might
be found a man who, driven into a corner by circumstances, would be
daring enough to commit the crime which is occupying our attention
now? You say: 'It is a crime worthy of Fantômas!' Agreed. But I reply
to you: 'There must be spies worthy of being compared to
Fantômas!'"...
Fandor stopped short. Suddenly Juve threw himself back in his chair:
the detective laughed aloud, a burst of ironic laughter. "My dear
boy," said he, "do not be angry with me."
"What nonsense, Juve--You know very well that I would not be that!"
"Well, my dear Fandor, you see in the assassination of Captain Brocq
an affair of spying because you have had your hobby for some time
past--the hobby of spying."
Fandor smiled. Juve continued:
"Come! Is it not true that six months ago--it was just after the
Dollon assassination--you published in _La Capitale_ a whole series of
papers relating to affairs of treason?"
"True, but."...
"Is it correct that you learned just then that one could define the
Second Bureau as the world of spies, and that you were extremely
struck by this, extremely surprised?"
"That is so, Juve. It is precisely because I had this information, and
was able to get a fair knowledge of the terrible secrets existing in
this dark Government department, that I am in a position now to
ascribe the Brocq affair to the action of some group of spies."
"Your hobby again, Fandor! The assassination of the captain has
occurred under such circumstances that it can only be imputed to
Fantômas. Let us look the truth in the face! We are going to enter
into a fresh struggle with Fantômas! That is a certainty!"
"It's your hobby now, Juve! There's no Fantômas in this affair. No! We
are face to face with a very serious business, there I agree with you;
but it is wholly a spy job--nothing else!"
Getting up, the journalist added:
"This very evening I shall publish in _La Capitale_ an article in
which I shall explain exactly what spies are, the real part they play
in the body politic, their terrible power; that it is a mistake to
consider them only cowards; that owing to the exigencies of their
sinister profession, they very often give proof of an exceptional
courage--bravery--and in which I shall."...
With a shrug, Juve interrupted:
"In which you will write nonsense, old boy.... Anyhow, you are free!"
"That's true! Free to spend a fortnight in the Sunny South, where I
shall be in a few hours' time! Anyhow, read my article in _La
Capitale_; I tell you I am going to take a lot of trouble over it!"...
"A fortnight hence, then, Juve!" He added in a bantering tone:
"Don't dream too much of Fantômas.... What!"
VI
CORPORAL VINSON
With one knee resting on his portmanteau, Jérôme Fandor was pulling
with all the force of his powerful arms at the straps in order to
buckle them up.
It was Sunday, November the thirteenth, and five o'clock in the
afternoon. The flat was brilliantly illuminated, and the greatest
disorder reigned throughout.
At last Fandor was off for his holiday! Not to risk losing his train,
our journalist meant to dine at the Lyons railway station.
"Ouf!" cried he, when he had succeeded in cramming his mass of
garments sufficiently tight, and had then closed the portmanteau.
Fandor uttered a sigh of satisfaction. This time there could be no
doubt about his departure--the thing was certain. He was casting a
final glance round when he stopped short in the middle of the passage.
The door-bell had been rung: evidently someone was at the entrance
door. Who was it? What was it? Had something arisen which was going to
prevent his departure? He went quickly to the door. He opened it to
find a soldier on the landing.
"Monsieur Fandor?" he enquired in a gentle, rather husky voice.
"Yes. What is it you want?" replied the journalist crossly.
The soldier came forward a step: then, as if making an effort, he
articulated painfully:
"Will you permit me to enter? I am most anxious to speak to you."
Fandor, with a movement of the hand, signified that the importunate
stranger might come inside. He observed the man closely. He was quite
young, and wore infantry uniform: his stripes were those of a
corporal. His hair was brown, and his light eyes were in marked
contrast to the much darker tones of his face. A slight moustache
shaded his lip.
The corporal followed Fandor into his study, and stood still with an
embarrassed air. The journalist considered him an instant, then asked:
"To whom have I the honour of speaking?"
This question appeared to tear the soldier from a kind of dream. He
jumped, then mechanically stood at attention, as if before a superior
officer.
"I am Corporal Vinson."
Fandor nodded, tried to remember him, but in vain. The name told him
nothing....
"I have not the honour to be known to you, Monsieur, but I know you
very well through your articles."
Then he continued in almost a supplicating tone:
"I greatly need speech with you, Monsieur."...
"Another bore," said Fandor to himself, "who wants to get me to give
him a recommendation of some sort!"
Our journalist boiled with impatience at the thought of the precious
minutes he was losing. He would have to cut his dinner short if he did
not wish to miss the night express. Nevertheless, wishing to lessen
the unpleasant reception he had given this unwelcome visitor, he
murmured in a tone which was cold, all the same:
"Pray be seated, Monsieur: I am listening to you!"
Corporal Vinson seemed greatly agitated.
The invitation was evidently very opportune, for the visitor let
himself fall heavily into an arm-chair. Great drops of perspiration
were on his forehead, his lips were pallid: at intervals he looked at
the journalist, whose impassible countenance did not seem to invite
confidences. The poor trooper lost countenance more and more: Fandor
remained silent.
At last Vinson managed to say, in a voice strangling with emotion:
"Ah! Monsieur, excuse me for having come to disturb you like this, but
I was determined to tell you ... to know you--to express to you ...
how I appreciate your talent, your way of writing ... how I like the
ideas you express in your paper!... There was your last article, so
just, so ... charitable!"
"You are very kind, Monsieur," interrupted Fandor, "and I am much
obliged to you; but, if it is the same to you, we might arrange a
meeting for another day, because now I am very pressed for time."...
Fandor made as if to rise to emphasise his statement; but Corporal
Vinson, far from imitating the movement, sank deeper and deeper in the
large arm-chair, into which he had literally fallen a few minutes
before, and with an accent of profound anguish, for he understood
Fandor's desire to shorten the conversation, he cried with a groan:
"Ah, Monsieur, do not send me away! If I keep silence now, I shall
never have the courage to speak--but I must."...
The soldier's countenance was so full of alarm that Fandor regretted
his first movement of ill-temper, his show of impatience. Perhaps this
man had interesting things to say! He must give the fellow confidence.
Fandor smiled.
"Very well," he suggested amiably, "let us have a talk if you really
wish it."...
Corporal Vinson considered Fandor a moment, thanking him with a look
for his more cordial attitude; then suddenly drawing himself up into a
standing position, he shouted:
"Monsieur Fandor ... I am a traitor!"
Though far from expecting so brutal a declaration, Fandor sat tight.
He well knew that in such circumstances comments are useless. He rose
slowly, approached the soldier, and, placing his hands on the agitated
man's shoulders, pushed him back into the arm-chair.
"Control yourself, Monsieur, I beg of you," he said in a kind voice.
"You must not upset yourself like this! Be calm!"
Great tears flowed down the corporal's sunburnt cheeks, and Fandor
considered him, not knowing how to console so great, so spontaneous a
grief.
Amidst his despair, Corporal Vinson stammered out:
"Yes, Monsieur, it's because of a woman--you will understand--you who
write articles in which you say that there should be pity for such
unfortunates as I am--for one is a miserable wretch when a woman has
you in her clutches, and you have no money--and then, with that sort,
once you have started getting mixed up in their affairs, you are jolly
well caught--you have to do as you are told--and always they ask more
and more of you.... Ah, Monsieur, the death of Captain Brocq is a
frightful disaster! As for me.... If I have turned traitor--it is
their fault."...
The corporal murmured some unintelligible words, pronouncing names
unknown to Fandor; but our journalist was rejoicing more and more at
this outpouring.
Suddenly he got the impression that the mysterious happenings, the
obscure drama he had been on the fringe of for some days past was
becoming clear, that the veil of ignorance was being torn away. Fandor
had the sensation of being a spectator, before whose eyes a curtain
was slowly rising which until then had concealed the scenery of the
play.
The corporal continued, stammeringly:
"Ah, Monsieur, you do not know what it is to have for your mistress
such a woman as ... she whom I love, ... such a woman as ... Nichoune!
Nichoune! Ah, all Châlons knows what she is like. Her wickedness is
well known ... but for all that, there is not a man who."...
Fandor interrupted:
"But, my good corporal, why are you telling me all this?"
"Why, Monsieur," replied Vinson, after a pause and a piteous look,
"because--it's because ... I have sworn to tell you everything before
I die!"
"Hang it all! What do you mean to do?" asked Fandor.
The corporal replied simply, but his tone was decisive:
"I mean to kill myself!"
From this moment it was Fandor who, far from wishing to start off for
his train--he had given up any idea of leaving for the South that
evening--was bent on getting from the soldier further details about
his life.
Fandor now learned that the corporal had been in the service some
fifteen months. He had been among the first conscripts affected by the
new law of two years' compulsory service, and had been sent to the
214th of the line, in garrison at Châlons. Owing to his qualities he
had been much appreciated by all his superior officers. As soon as he
had finished his classes, he obtained his corporal's stripes, and in
consideration of his very good handwriting, and also owing to the
influence of a commandant, he got a snug post as secretary in the
offices of the fortress itself.
Vinson was thoroughly satisfied with his new situation; for, having
been brought up in his mother's petticoats, and practically the whole
of his adolescence having been passed behind the counter of the
maternal book-shop, he had much more the temperament of a clerk than
of an active out-of-doors man.
The only sport which he enjoyed was riding, riding a bicycle, and the
only luxury he allowed himself was photography.
Time passed. Then, one Sunday evening, he went with some comrades to a
Châlons music-hall.
Vinson's chief companions were some non-commissioned officers, a
little better off than he was.... Without being lavish in their
expenditure, these young fellows did not reckon up their every penny,
and, not wishing to be behindhand, Vinson had sent to his mother for
money again and again, and she had kept him in funds.
On this particular evening, after the concert, they had invited some
of the performers to supper in a private room, and Vinson, in the
course of the entertainment, was attracted, fascinated, by a tall girl
with dyed hair, emaciated cheeks, and brilliant eyes, whose flashy
manners smacking of some low suburb, had subjugated him completely.
Vinson made an impression on the singer, for she did not respond to
the advances of a swaggering sergeant, reputed generous, but turned
her attentions to the modest corporal.
They talked, and they discovered they were affinities. The result was
they found themselves at daybreak on the deserted boulevard of
Châlons. The corporal's leave did not expire till the evening of the
following day. Nichoune offered him hospitality: they became lovers.
Vinson's heart was in this liaison: he persuaded himself that the
chain that bound them was indissoluble. The singer's idea was to
profit by it. Her demands for money were constant: she harried her
lover for money.
Little by little, Vinson's mother cut off supplies: the corporal,
incapable of breaking with Nichoune, ran up debts in the town.
"But," went on Vinson, "this is only the beginning. I have told you
this, Monsieur, with the hope of excusing myself to a certain extent
for what I did later on. My actions were the outcome and consequences
of my difficulties."
"Something serious?" questioned Fandor.
"You shall judge of that, Monsieur."
Vinson went on with his confession in a firmer tone. Fandor realised
that the corporal had decided to make a clean breast of it.
"It sometimes happened after I had had a scene with Nichoune, and had
quitted her in a fury, that I would go for a long bicycle ride into
the country, taking my shame and rage with me. On a certain Saturday,
bestriding my faithful bike, I went for a spin along the dusty
high-road which runs past the camp. After going at high speed, I
dismounted, seated myself under a tree in the shade, by the side of a
ditch, and was falling asleep. It was summer, the sun was pouring
down. A cyclist stopped in front of me with a punctured tyre. He asked
me to lend him the wherewithal to repair it; and whilst the solution
was drying we started talking.
"This individual was about thirty; elegantly dressed; and from the way
he expressed himself, one could see that he was a man accustomed to
good society.
"He told me he was making a tour, and was now doing the neighbourhood
about Reims and Châlons.
"'Not very picturesque country,' I remarked.
"But he retorted;
"'It is interesting--the roads, for example, are complicated!'
"I began to laugh at this, and as he insisted on the difficulty he had
to find his way in these parts, I offered to let him look at my
Staff-office map. I carried a copy in my blazer.... Ah, Monsieur--how
well Alfred played his little comedy! That is what he called himself,
at least, that was the name he was known by--the only name I have ever
known. He seemed absolutely stupefied at the sight of this map,
ordinary though as it was, and seemed set on buying it from me. I did
not want to part with it. He offered five francs for it. I expressed
my astonishment that he would not wait till he got to Châlons, where
he could procure one like it for the sum of twenty sous.
"'Bah!' declared Alfred, 'It gives me pleasure to pay you that sum--it
is a way of thanking you for having lent me the use of your cycle
outfit.'
"My faith, Monsieur Fandor, I was too beggared to say 'No!' so I
accepted the money, while making excuses for myself: my plea being
that a soldier is not a rich man.
"I pass over details. It is sufficient to say that when we returned to
Châlons together, we were such good friends that he asked me to dine
with him. When he saw me back to barracks, Alfred pressed a loan on
me. I had told him about Nichoune, and about the pecuniary
difficulties I was in, for by this time, I had full confidence in him.
He slipped a twenty-franc piece into my hand with an air of authority:
'When you become a civilian again,' said he, 'you will easily be able
to pay me back; and besides, to salve your pride, I am going to ask
you shortly to do me a few services. I often have little things done.
I shall entrust the doing of them to you, and shall pay you
accordingly.'...
"You understand, Monsieur Fandor, that there was no reason for
refusing, that I could see, especially as he made the offer very
nicely, and that it came in the nick of time, at the very moment
when--I have to admit it--I would have done anything for money....
"After this we met frequently. Alfred used to send me invitations, and
often he included Nichoune. He never would let me pay for anything;
and, I must confess, that the greater part of the time I should have
found it very difficult indeed to pay a sou!
"We always met at some appointed place outside the town: he would not
stay in Châlons longer than he could help, because he said the air
there was bad for his delicate lungs. He was particularly interested
in aviation, and he was for ever getting me to pilot him about the
aviation camp.
"'You who draw so well,' he would say; 'make me a plan of this
apparatus!... Explain to me how these huts are constructed!'
"He would question me as to the effectives of the regiments, ask me
details as to estimates, statements, and returns which passed through
my hands in the offices.
"Finally, one day, as I had no inkling of what he was really aiming
at, Alfred put me on to it!"...
The corporal stopped. His throat was strained and dry.
Fandor brought him a glass of water, which he swallowed at a gulp.
With a grateful look he continued:
"'Vinson,' said Alfred to me, 'I have confidence in you, and you know
how discreet I am! Very well, I have a superb piece of business in
hand which ought to bring us in a great deal of money. A stranger with
whom I came into contact recently, who is a very good fellow, who has
been obliged to leave his country owing to troubles that were brought
on him, possesses a document, a very interesting one, which would be
much valued at the Staff Headquarters of the Sixth Corps. He needs
money and would be willing to sell it. I tried to buy it from him, but
I have not the necessary funds. I was seeking a solution of the
difficulty, when this stranger asked me to procure him some
photographs of the Châlons barracks, in exchange for which he would
give me his document. He needs these photographs for postcard
purposes. If we could supply him with them in three days, not only
will he give us his important paper, but he will pay twenty francs for
each proof as well!'
"Ah, Monsieur Fandor, this story did not hang together, but I was
actually weak enough to believe it! Or at least I tried to make
myself believe it. Besides, this proposal of Alfred's came just in
time: I had not a sou to my name! Nichoune was making a terrible row,
and I hardly dared venture into the streets, I had so many creditors.
"I tried to square matters with my conscience: telling myself that
there was nothing compromising connected with these photographs: in
fact, views of our barracks are to be found in any album on sale,
however small.
"Later on, I learned that this was a method _they_ employed to decoy
the guides, to draw them securely into their toils. _They_ first of
all give them very insignificant things to do, in order not to
frighten them, and pay a high price: it is afterwards that they fasten
you up tight. You shall see how."...
Fandor nodded. It was nearly time to catch the train, but he thought
no more of the Côte d'Azur! He was too interested in the corporal's
confession, and felt that by letting him speak he would learn more, he
would learn much. He therefore encouraged Vinson to continue. The
corporal asked nothing better.
"The photographs taken, I rejoined Alfred, who had told me to be sure
to get leave for forty-eight hours, whatever happened. Alfred dragged
me to the railway station; he had two tickets. We went off to Nancy,
where, said he, we should find the purchaser. At Nancy, no one;
whoever it was, had gone to a street in one of the suburbs. We waited
in a little flat. Towards four in the afternoon Alfred said to me:
'Bah! Don't let us hesitate any longer. If the stranger has not come,
it is because he is waiting for us elsewhere--I know where--let us go
to meet him--at Metz!"
"'At Metz!' I cried. 'But we should have to cross the frontier, and I
have not.'...
"Alfred interrupted me, laughing. He opened a press and brought out
civilian clothes, then he took wigs from a drawer, and a false beard.
At the end of half-an-hour we were disguised; an hour later we were in
Lorraine. We left the train there. It was there that, for the first
time, I began to be afraid, for it seemed to me that when leaving the
station at Metz, Alfred exchanged a quick glance with the policeman
on duty. Ah, Monsieur Fandor, how I have regretted this journey!
Directly we were in a foreign country, Alfred's attitude towards me
changed: he was no longer the friend, he was the master. He had got
me, the rogue, and jolly tight too!
"'Where are we going?' I asked.
"Alfred chuckled.
"'By jove! can't you guess?' he replied. 'Why, we are going to the
Wornerstrasse, to visit Major Schwartz of the Intelligence
Department.'
"'I shall not go!' I declared.
"Alfred's look was a menace.
"'You will come,' said he, in a low voice. 'Consider! If you refuse,
at the end of five minutes the police will have unmasked you!'...
"There was nothing else to be done. I knew this Intelligence
Department already, by reputation. Alfred had spoken to me about it.
It was a vast suite of rooms on the first floor of a middle-class
house, where a number of men in civilian clothes were at work. They
all bore the military stamp. We had to wait in a large room filled
with draughtsmen and typewriters, and on the wall hung a map, on a
huge scale, of the frontier of the Vosges.
"Alfred sent in his name.
"A few minutes afterwards we were ushered into an office. A big man,
seated behind a table heaped with bundles of papers, scrutinised us
over his spectacles: he was bald, and wore a thick square-cut fair
beard. He examined the photographs without a word, threw them
carelessly on a set of shelves, and took from his drawer ten louis in
French money, which he counted out to me. Of any document in exchange
there was, of course, no question! I thought everything was finished,
and I was preparing to leave this abominable place when the big man
put his hand on my arm. It was Major Schwartz himself, the chief of
the spy system there--I learned that later. He said to me in very
correct French, with hardly a trace of accent to betray his origin:
"'Corporal Vinson, we have paid you lavishly for information of no
value, but you will have to serve us better than that, and we shall
continue to treat you well.'
"I thought I should have fainted when I heard my name pronounced by
this man. It was clear he already knew my rank and name.... He knew
much more than that--as the conversation which followed let me see. He
informed me that he wished to obtain a complete statement of the
organisation of the dirigibles and aeroplanes; he must have the
characteristics of all the apparatus; a list of the Flying Service
Corps: he exacted even more confidential information still--where the
aviators and the aircraft were to be moved if mobilisation took
place--the whole bag of tricks, in fact!"
"And," asked Fandor, hesitating a little, "you have ... supplied him
with all this?"
In a voice so low as to be barely audible, and blushing to the roots
of his hair, Vinson confessed:
"I supplied it all!"
"Is that all you have to say?"
"Not yet, Monsieur--listen:
"Alfred had gone back with me as far as Nancy, where I had put on my
uniform again; then I returned to Châlons quite by myself.
"I asked myself if it would be possible to get clear away from the
terrible set I was mixed up with. Try as I might, I could not manage
it. Every day Alfred harried me, threatened me: I had to obey him.
Then almost on the top of this came the affair of Captain Brocq."
Fandor had been waiting for this. He had foreseen that he was going to
learn what the connecting link was, which united the adventures of
Corporal Vinson with the drama of the Place de l'Étoile, but his
expectations were not fulfilled.... True enough, Vinson, through the
mysterious intervention of his redoubtful friends, was to enter into
relations with Captain Brocq, to whom he had been recommended, how or
in what terms he did not know.
The business hung fire for several weeks, and this was owing to Vinson
himself, whose moods alternated from one of shrinking disgust to one
of bravado courage.
"At times," said he, "I wished to break with them at any cost, and
become honest once more; but, alas, I was always under the evil
influence of Nichoune, who was a very close friend of Alfred, and the
pair of them encouraged me to tread the traitor's path without
faltering. Then, without breathing a word, I put in a request through
the proper channel for a change of garrison. I hoped to get sent
either to the West or the South; above all, I was bent on leaving the
Sixth Corps, on flying from the frontier neighbourhood, and finishing
my service in some district or region where it would be impossible for
them to make me their spy tool. But, I do not know how--was it through
Nichoune?--I expect so, because I had unluckily confided this secret
to her one evening--Alfred got wind of what I was up to. He flew into
a fearful rage. Suddenly he quieted down, and began to laugh.
"'Ah, my boy, I am going to play a good joke on you!'
"It was a terrible joke--it is that still, Monsieur! Listen to what
happened! I got my exchange all right: it is on that account I have
eight days' leave; but next Monday, November 21st, before midday, I
must report to my new regiment. But this regiment, the 257th Infantry,
is in garrison at Verdun!... You grasp it?"
"I begin to," murmured Fandor.
"At Verdun," continued Vinson, who had risen, and was walking to and
fro, pressing his head between his hands, a prey to an indescribable
anguish.... "At Verdun! That is to say at the frontier itself! That
means I shall be in the thick of all that lot--at their mercy!... Oh,
the trick had been well thought out, carefully contrived! I have got
away from the wasp's nest only to tumble into the middle of the swarm!
Oh, Monsieur, I am losing my head absolutely! I feel that they have me
tight, that it is impossible to get free of them and, what is more, I
am afraid of being taken up ... yes. These last few days at Châlons I
have been terrified: I believe that they suspect me, that they suspect
Nichoune, that my superiors have me under supervision! Directly after
the announcement of Captain Brocq's assassination appeared in the
papers, all this descended on me as swiftly as a tempest. Oh, I am
lost! Lost!!... I wished to come and make an open confession of all my
shame to you that, by means of an article in your paper, you may put
young soldiers on their guard, those who, owing to a mad infatuation
for some abominable women, or through need of money, should be
disposed to follow my wretched example some cursed day or other--yes,
my damnable example!"
The corporal fell down in the middle of the room, fell down like a
crumpled rag: he sobbed.
Fandor pitied this miserable creature who had sunk so low. He raised
him gently.
"Vinson," he declared, "you must not die. Remember you have a mother!
Listen! Be brave! Summon your courage! Tell your chiefs
everything--everything!"
The wretched man shook his head.
"Never! Never, Monsieur--I could not do it. Think, Monsieur: it is the
vilest of vile things I have done--I, a soldier of France--of France,
Monsieur!... You spoke of my mother! It is because of her I wish to
kill myself! You must know that she is an Alsatian!... She would go
mad--mad, Monsieur, if she learned that her son has betrayed
France!... This evening Corporal Vinson will no longer exist--it will
be well finished with him!"
There was a great silence.
Fandor, with his arms folded and anxious brow, was pacing up and down
his study, seeking a solution of this frightful problem, asking
himself what was to be done.... He saw that this miserable Vinson was
caught in the wheels of a terrible machine, from which it was almost
impossible to snatch him into safety. Nevertheless, his conscience
revolted at the idea that he should do nothing to avert this wretched
lad's suicide. He must stop Vinson--he must certainly save him from
himself at any price, save him doubly!
Then Fandor saw further than this.
He perceived that good may come out of evil: perhaps through Vinson
and his relations with this nefarious nest of spies, they would
succeed in clearing up the dark mystery surrounding the death of
Captain Brocq. Evidently all these happenings were interconnected!...
With his mind's eye, Fandor saw this foreign spy system under the form
of an immense--a vast spider's web. Could one but lay hands on the
originator of the initial thread, or the master-spider himself, then
they could strike at the extreme ends of this evil tissue.
* * * * *
Fandor admonished Vinson for a long time. Our journalist was now
eloquent, now persuasive: he heaped argument on argument, he appealed
to his self-respect, to duty! When at last he saw that the young
corporal hesitated, that a faint gleam of hope appeared, that a vague
desire for rehabilitation was born in him, he stopped short and
demanded abruptly:
"Vinson, are you still bent on killing yourself?"
The corporal communed with himself a moment, closed his eyes, and,
without a touch of insincerity, replied in a steady voice:
"Yes, I have decided to do it."
"In that case," said Fandor, "will you look on the deed as done, and
take it that you are no longer in existence?"
The corporal stared at Fandor, speechless, absolutely dumbfounded.
Fandor made his idea more definite.
"From this moment you do not exist any more, you are nothing, you are
no longer Corporal Vinson."...
"And then?"...
But Fandor must have a definite promise.
"Is this agreed to?"...
"I agree."
"Swear it!"
"I swear it!"
"Very well, Vinson, you now belong to me, you are my property, my
chattel; I am going to give you my instructions, and they must be
strictly obeyed, carried out!"
The miserable soldier seemed crushed to the earth; but with a movement
of his head he signified that he was prepared to do whatever the
journalist ordered.
VII
THE SECOND BUREAU
As early as nine o'clock that morning, there was unusual activity in
the Second Bureau of the Headquarters Staff.
The Second Bureau!
This formidable office, whose official designation, _Bureau of
Statistics_, did not deceive anyone, occupied premises in the Ministry
of War. Modest as to appearance, this Bureau was located on the third
floor of one of the oldest buildings in the rue Saint Dominique. The
departments of the Second Bureau impinged on a long corridor, and had
taken possession of quite half the floor in the right wing of the
building.
Anyone authorised to enter here would find a fairly large outer room,
where about a dozen secretaries would be working at wooden desks.
These secretaries are changed frequently, so that they may not get to
know too much about the work passing through their hands, though they
are seldom given anything of an important confidential nature to deal
with. There is a vast square room adjoining, reserved for the
so-called "_statistics_." This immense apartment is abundantly lighted
by two large windows and a large table of white wood stands in the
centre of the room. Occasionally it is heaped with papers, but
generally it is clear, and only maps are to be seen, maps of all parts
of France and of foreign countries also, marked with red pencil,
ornamented with cabalistic signs, thickly sprinkled with notes. Placed
against the walls are the desks of the officers of this department,
two captains and two lieutenants. Next to this room is the small
office where Commandant Dumoulin, the chief assistant, is generally to
be found. Fixed into the wall, on the right-hand side, is the one
remarkable thing in this most ordinary looking office: here is the
famous steel press, of which Commandant Dumoulin alone possesses the
key, and in which are enclosed, they say, the most secret instructions
relating to National Defence and Mobilisation.
This office communicates on one side with the office of statistics,
and on the opposite side with a sitting-room, soberly furnished with
arm-chairs and sofas covered with green velvet; on the walls is a
green paper; one picture only adorns this solemn reception-room, whose
doors are tightly closed to air and sound--the portrait of the
president of the Republic. Here are received visitors of mark, who
have information of the highest importance to communicate. Here
conversations can be freely carried on, for thick window curtains,
door curtains and carpet deaden sound.
At the extreme end of the corridor is the office of the
commander-in-chief, Colonel Hofferman. At once elegantly and
comfortably furnished, this office is quite unlike the others: there
is more of the individual than the official here. An array of
telephones keeps the colonel in touch with the various departments of
the Ministry, with the Municipality, with the Governor of Paris. In a
recess is a telegraphic installation.
This able infantry officer is a man of great distinction. He has
directed the delicate service of "statistics" with much tact and
discretion for the past three years. His fair complexion, blue eyes,
blonde hair betray his Alsatian origin. This handsome bachelor,
verging on the fifties, is very much a man of the world, is received
in the most exclusive sets, and has been known to carry on the most
intimate conversations with charming ladies in his office. Was the
subject of these talks National Defence? Who knows?
* * * * *
In the officers' room there was animated talk.
"Then it is an artilleryman again?" asked Lieutenant Armandelle, a
regular colossus with a brick-red complexion, who had passed long
years in Africa at the head of a detachment of Zouaves.
Captain Loreuil was sharpening a pencil. He stopped, and, throwing
himself back in his chair, replied with a smile:
"No, my dear fellow, this time it is to be a sapper." Looking over his
spectacles he softly hummed the old refrain of Thérèse:
"_Nothing is as sacred to a sapper!_"
Armandelle burst out laughing.
"Ah, my boy, come what will, you meet it with a smile!"
"By Jove, old man, why be gloomy?" answered the lively captain. "We
can only live once! Let us make the best use of our time, then! Why
not be jolly?"
Judging by his looks, Captain Loreuil had followed his own advice.
Clean-shaven, plump of face, stout of figure, he wore glasses, large
round glasses set in gold frames, for he was exceptionally
short-sighted. His colleagues had nicknamed him "The Lawyer." It was
easy to see that he was much more at home in mufti than in uniform. He
would say, laughing:
"I have all the looks of a territorial, and that is unfortunate,
considering I belong to the active contingent."
Loreuil was one of the most highly appreciated officers of the Second
Bureau. Had anyone examined the hands of "The Lawyer" just then, he
would have seen that they were roughened and had horny lumps on them
of recent formation. His fingers, all twisted out of shape at the
tips, seamed with scars, led one to suppose that the captain was not
entirely a man of sedentary office life. In fact, he had just returned
after a fairly long absence. He had disappeared for six months. It was
rumoured in the departments that he had been one of a gang of masons
who were constructing a fort on a foreign frontier, a fort, the plans
of which he had got down to the smallest detail. But questions had not
been asked, and the captain had not, of course, given his colleagues
the slightest hint, the smallest indication of how those six months
had been passed. Besides, unforeseen journeys, sudden disappearances,
unexpected returns, mysterious missions, made up the ordinary lot of
those attached to the Second Bureau.
The old keeper of the records, Gaudin, who was methodically sorting a
voluminous correspondence which was to be laid before Commandant
Dumoulin, put a question to Armandelle:
"Lieutenant, is it not a captain of the engineers who is to take the
place of this poor Captain Brocq?"
"True enough, Gaudin! His nomination was signed by the minister
yesterday. We expect him this morning at half-past nine. What time is
it now?
"A quarter past nine, lieutenant!"
"He will be punctual."
"Why, of course!" cried Captain Loreuil. "That is why I caught sight
of the chief just now. He is earlier than usual. What is the name of
the new-comer?"
"Muller," said Armandelle. "He comes from Belfort," cried Loreuil:
"I know what Hofferman will say to him--'My dear Captain, you enter
this day the house of silence and discretion.'"
Loreuil turned to Gaudin.
"Where is Lieutenant de Loubersac this morning?"
"Why, Captain," explained the old keeper of records, "you must know
very well that he has been ordered to act as escort to the King of
Greece."
"Confound Loubersac! He goes to all the entertainments."
Steps were heard, some brief words were spoken in the adjacent
corridor, an orderly opened the door and saluted.
"Captain Muller has arrived, Monsieur!"
Extended very much at his ease on a comfortable couch, Colonel
Hofferman was polishing his nails, whilst Commandant Dumoulin stood
respectfully before him tightly encased in his sober light infantry
uniform. Dumoulin was fully alive to the importance of his position:
was he not the repository of the famous key which unlocked the steel
press?
The colonel looked up at his subordinate.
"You are going to put Captain Muller in the way of things here,
Commandant, are you not?"
"Yes, Colonel!"
"It will be a good thing to have a talk with Captain Muller. He comes
just at the moment when we have some very nasty business in
hand--difficult--very worrying.... That's so, Dumoulin?"
"True, Colonel! That's a fact."
Hofferman pressed a bell. An orderly appeared.
"Ask Captain Muller to kindly step in here."
Almost at once Captain Muller entered, saluted, and remained standing
at some distance from his chief.
"Take this arm-chair, Captain." Hofferman was amiable politeness
itself. Dumoulin, rather scandalised that the colonel should encourage
such familiarity in a subordinate, was on the point of retiring
discreetly. The colonel made him sit down also.
Hofferman turned to Captain Muller.
"You come amongst us, Monsieur, at a sad moment. You know, of course,
that you are Captain Brocq's successor? A most valuable officer, to
whom we were greatly attached."
Captain Muller bent his head. He murmured:
"We were men of the same year, comrades at the school--Brocq and I."
Hofferman continued:
"Ah, well, you are to take on the work begun by Captain Brocq.... Now
tell me, Captain, what importance do you attach to the orders
regarding the roll-call, the mustering and distribution of the
mechanics and operatives of the artillery in the various corps--from
the point of view of mobilisation, that is?"
"It is of the very greatest importance, Colonel."
"Good!"
Hofferman paused. He continued, in a low tone and with a grave air:
"In the newspapers--oh, in ambiguous terms, but clear enough to the
initiated--the public has been given to understand that not only has
an important document been stolen from Captain Brocq before, or at the
time of his assassination, or after it, but that this document was
none other than the distribution chart of the concealed works in and
about the girdle of forts on the east of Paris.... This is inaccurate.
Captain, what has disappeared is the distribution list of our
artillery mechanics! That is much more serious!... However, for some
time past we have had under consideration a rearrangement scheme. We
are going to take advantage of the disappearance of the document in
question, Document Number 6--keep that number in mind--we are going
to draw up a new plan for the mobilisation of the rear-guards. You are
to be entrusted with this, and I count on your devoting your whole
time and attention to it."
Captain Muller understood that the conversation was at an end. He
rose, saying quietly:
"You may count on me, Colonel."
He was then given his official instructions.
Hofferman left the couch, and, dropping his nail polisher, came
towards the captain with outstretched hands.
"My father knew yours in bygone days," he cried genially; "both were
natives of Colmar."
"Why, is that so, indeed, Colonel?" cried the captain, delighted to
find himself among friends.
Hofferman nodded.
"All will go well, be sure of it. I know you take your work
seriously.... We have excellent reports of you--you are married, are
you not?"
Muller nodded in the affirmative.
"Excellent!" declared the colonel. Pointing a threatening finger at
Muller.
"You know our standing orders here! Many acquaintances--very few
intimates: no mistress."
The colonel did not remain alone in his office long. He sent for
Lieutenant de Loubersac. With a soldier's punctuality he appeared
before his chief. He was in uniform.
"Nothing unusual this morning, Loubersac?" questioned Hofferman,
gazing complacently at the soldier, superb in his magnificent uniform,
an elegant and splendid specimen of a cavalry officer.
"Nothing, Colonel. The arrival of the King of Greece has been
perfectly carried out."
"The crowd?"
"Oh, indifferent on the whole; come to have a look at him out of
curiosity."
"Ah, no King of Spain affair?"
"No, no! Out of that I got this scar on my forehead."
"Well," cried the colonel, "it's an ill wind that blows nobody any
good! You will get the cross all the quicker!"
Lieutenant de Loubersac smiled.
Hofferman continued:
"My dear fellow, ... you know ... the vanished document!... It's
extremely important--it will have to be found!"
"Good, Colonel!"
"Have you just now a particularly sharp agent?... Shrewd?"
"Yes, Colonel," said de Loubersac, after a moment's reflection.
"Who is he?"
"The man engaged on the V---- affair."
"When shall you see him?"
"This afternoon, Colonel. We have an appointment for three-thirty."
"The worst of it is this affair is making no end of
talk--scandal--it's the very devil and all! Some fools of papers who
deal in scandal are scaring the public with rumours of war: they speak
of the eventual rupture of diplomatic relations. The financial market
is unsteady--the Jews are selling as hard as they can, and that is
disquieting, for those fellows have a quicker scent than any one....
Lieutenant, it is urgent: set your agent to work at once! He must act
with discretion, of course, but he must act as quickly as possible--it
is urgent!"
"And what are the conditions, Colonel?"
After a moment's reflection, Hofferman replied:
"You must make and get the best conditions you can."
* * * * *
It was noon, and twelve was striking. The vast ministerial premises,
where silence had reigned till then, were filled with murmurs and the
sharp sound of voices: there were hurrying footsteps on the stairs,
doors banged: the offices were emptying for a couple or hours.
"Ah, ha!" cried Captain Loreuil, jamming an enormous soft hat down on
his head till it all but covered his eyes. This gave him the
appearance, either of an artist of sorts or of a seller of chestnuts!
Now behold the handsomest cavalier of France and Navarre!...
And he struck up, in a clear voice:
"_Ah, how I would love this cuirassier_
_If I were still a demoiselle._"
Henri de Loubersac, who had just collided with the captain, burst into
laughter, and warmly shook hands with him.
* * * * *
A limited number of people, some curious, others merely idle, were
standing motionless in the Zoological Gardens. They were lining the
palisade which surrounds the rocky basin where half a dozen crocodiles
were performing their evolutions.
Besides children and nursemaids and governesses, there were also
poverty-stricken creatures in rags, some students, a workman or two,
the inevitable telegraph boy who was loitering on the way instead of
hastening onwards with the telegrams, and, noticeably, a fair young
man, smart, in tight-fitting overcoat and wearing a bowler hat. He had
been standing there some ten minutes, and was giving but scant
attention to the saurians. He was casting furtive glances around him,
as though looking for someone.
If he were awaiting the arrival of some member of the fair sex, it
hardly seemed the place for a love-tryst, this melancholy Zoological
Gardens, misty, with the leaves falling, gradually baring the trees at
the approach of winter.
A uniform suddenly appeared in one of the paths: it was a sergeant
belonging to the commissariat department, who was passing rapidly,
bent on business.
Directly the fair young man saw him he left his place by the palisade
and hid himself behind a tree, muttering:
"Decidedly one has to be constantly on the defensive!" He unbuttoned
his coat and looked at his watch.
"Twenty-five minutes past three! He will not be long now!"
* * * * *
Two hundred yards from this spot, before the chief entrance to the
Gardens, a crowd had gathered; inveterate idlers jostling one another
in the circle they had formed round a sordid individual, a miserable
old man with a long white beard, who was drawing discordant sounds
from an old accordion.
Some kindly housewives, some shock-headed errand-boys, were
exercising their lungs to the utmost, trying to help the musician to
play according to time and tune.
But, in spite of the goodwill about him, the poor man could not manage
to play one single bar correctly, and his helpers bawled in vain.
At the end of a few minutes the accordion player gave up his attempts,
and, taking his soft and ancient hat in his hand, he put in practice a
much easier exercise: he made the round of the company to collect
their offerings. The crowd melted like magic, leaving him solitary,
hat in hand, and with only a few sous in it for his pains. With a
resigned air, the man pocketed his meagre takings, then, pushing the
accordion up on his back where it was held in place by a strap, he
walked, bent, staggering, towards the gate. He passed through it and
entered the Gardens.
The old man went to a secluded seat behind the museum. Almost
immediately he saw a well-dressed young man approaching, the very same
who some ten minutes before had been staring at the crocodiles with
but lukewarm interest.
The young man seated himself beside the old accordion player without
seeming to notice him. Then, in an almost inaudible voice, as if
speaking to himself, the young man uttered these words:
"Fine weather! The daisy is going to bloom."
At once the accordion player added.
"And the potatoes are going to sprout!"
They identified each other.
The two men were alone in this deserted corner of the garden; they
drew closer together and began to converse.
"Are things still going well, Vagualame?"
"My faith, Monsieur Henri, that depends."...
The old accordion player cast a rapid penetrating glance at the
countenance of his companion: it was done with the instinctive ease of
habit.
The young man was leaning forward, tracing circles in the sand with
his stick.
"What is the position, Vagualame?" he asked briefly.
"I have no more money, Lieutenant."
The young man sat upright and looked at the old man angrily.
"What has come to you? There is no lieutenant here--I am M. Henri, and
nothing else! Do I trouble myself to find out who you are, Vagualame?"
"Oh," protested the old man, "that's enough! Do not be afraid, I
understand my business: you know my devotion! Unfortunately it costs a
great deal!"
"Yes," replied Henri de Loubersac--for he it was--"Yes, I know you are
always hard up."
"Shall I have money soon?" insisted Vagualame.
"That depends.... How are things going?"
"Which things?"
The lieutenant showed impatience. Was Vagualame's stupid, silly manner
intentional?
Assuredly, that handsome fellow, that dashing soldier, Henri de
Loubersac, knew nothing of this same Vagualame's relations with
Bobinette, nor his attitude towards that mysterious accomplice of his
whom he had just assassinated, or pretended to have assassinated,
Captain Brocq. Thus Vagualame had two strings to his bow, serving at
one and the same time the Second Bureau and, most probably, its
bitterest adversaries.
"Vagualame, you really are a fool," went on de Loubersac. "What I
refer to is the V. affair: how does it stand--what has been done?"
The old man began to laugh.
"Peuh! Nothing at all! Another rigmarole in which women are mixed up!
You know the little singer of Châlons, called Nichoune? She made her
first appearance at La Fère, and since then the creature has roved
through the rowdy dancing-saloons of Picardy, of the Ardennes--you
must know her well, Monsieur Henri."
The lieutenant interrupted him.
"All this does not mean anything, Vagualame!"
"Pardon! Nichoune is the mistress of Corporal V.--he is on leave, the
corporal is."...
"I know, he is in Paris."
"Well, then, what do you wish me to do?"
"You must go to Châlons and make an exhaustive enquiry into the
relations of V.... with Nichoune. V. was eaten up with debts."
"He has settled them," remarked Vagualame.
"Ah!" Lieutenant de Loubersac was rather taken aback.
"Well, find out how and why. Get me information also about someone
called Alfred."
"I know him, Lieutenant,--pardon--Monsieur Henri--a--letter-box--a
go-between."
"We must know exactly the nature of the relations between Corporal V.
and the late Captain Brocq."
These last words particularly interested Vagualame: he drew nearer
still to de Loubersac, tapping him on the knee.
"Tell me, has anything new come to light in that affair?"
Henri de Loubersac moved away, and looked the old accordion player up
and down.
"Do not meddle with what does not concern you."
"Good! Good! That's all right!" The old fellow pretended to be
confused, nevertheless a gleam of joy shone beneath his eyelids.
There was a moment's silence. Henri de Loubersac was gnawing his
moustache. Vagualame, who was stealthily watching him, said to
himself:
"As for you, my fine fellow, I am waiting for you! You have a fine big
morsel for me! I see what you are driving at!"...
True enough! Suddenly, between him and the lieutenant there was an
exchange of hurried words in a low tone.
"Vagualame, would you like a highly paid commission?"
"Yes, Monsieur Henri. Is it difficult to earn?"
"Naturally."
Vagualame insisted:
"Dangerous, as well?"
"Perhaps!"
"How much will you pay?"
Without hesitation, the officer said:
"Twenty-five thousand francs."...
Equally without hesitation, but putting on an offended air, Vagualame
retorted.
"Nothing doing!"
"Thirty thousand?"
The old man murmured: "What the devil is it a question of?"
Lowering his voice still more, de Loubersac added:
"It is a lost document!... Perhaps it is a case of theft ... a list of
the distribution of artillery operatives--Document Number Six!"
"But," cried Vagualame, who feigned sudden comprehension of this
document's importance, "but that is equivalent to a complete plan of
mobilisation?"...
Exasperated, Lieutenant Henri interrupted the old fellow:
"I do not ask for your opinion as to its signification and value. Can
you recover it?"
Vagualame murmured some incomprehensible words.
"What are you saying?" questioned de Loubersac, who, growing more and
more exasperated, shook him by the sleeve.
"Gently, Monsieur Henri, gently, if you please," whined the old man,
"I was only thinking what is always the case: 'Look for the woman!'"
"The disappearance of the document," continued de Loubersac, "is
coincident with the death of Captain Brocq--so it is supposed."...
He stopped and stared at Vagualame, who was rubbing his hands,
simulating an extreme satisfaction, and mumbling with an air of
enjoyment:
"Women! Always the dear women!... Ah, these dear and damnable women!"
He resumed his serious expression: his manner was decided.
"Monsieur Henri," he declared, "I will find it; but the price is fifty
thousand francs."
"What!" De Loubersac was startled.
Vagualame raised his hand as if taking heaven to witness that his
statement was final.
"Not a sou more! Not a sou less! Fifty thousand is the price: fifty
thousand!"
Henri de Loubersac hesitated a second, then concluded the interview.
"Agreed to!... Be quick about it!... Adieu!"
VIII
A SINGER OF THE HALLS.
"Nichoune!... Nichoune!... Nichoune!"
"Be off with you, Léonce! To the door!"
It was a regular hubbub! An uproar! It increased!
Léonce the comedian had to cut short his monologue!
The little concert-hall at Châlons was at its liveliest. There was not
a single seat to be had. It was a mixed audience of soldiers and
civilians, and the uniform did not fraternise too well with the garb
of the working-man!
This low-class concert-hall was frequented by soldiers, who, out on
leave, would visit the taverns, the beer-houses, and finish the
evening on the squalid benches of this Eldorado of the provinces.
On this particular evening these critical gentlemen of the Army were
less satisfied than ever. There had been three "first appearances," of
poor quality, and they accused the management of having filled the
hall with civilians in order to secure a good reception for these
mediocre performers. Hussars and cuirassiers joined forces and made a
frightful uproar.
"Take the comic man away!"
"He shall not sing!"
Then the entire audience shouted one name, demanded one performer
only.
"Nichoune!... Nichoune!... Nichoune!"
Nichoune was indeed the star of the company!
She was rather pretty, her face was intelligent, and what was rare
enough in that hall, her tone was almost pure and true, and, above
all, she sang popular ditties so that the audience could join in the
chorus. As usual, after every singer, male or female, there were loud
demands for Nichoune. Her admirers were merciless: they had no
consideration for her fatigue: they would have kept her on the
platform from eight o'clock till midnight!
The manager rushed to Nichoune's dressing-room.
"Come! Come at once! They will smash up everything if you do not hurry
on."
Nichoune got up.
"Ah, ha! If I don't get a rise after this--well, I shall be off! You
will see! They will have to have me back, too!"
The manager showed by a shrug of the shoulders that this was a matter
of profound indifference to him.
"Come on to the platform, my dear! And be quick about it!"
Nichoune raced down the stairs and appeared before the clamouring
crowd panting. At sight of her, calm succeeded storm: the idol was
going to sing!
Nichoune swaggered down the stage and, planting herself close to the
footlights, flung the title of her song at the delighted audience in
strident tones.
"_Les Inquiets!_... Music by Delmet.... Words also.... It is I who
sing it!"
Whilst Nichoune began her song, hands on hips, she scrutinised her
audience, bestowing little smiles on her particular admirers. She
could not have been in her best form, because when about to start her
third verse she suffered a lapse of memory, hesitated, and started the
fourth. This passed unnoticed by her audience, who gave her a
vociferous ovation at the close.
"The programme! the programme!" they yelled.
As a rule Nichoune would disdainfully refuse to go down among the
audience. This evening, however, she nodded a "Yes," and, taking a
pile of little programmes from the wings, she descended the few steps
which led from the stage to the body of the hall. Twenty hands were
outstretched to help her down. She pushed them aside with mocking
looks. Shouts of admiration, compliments, clamourous declarations of
love were rained on her by the soldiers she had charmed and now swung
past with a provocative swish of her skirt and a smile of disdain.
Nichoune went on her way, bent on getting rid of her burden of
programmes with all speed.
Just as another singer appeared on the platform, Nichoune reached the
last row of chairs, and was about to leave, when she heard her name
uttered in a low voice by a man enveloped in a large cloak.
He was standing, and was leaning against the wall at the extreme end
of the concert-room: he was an aged man.
Nichoune hesitated, searching with her eyes for the person who had
called her in a low, penetrating voice. She was about to continue on
her way, when the old fellow half opened his cloak for an instant to
give her a glimpse of a bulky kind of a box which was slung across his
chest.
Immediately the singer went straight towards him.
"A programme?" she asked him in a loud voice.
He gave an affirmative nod for all the world to see: then whispered
low.
"Go home directly the concert is over! I must speak to you!"
"Very good," replied the singer in a submissive tone.
Then aloud she queried:
"You are a musician, are you?"
The man in the cloak gave answer audibly:
"Yes, my dear, I am a musician also, but not of your sort! It's not
gaiety I deal in!" With that, the unknown displayed an accordion which
was slung across his chest.
* * * * *
Nichoune hurried to her dressing-room. She must get away before her
admirers demanded her reappearance on the platform. The old man
quitted the establishment. Stepping out of the vestibule, dimly
lighted by a flickering jet of gas, he strode along the narrow and
tortuous streets of Châlons at a great pace. This pedestrian seemed
out of humour: he marched along, bent beneath the weight of his
accordion, tapping the road violently with the point of his long
climbing stick. Taking a circuitous route, he at last reached a sort
of little inn. It appeared a poor kind of a place, but clean. The old
fellow entered with a resolute air. The porter, half asleep, offered
him a candle which he lit with a twist of paper, kindled at the
gas-jet. The old man mounted the stairs to his room and closed the
door carefully. Having satisfied himself that the window shutters were
fastened, he took off his cloak, lit his lamp, drew up a chair, and
leaned his elbow on the table. The light fell on his face, and it was
easy to recognise the man who had spoken to the mistress of Corporal
Vinson: he was none other than Vagualame, the beggar-assassin.
Before long there was a knock at the door.
"Who is there?"
"I ... Nichoune!"
Vagualame rose and opened to her.
"Come in, my dear!" Vagualame was now the amiable friend.
He looked with delight at the pretty little face of his visitor.
"As pretty as ever, my dear! Prettier than ever!" he cried.
He stopped flattery: the singer evidently disliked it. She seated
herself on the edge of a sofa and stared at him.
"I don't suppose you have come to Châlons just to tell me that!
Nothing serious?"
Vagualame shrugged his shoulders.
"No, no! Why, in Heaven's name, are you always so frightened?"
"That's all very well. It's jolly dangerous, let me tell you."
"Dangerous!" repeated Vagualame contemptuously. "Absurd! You are
joking! It's dangerous for imbeciles--not for anyone else! Not a soul
would ever suspect that pretty Nichoune is the 'letter-box'--the
intermediary between me and 'Roubaix.'"
"You are going to give me something for Roubaix again?" Nichoune did
not look as if Vagualame's assertion had relieved her fears.
Vagualame evaded a direct answer.
"You have not seen him for a week?"
"Roubaix? No."...
"And Nancy?"
"Nor Nancy."
"Well," said he, after a moment's reflection, "that does not matter in
the least! I can now tell you that Belfort will certainly pass this
way to-morrow morning."...
"Belfort? But he is not due then!"
"Belfort has no fixed time," replied Vagualame sharply. "I have
already told you that Belfort is his own master: his is a divisional."
"A divisional? What exactly is a divisional?" demanded the singer.
"Now you are asking questions," objected Vagualame. His tone was
harsh. "That is not allowed, Nichoune! I have told you so before....
What you do not know you must not try to discover.... I myself do not
know all the ins and outs of the organisation!"
He continued in a less severe tone:
"In any case Belfort passes this way to-morrow between eleven o'clock
and noon.... He does not know me--is not aware of my existence.... It
is through an indirect course that I learned he was coming; also that
he would have something to say to you.... Will you, therefore, hand
him this envelope?"
Vagualame drew from the inside pocket of his short coat a large packet
sealed with red wax.
"Be very careful! This document is important--has been difficult to
obtain--extremely difficult!... On no account must it go astray!...
Tell Belfort that it must be handed over as quickly as possible....
Well?"
Nichoune did not take the packet Vagualame was holding out to her. She
remained seated, her gaze fixed on the tips of her shoes, her hands
buried in her muff.
"Well, what is it? What are you waiting for?" Vagualame repeated.
At this Nichoune blazed out:
"What the matter is? Why, that I have had enough of all this: I don't
want any more of it! Not if I know it! It's too dangerous!"
Vagualame appeared stupefied.
"What, little one?" he asked very gently. "You do not wish to be our
faithful letter-box any more?"
"No!"
"You do not want to hand this over to Belfort?"
"No, no! A hundred times no!" Nichoune shook her head vigorously.
"But why?"
"Because ... because I don't want to do it any more! There!"
"Come now, Nichoune, what is your reason? You must have one."
This time the singer got up as though she would go off at once.
"Reasons?" she cried. "Look here, Vagualame, it's better to tell you
the truth! Very well, then, spying is not my strong point! It is three
months since I began it--since you enticed me into it ... and life is
not worth living.... I am in a constant state of terror--I am afraid
of being caught at it. They say: 'Do this--Do that!' I am always
seeing new agents ... you come--you go--you disappear--it's maddening!
I have already broken with my lover ... with Vinson! I don't want to
be on such terms with anyone mixed up in your spying, I can tell
you!... In the first place, there's something wrong with my heart, and
to live in such a perpetual state of terror is very bad for me ... so
you have got to understand, Vagualame--I say it straight out--I don't
go on with it.... I would rather go to the magistrate and put myself
completely outside this abominable business--there! That's all about
it!"
It was impossible to mistake the meaning of these decisive words. Here
was not the spy who sought to increase his pay by threatening to
reveal everything; it was the spy who is obsessed with the fear of
being taken, who no longer wishes to continue his dreadful work--to
follow his nefarious calling.
Vagualame gave no sign of surprise.
"Listen, my pretty one! You are at perfect liberty to do what seems
good to you, and if you have just come in for some money!"...
"No one has left me any money," interrupted Nichoune.
"Oh, well," replied Vagualame, "if you despise the nice sum I bring
you every month, that's your business! But I don't suppose you want
to leave your old comrade in a fix, do you?"
Nichoune hesitated.
"What do you want me to do now?" she asked.
"A very little thing, my pretty one! If you will not go in with us any
longer, you are perfectly free to leave us, I repeat it, but don't
leave us in the lurch just at this moment! This paper is of the very
greatest importance ... be nice--take it, and give it to Belfort--I
will not bother you again after this."...
Nichoune held out her hand, but it was with an ill grace.
"Oh, all right!" said she. "Give me the thing! All the same, you know
now that it is the very last time you are to apply to me!"
Then she added, laughing in her usual hail-fellow-well-met way, and
pressing the old fellow's hand as she moved towards the door:
"I don't mean to be the letter-box of Châlons any more: that's
ended--the last collection has been made!"
Nichoune departed. Vagualame wished her a cordial "Good night"; then,
locking the door, he became absorbed in his reflections.
* * * * *
Towards five o'clock in the afternoon of the day following his private
talk with Nichoune, Vagualame accosted the proprietor of a little inn
situated at the extreme end of the town, and far removed from the
tavern where he had passed the night.
"Mademoiselle Nichoune is not in, is she?"
"No, my good man--what do you want with her?"
Vagualame gave a little laugh.
"Has she not told you, then, that she was expecting someone from her
part of the country to call on her?"
The innkeeper was leaning carelessly against the wall. He straightened
himself a little.
"Yes, Mademoiselle Nichoune has told us that an old musician would
call to see her this afternoon, and that we must ask him to wait."...
"Ah, she's a good, kind little thing! How courageous! What a worker!"
Vagualame seemed to be speaking to himself.
"You know her very well, then?" asked the puzzled innkeeper.
"I should think I did!" protested the old fellow. "Why, it was I who
taught her to sing!... Do you think she will be long, my little
Nichoune?"
"I don't fancy so! If you would like to come in and wait for her in
her room, you will find it at the end of the corridor. It's not
locked.... You will find some picture papers on her table."
"Thank you, kind sir," said Vagualame after a moment's hesitation. "I
will go in and rest for a few minutes," and, hobbling along, he gained
the singer's room. The moment he was inside, and the door safely shut,
his whole attitude changed. He looked eagerly about him.
"If there is anything, where is it likely to be?"... He considered.
"Why, in the mattress, of course!"
He drew from some hiding-place in his garments a long needle, and
began to probe the mattress of Nichoune's bed very carefully.
"Ha, ha!" cried he, suddenly. The needle had come in contact with
something difficult to penetrate. "I wager it's what I am after!"
Vagualame slipped his hand, spare and delicately formed, under the
counterpane.
"Little idiot!" he exclaimed in a satisfied tone. "She has not even
hidden it inside the mattress! She has just slipped it in between the
palliasse, and the hair mattress on top--why, she's a child!"
He drew out two envelopes and eagerly read the addresses.
"Oh," cried he, "this is more serious than I thought!... Action must
be taken at once!... Nichoune! Nichoune! you are about to play a
dangerous game, a game which is likely to cost you dear!"
On the first of the envelopes Vagualame had read one word:
"_Belfort._"
This was the document he had handed over to the actress the night
before. After all, he was not much astonished to find that Nichoune
had not passed the letter on. But the other envelope bore an address
which Vagualame gazed at reflectively.
"Monsieur Bonnett,
Police Magistrate."
"She is selling us, by Jove!" he murmured. "There's not a doubt of it!
The little wretch!... She has scruples, has she!... Her conscience
reproaches her! I am going to give her a lesson--one of my own sort!"
Vagualame was turning the letter over and over.
"I must know its contents," he went on.... "Ah, I shall manage to get
hold of this little paper, to-morrow morning, when."...
Vagualame's murmured monologue came to an abrupt conclusion.
"That's her voice!" he exclaimed. With the nimbleness of youth he put
back the two letters, rapidly drew from his pocket a bundle of
letters; with marvellous ability forced open a table drawer, and mixed
them with others Nichoune had placed there.
"There, my little dear!" said he, aloud. "There's something to do
honour to your memory!"
He closed the drawer in a second. He had barely time to seat himself
in an arm-chair near his accordion, lying on the floor, when Nichoune
entered.
"Good day!" cried she.
Vagualame pretended to wake up with a start.
"Ha, ha! Good day, Nichoune! Tell me, you have not seen Belfort? Eh?"
"How do you know that?" demanded Nichoune, on the defensive. She
looked surprised.
"I have just met him.... He told me that he had not come across you at
the usual meeting-place."
Nichoune lowered her head.
"I thought I was being followed ... so, as you can understand, I did
not go."
Vagualame nodded approval.
"Good! Quite right! After all, it is not otherwise of importance. You
must give me back my envelope now!"
"You want it?"
"Why, of course!"
Nichoune hesitated a second.
"Just fancy, Vagualame, I took the precaution to hide it between my
two mattresses! Wait!... Here it is!"
Nichoune held out his letter.
"Thank you, my dear!"
Vagualame looked as if the returning of the document was a matter of the
most perfect indifference to him. He gazed hard at Nichoune--stared so
fixedly at her that she demanded:
"Whatever possesses you to stare at me like that?"
"I am thinking how pretty you are!"
"Well, I never! You are becoming quite complimentary!"
"It's no flattery. I think you are very pretty, Nichoune, but your
hands! They are not pretty!"
The singer laughed and held out her little hands.
"What is there about them you have to find fault with?"
"They are red.... It astonishes me that a woman like you does not know
how to make them white!... Don't you know what to do to them?"
"No! What must I do?"
"Why," retorted the old musician, "the very first thing you have to do
is as simple as A B C! All you have to do is to tie up your hands
every night with a ribbon, and so keep them raised above your
head!"...
"How? I don't understand!"
"It's like this! You stick a nail into the wall ... and then you
manage things so that you keep your hands up-raised the whole night
through.... You will see then ... your hands will be as white as
lilies in the morning.... White as lilies!"
Nichoune was extremely interested.
"Is that true? I shall try it this very night! White, like lilies, you
say?... And you have to sleep with your hands stuck up in the air!...
I shall try it--shall begin to-night."
A few minutes later Vagualame left Nichoune, after promising that he
would not give her any more spy work to do, and declaring that she
should never again be mixed up in any dangerous business. As he went
along the streets of Châlons, the dreadful old man chuckled and
sniggered.
"Hands in the air, my beauty!... Just try that, this very night! With
that little heart mischief of yours! Ha! ha! We shall not be kept
waiting for the consequences of that performance! It will serve as an
example to all and sundry when they wish to write to the magistrate!"
Vagualame's face took on a wicked look.
"I shall have to be as careful as can be when I hide myself in that
little fool's room to-night! At all costs I must get hold of that
compromising letter before anyone in the hotel hears of the death! Not
a soul must catch a glimpse of me--that's certain!"
Those who passed Vagualame simply thought he was an old beggar, an old
accordion player....
IX
WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE
"Come in!" cried Hofferman, who was writing hard.
An orderly stepped gingerly into the room.
"An usher, Colonel, with a message, begging you to be so good as to
step downstairs at once to see the Under-Secretary of State."
Hofferman looked up.
"Are you sure the message is for me?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"Very well. I am coming immediately."
The orderly vanished. Hofferman remained in thought for a minute or
so, rose abruptly, half opened the door of the adjoining room, and
addressed Commandant Dumoulin:
"The Under-Secretary of State wishes to see me. I am going down now."
The colonel passed rapidly along the interminable corridors separating
him from the building in which the Under-Secretary's offices were
situated.
"What can he want to see me about?" Colonel Hofferman asked himself as
he entered the Under-Secretary's room.
Monsieur Maranjévol, an exceedingly active and immensely popular
deputy from la Gironde, to whom had been entrusted the delicate task
of serving as buffer between the civil and the military sections.
Monsieur Maranjévol was not alone in his vast reception-room, with its
gilding and pictures of battle scenes; seated opposite, and with his
back to the light, was a civilian, of middle height, clean-shaven,
whose thin hair, turning grey, curled slightly at the nape of the
neck.
The Under-Secretary rose, shook hands with the colonel, and went
straight to the point.
"Monsieur Juve of the detective force: Colonel Hofferman, head of the
Second Bureau."
The policeman and the soldier bowed gravely. They awaited the
beginning of the conference in a somewhat chilly silence.
Monsieur Maranjévol explained that after a short talk with Juve
regarding Captain Brocq's death, he had considered it necessary to put
him in touch with Colonel Hofferman.
The colonel, who had been showing signs of impatience for the last few
minutes, suddenly broke out:
"My faith, Monsieur," declared he, in a sharp abrupt voice, staring
straight into Juve's eyes, "I am very glad to have the opportunity of
meeting you. I shall not disguise from you that I am astonished, even
very disagreeably astonished, at your attitude during the past few
days regarding this wretched drama. Up to now, I have always
considered that the private personality of an officer, above all, of
an officer on the Headquarters' Staff, was a thing which was almost
inviolable.... But it has come to my knowledge that at the death of
Captain Brocq, you have devoted yourself not only to making the most
minute investigations--that, perhaps, was your right and your
duty--into the circumstances accompanying the death, but that you have
searched the domicile of the defunct as well, and this without giving
us the required preliminary notice. I cannot and will not sanction
this method of procedure, and I congratulate myself on having this
opportunity of telling you so."
During this speech of the colonel's Monsieur Maranjévol stared with
astonished eyes, first at the soldier and then at the detective. The
good-natured and peaceable Under-Secretary was surprised at the
colonel's violent attack, and asked himself how Juve was going to take
it.
Juve took it with an unmoved countenance. He said, in his turn:
"I would point out to you, Colonel, that had it been only a question
of a natural death, I should have contented myself with restoring to
you the documents which had been collected at our headquarters; but,
as you probably knew, Captain Brocq was killed--killed in a
mysterious fashion. I thus found myself in the presence of a crime, a
common law crime: the inquest has restored it to the civil law
jurisdiction, and not to the military: believe me, I understand my
business, I know my duty."
Juve had uttered these words with the greatest composure; but the
slight tremble in his voice would have made it clear to anyone who
knew him well, that the detective was maintaining his self-control
only by a violent effort.
The colonel replied in a tone stiff with offence:
"I persist in my opinion: you have no right to meddle in an affair
which concerns us alone. The death of Captain Brocq coincides with the
loss of a certain secret document: is it for you or for us to
institute an enquiry into it?"
After a pause, Juve's retort was:
"You must permit me to leave that question unanswered."
With all the bluntness of a military man, Colonel Hofferman had put
his finger on the open wound which for long years had been a source of
irritation to the detective force and the intelligence department
alike, when, owing to circumstances, both were called on to intervene
at one and the same time. In cases of theft and of spying the conflict
was ceaseless.
Monsieur Havard, Juve's chief, had talked this matter over the night
before, and his last words of command were:
"Above all, Juve, manage matters so that there is no fuss!... There
must not be a fuss!"
Colonel Hofferman, misinterpreting the detective's attitude, turned
triumphantly to the Under-Secretary:
"Not only that," he continued, "I think there has been far too much
talk made about the death of Captain Brocq. This officer was the
victim of an accident. We cannot discuss it. That is all there is to
be said. It really does not matter much. We of the Intelligence
Department are soldiers, and believe in a policy of results: at the
present moment we have lost a document: we are searching for it:
action must be left to us.... And, Monsieur, I revert to my first
question--what the devil was the police doing at Captain Brocq's--what
business was it of theirs? Really, the detective service is arrogating
to itself more and more powers--powers that cannot be sanctioned, that
will not be granted or permitted."
Juve had so far contained himself, though with difficulty, but now
Colonel Hofferman was going too far. It was Juve's turn to break out.
"Monsieur," he cried, in a voice vibrating with passion, turning to
the Under-Secretary: "I cannot accept such observations--not for a
moment! I have among my papers on the case important proofs that the
assassination of Captain Brocq is surrounded with mysterious
occurrences, and also of the gravest nature. The theory Colonel
Hofferman has just put forward will not hold water--it does not hang
together! To gain a full understanding of a thing one must begin at
the beginning. This beginning I have brought, and I make you judge,
Monsieur, of whether or no it is worth the most careful
consideration."
Caught between two fires, the Under-Secretary looked exceedingly sorry
for himself. Above everything, he dreaded being forced to act as
umpire between Hofferman and Juve. There was no escape, however, so,
with a weary air, he asked Juve to make his case clear.
"Well, gentlemen," began our detective, who had fully regained his
self-possession, "you know what the circumstances were which led me to
the discovery that Captain Brocq had been mysteriously assassinated?
It was, obviously, of the first importance that I should learn every
detail regarding his private life, get to know with whom he had
intercourse, who his correspondents were, find out where he was
accustomed to go, so that, being thoroughly posted up regarding his
personality, I could discover to whose interest it would be that he
should disappear.... I went to Brocq's flat in the rue de Lille to
collect evidence from various sources. I have it all written down in
my case papers. One fact stands out clearly: Captain Brocq was
regularly visited by a woman whom we have not as yet been able to
identify beyond a doubt, but we shall soon know who she is. I am
certain she is a lady of fashion. She was his mistress: the
commencement of a letter written to her by the deceased shows this;
but, unfortunately, he has not addressed her by name. The letter was
begun, according to the experts, some hours before the drama of
assassination was enacted.... It is the mauve document, number 42. It
commences:
"'_My darling_'."...
Juve showed this sheet of mauve letter paper to his listeners. Colonel
Hofferman seemed to attach no importance whatever to it.
Juve continued:
"I should greatly value Colonel Hofferman's opinion regarding the
suppositions I am about to formulate. Well, gentlemen, here is what I
deduce from my investigations.... Captain Brocq was a simple, modest
fellow; a hard worker; reasonable, temperate, serious-minded officer:
a good middle-class citizen, in fact. If Captain Brocq had an
irregular love affair, it was assuredly with the best intentions;
Brocq, who perhaps had not been able to resist his senses, was too
straight a man to willingly entertain the idea of not regularising the
union later on. Is that your opinion, Colonel?"
Hofferman frankly replied:
"It is my opinion, Monsieur Juve. That was certainly Captain Brocq's
character. But I do not see what you are driving at."
"At this," replied the detective. "Captain Brocq's mistress must be
looked for, not among women of the lower orders, but among those of a
higher class, who are more outwardly correct, at any rate, more women
of the world. Among those with whom Brocq was on friendly terms, was
the family of an old diplomat of Austrian extraction, a Monsieur de
Naarboveck. This de Naarboveck has a daughter: she is twenty. This
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine was terribly distressed, and in a state of
profound grief, the day after Brocq's death. I am not going so far as
to pretend that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress; but
one might easily think so."
"How do you know that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck showed grief at the
death of Captain Brocq?"
"Through a journalist who was received in the de Naarboveck family
circle the day after the drama."
"Oh, a journalist!" protested the colonel.
Juve smiled slily.
"A journalist not like the others--it was Jérôme Fandor, Colonel!...
He went to de Naarboveck's to fulfill a mission entrusted to him by
those in high places. The Minister of War."...
The Under-Secretary cut the inspector short.
"We know all about that, Monsieur Juve ... besides the person whom the
Minister wished to learn something about was not Monsieur de
Naarboveck's daughter, but her companion--a young woman named
Berthe."...
"And nicknamed Bobinette!" finished Juve.
"What do you think of her?" asked the Under-Secretary.
Juve's reply was an indirect one.
"The more I think about it, the more I am tempted to believe that
Wilhelmine de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress--oh, in the right way,
in all honour!--and that in the background, surreptitiously, a third
person pushed herself into their confidence was the recipient of their
secret, and on this account she could take a good many liberties with
them. Berthe, or Bobinette, was this third person, of course!... She
is known to have visited Brocq repeatedly.... Now, what was she doing
there--what was her object? Well, we have to get a clear idea of what
happened and draw our conclusions. Remember, Brocq left his flat in
great haste on the afternoon of his assassination; he took a taxi at
the des Saints-Pères, and drove off in pursuit of someone.... Why, we
do not know, yet; but this someone was a woman, and I am convinced the
woman was Bobinette."
"What is Bobinette's social position?"
"Gentlemen, I wish I could define it in a single word, but it is here
that I enter the region of enigmas. Here is mystery on mystery.
Without breaking the seal of professional secrecy, I may tell you that
this woman should be known to me; I say 'should' because I still lack
precise information about her; I await this information with
impatience--I fear it also, for, gentlemen."...
Juve stopped short, got up, and began pacing the immense room. Drawing
up before the Under-Secretary and Colonel Hofferman, he gazed at them.
His manner was impressive.
"Gentlemen," said he, in a quiet penetrating voice, and with an air of
intense conviction: "Gentlemen, if my conjectures are correct,
Bobinette is naught but a girl of low birth--of the lowest--a creature
who will stick at nothing, who has been mixed up with a band of
criminals, the most cunning, the most artful, the most unscrupulous,
the most dangerous band of criminals in all this round world--a band I
have, time and again, pursued, decimated, broken up, dispersed ...
only to see them spring to an associated evil life again, a ceaseless
rebirth of maleficent forces, forming and reforming, a malevolent,
hydra-headed monster, a band, gentlemen, of incarnated evil--the band
of Fantômas!"
Juve became silent. He wiped his forehead.
The harsh voice of Colonel Hofferman broke the silence:
"Hypotheses! True to this extent, Monsieur Juve, that Brocq may very
well have had a mistress--we are all agreed about that--but, in
reality, it is simply romance!"
There was a discreet knock at the door.
"What is it?" demanded the Under-Secretary. The form of an usher
showed itself in the half-opened doorway.
He entered, and, turning towards the Under-Secretary, said: "Excuse
me, sir." Then, addressing Colonel Hofferman: "Captain Loreuil sends
me to tell Colonel Hofferman that he has returned, and has a
communication of extreme urgency to lay before him."
"The captain must wait!" cried Hofferman, in a harsh, authoritative
tone.
But the usher, fulfilling his orders, replied:
"The captain anticipated this answer, Colonel, and told me to add that
the communication cannot wait."
The usher withdrew. Hofferman glanced questioningly at the
Under-Secretary.
"Go to him, Colonel, and return as soon as possible."
The Under-Secretary addressed Juve:
"The Government is greatly annoyed by all these incidents, which are
assuming enormous proportions.... Are you aware that rumours of war
are becoming wide-spread?... Public opinion is in a most unsettled
state.... Things are bad on the Bourse, too--going from bad to
worse!... Really, it is all most distressing!"
With a movement of sympathetic acquiescence, Juve said gently:
"I cannot help it, Monsieur!"
It was noon. Twelve was striking.
X
AUNT PALMYRA.
Early in the morning of the day on which the meeting took place in the
private office of the Under-Secretary of State, the proprietor of _The
Three Moons_ at Châlons was busy bottling his wine. Dawn was just
breaking, and the good man had a spirit lamp in his cellar to throw
light upon his task.
Suddenly his bottling operations were disturbed by an unknown voice
calling him insistently from the top of the steps.
"Hey, there! Father Louis! Where is Father Louis?"
Fuming and grumbling, the innkeeper mounted his cellar-steps, and
appeared on the porch.
"I am Father Louis! What am I wanted for?"
The publican found himself face to face with an enormously stout
woman: a grotesque figure clad in light-coloured garments, so cut that
they exaggerated her stoutness; a large, many-coloured shawl was
thrown round her shoulders; on her head was a big round hat, tied with
strings in a bow under her chin. This odd head-gear was topped with a
bunch of gaudy feathers, ragged and out of curl. A veil of flowery
design half hid this woman's features: though far from her first
youth, she no doubt wished to appear young still. The skin of her face
was covered with powder and paint, so badly laid on, that daubs of
white, of red, and blue, lay side by side in all their crudity: there
was no soft blending of tints: it was the make-up of no artist's hand.
"What an object!" thought the publican, staring at this oddity, who
had seated herself on the porch seat and had placed on the ground a
great wicker basket filled with vegetables.
"Ouf!" she cried. "It is a long step to your canteen, Father Louis!
My word, I never thought I should get here! Well now, how is my little
pet of a girl?"
Nonplussed, suspicious, Father Louis looked hard at this strange
visitor: never had he seen anyone like her! What astonished him was to
hear her calling him by the name used only by his familiars.
"Whoever are you?" he asked in a surly tone. "I don't remember you!"
"That's not surprising," cried the visitor, who seemed of a gay
disposition, for she always laughed at the close of every sentence.
"My goodness! It would be queer if you did not recognise me,
considering you have never seen me before!... I am Aunt Palmyra, let
me tell you!"
The innkeeper, more and more out of countenance, searched his memory
in vain.
"Aunt Palmyra?" he echoed.
"Why, of course, you big stupid! Nichoune's aunt--a customer of yours,
she is! She must have mentioned me often--I adore the little pet!"
Father Louis had not the slightest recollection of any such mention,
but, out of politeness, he murmured:
"Of course! Why, of course!"
"Well, then, old dear, you must tell me where she hangs out here! I
must go and give her a hug and a kiss!"
Mechanically, the innkeeper directed Aunt Palmyra.
"On the ground floor--end of the passage!... But you're never thinking
of waking Nichoune at this early hour! She'll make a pretty noise if
you do!"
"Bah!" cried Aunt Palmyra: "Wait till the little dear sees who it
is!... Just look at the nice things I've brought her!" and, showing
him the vegetables in her basket, she began to drawl in a sing-song
voice:
"Will you have turnips and leeks? Here's stuff to make broth of the
best! It will make her think of bygone days when she lived with us in
the country!"
"My faith!" thought Father Louis, "if Nichoune opens her mouth!"
Aunt Palmyra was knocking repeatedly at Nichoune's door, but there was
no response.
"Well, what a sleep she's having!"
"Likely enough," replied Father Louis, "considering she was not in bed
till four o'clock!"
All the same, this persistent silence puzzled the innkeeper. He tried
to peep through the keyhole, but the key was in it. Then he quietly
drew a gimlet from his pocket and bored a hole in the door. Aunt
Palmyra watched him smiling: she winked and jogged his elbow.
"Ho, ho, my boy! I'll wager you don't stick at having a look at your
customers this way, when it suits you!"
With the ease of practice the innkeeper glued his eye to the hole he
had just made. He uttered an exclamation:
"Good heavens!"
"What is it?" cried Nichoune's aunt in a tone of alarm. "Is her room
empty?"
"Empty? No! But."...
Father Louis was white as paper. He searched his pocket in feverish
haste, drew from it a screwdriver, rapidly detached the lock, and
rushed into the room, followed by Aunt Palmyra, who bawled:
"Oh, my good lord! Whatever is the matter with her?"
Nichoune was stretched out on her bed, and might have seemed asleep to
an onlooker were it not for two things which at once struck the eye:
her face was all purple, and her arms, sticking straight up in the
air, were terrifyingly white and rigid. Approaching the bed, the
innkeeper and Aunt Palmyra saw that Nichoune's arms were maintained in
this vertical position by means of string tied round her wrists and
fastened to the canopy over the bed.
"She is dead!" cried Father Louis. "This is awful! Good heavens! What
a thing to happen!"
Aunt Palmyra, for all her previous protestations of affection for her
charming niece, did not seem in any way moved by the tragic discovery.
She glanced rapidly round the room without a sign of emotion. This
attitude only lasted a moment. Suddenly she broke out into loud
lamentations uttering piercing cries: she threw herself into an
arm-chair, then sank in a heap on the sofa, then returned to the
table! She was making a regular nuisance of herself. The innkeeper,
scared and bewildered, did not know how to act: he was staring fixedly
at the unfortunate Nichoune, who gave no sign of life. Involuntarily
the man had touched the dead girl's shoulder: the body was quite cold.
The innkeeper, who had been driven into a state of distracted
bewilderment by Aunt Palmyra's behaviour, now bethought him of his
obvious duty: of course he must call in the police, and also avoid
scandal. Also he must stop this old woman's outrageous goings-on.
"Be quiet!" he commanded. "You are not to make such a noise! Stay
where you are! Don't stir from that corner until I return ... and,
above all, you must not touch a single thing before the arrival of the
police."
"The police!" moaned Aunt Palmyra. "It is frightful! Oh, my poor
Nichoune, however could this have happened?"
Nevertheless, scarcely had the innkeeper retired than the old woman,
with remarkable dexterity, rummaged about among the disordered
furniture, and seized a certain number of papers, which she hid in her
bodice.
Hardly had she pushed them out of sight when the innkeeper returned,
accompanied by a policeman. It was in vain that Father Louis
endeavoured to get the policeman into the tragic room. He did not wish
to do anything.
"I tell you," he repeated in his big voice, "it's not worth my while
looking at this corpse ... for the superintendent will be here
shortly, and he will take charge of the legal procedure."
At the end of about ten minutes the magistrate appeared, accompanied
by his secretary, and immediately proceeded to a summary interrogation
of the innkeeper; but, in the presence of Aunt Palmyra, it was
impossible to do any serious work. This insupportable old woman could
not make head or tail of the questions, and answered at random.
"Leave the room, Madame, leave the room, and I will hear what you have
to say presently."
"But where must I go?" whined Aunt Palmyra.
"Go where you like! Go to the devil!" shouted the exasperated
inspector.
"Oh, well, I suppose I ought not to say so," replied the old woman,
looking seriously offended, "but, though you are an inspector, you
have a very rude tongue in your head!"
To emphasise her majestic exit, Aunt Palmyra added:
"Fancy now! Not one of you have thought of it! I am going as far as
the corner to look for flowers for this poor little thing."
* * * * *
Either florists were difficult to find, or Aunt Palmyra had no wish to
see them as she passed by, for the old woman walked right through the
town without stopping. When she reached the railway station she looked
at the clock.
"By the saints! I have barely time," she ejaculated.
The old termagant traversed the waiting-room, got her ticket
punched--it was a return ticket--and stepped on to the platform at the
precise moment a porter was crying in an ear-piercing voice:
"Passengers for Paris take your seats!"
Aunt Palmyra installed herself in a second-class compartment: "_For
ladies only._"
* * * * *
The train rolled out of the station.
An inspector was examining the tickets at the stopping-place at
Château-Thierry.
"Excuse me, sir," said he, waking a passenger who had fallen fast
asleep--a stout man, with a smooth face and scanty hair--"Excuse me,
Monsieur, but you are in a '_For ladies only_!'"
The man leapt up and rubbed his eyes; instinctively, with the gesture
of a short-sighted man, he took from his waistcoat pocket a large pair
of spectacles in gold frames, and stared at the inspector.
"I am sorry! It's a mistake! I will change into another compartment!"
The stranger passed along the connecting corridor, carrying a small
bundle of clothes wrapped in a shawl of many colours!... An hour
later, the train from Châlons arrived at Paris, ten minutes behind
time. Directly he stood on the platform the traveller looked at his
watch.
"Twenty-five past eleven! I can do it!"
He jumped into a taxi, giving his orders:
"Rue Saint Dominique--Ministry of War!... and quick!"
* * * * *
Shortly after the unexpected departure of Colonel Hofferman, Juve,
judging it useless to prolong the conversation, had quitted the
Under-Secretary of State's office. Instead of mounting to the Second
Bureau, he sent in his name to Commandant Dumoulin. Although their
acquaintance was but slight, the two men were in sympathy: each
realised that the other was courageous and devoted to duty; both were
enamoured of an active life and open air.
Juve was hoping that at all events he would hear something new, if not
facts about the affair he had in hand, at least with regard to the
attitude which the military authorities meant to take up. Commandant
Dumoulin, however, knew nothing or did not wish to say anything, and
Juve was about to leave, when Colonel Hofferman entered.
Hofferman looked radiant. Catching sight of Juve, he smiled.
"Ah! Upon my word! I did not expect to find you here, Monsieur ...
but, since you are, you will be glad to get some news of the Brocq
affair."...
Juve's eyes were shining notes of interrogation.
"I rendered due homage to your perspicacity just now," continued the
colonel: "you were absolutely right in your prognostication that Brocq
had a mistress; unfortunately--I am sorry for the wound to your
self-esteem--the correctness of your version stops there! Brocq's
mistress was not a society woman, as you thought: on the contrary, she
was a girl of the lower orders ... a music-hall singer, called
Nichoune ... of Châlons!"
"You have proof of it?"
The colonel, with a superior air, held out a packet of letters to
Juve.
"Here is the correspondence--letters written by Brocq to the girl! One
of my collaborators seized them at girl's place."...
Juve scrutinised the letters.
"It's curious," he said, half to himself.... "An annoying coincidence ...
but the name of Nichoune does not appear once in these letters!"
"No other name appears," observed the colonel: "Consequently, taking
into consideration the place where these letters have been found ...
we must conclude."...
"These letters had no envelopes with them?" questioned Juve.
"No, there were none, but what matters that?" cried the colonel.
"Very queer," said Juve, in a meditative tone. Then raising his voice:
"I suppose, Colonel, that your ... collaborator, before taking
possession of these letters, had a talk with the person who had
received them. Did he manage to extract any information?"
Hofferman interrupted Juve with a gesture.
"Monsieur Juve," said he, crossing his arms, "I am going to give you
another surprise: my collaborator could not get the person in question
to talk, and for a very good reason: he found her dead!"
"Dead?" echoed Juve.
"That is as I say."
The detective, though he strove to hide it, was more and more taken
aback. What could this mean? No doubt he would soon secure additional
information; but what was the connecting link? where, and who was the
mysterious person who was really pulling the strings? The sarcastic
voice of the colonel tore Juve from his reflections and questionings.
"Monsieur Juve, I think it is high time we had some lunch ... but
before we separate allow me to give you a word of advice.
"When, in the course of your career, you have occasion to deal with
matters relating to spies and spying, leave us to deal with them, that
is what we are here for!... As for you, content yourself with ordinary
police work, that is your business, and, if it gives you pleasure,
continue your hunt for Fantômas, that will give you all the occupation
you require!... Yes," continued the colonel, while Juve was clenching
his fists with exasperation at this irony which was like so many
flicks of a whip on his face, "Yes, leave these serious affairs to
us--and occupy yourself with Fantômas!"
XI
THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTÔMAS
Leaning on his window-sill, Jérôme Fandor was apparently keeping a
strict watch on the comings and goings of the passers-by, who, having
finished their Sunday walk, were bending their steps towards dinner, a
quiet evening, and a reposeful night. Seven o'clock sounded from a
neighbouring clock, its strokes borne through the misty atmosphere,
darkened by fog: it was a peaceful moment, made for pleasurable
relaxation ofter the activities of the day. Jérôme Fandor, however,
was not enjoying the charm of the hour. Although his attitude was
apparently tranquil, listless even, inwardly he was in a state of
fury, a condition of feverish enervation.
"To be so near success," he thought; "to be on the point of bringing
in a magnificent haul, and then to get myself locked up, like a fool!
No! Not if I can help it! Why it would be enough to make me strangle
myself with my handkerchief as they believed that wretched Dollon, of
sinister memory, did in the past!"
He smoked cigarette after cigarette, raving to himself, yet never
taking his eyes off the pavements, where tirelessly, ceaselessly, a
stream of pedestrians passed up and down the street.
"Was I mistaken, I wonder!" he went on. "Still, I cannot help fancying
that youth--he was fifteen at the most--that sickly young blackguard
of the Paris pavements who followed me into the tube, then took the
same train as I did, who was behind me as I crossed the Place de la
Concorde, who was continually and persistently on my tracks--I cannot
think he was there by chance!... Well, it is no use worrying myself
into a fever over it!"
Fandor found it almost impossible to recover his tranquillity of mind.
Again and again, in the course of the day, he had come across the same
individuals during his peregrinations, which took him from one end of
Paris to the other: was it accident, coincidence, fatality, or was a
very strict watch being kept over his movements? Thus Fandor had asked
himself whether the Second Bureau had been warned of the part he had
played with regard to Vinson? Was he not being watched and shadowed in
the hope of running the treacherous corporal to earth? If the Second
Bureau had decided to arrest Fandor, he certainly would not escape. "I
shall be jailed within twenty-four hours," thought our journalist.
"This branch of the detective service is so marvellously organised,
that should the heads of it look upon me as Vinson's accomplice they
will arrest me before I have time to parry the blow. In that case, the
band of traitors I pursue, and am on the point of unearthing, will
gain enough time to take their bearings, make all their arrangements,
and disappear, without counting that this miserable Vinson, who relies
on my help, will be caught at once."
Suddenly Fandor left his post of observation, shut his window, and
went to the telephone.
"I must put Juve in possession of all the facts up to now, then, if I
am caught, Juve will see to it that I am set free--he will put his
heart into it, I know."
Unfortunately, it was not Juve who was at the other end of the line.
He had gone out; his old servant took Fandor's message.
"Tell Monsieur Juve directly he comes in that I cannot go out, but
that I absolutely must see him. Tell him the matter is most urgent."
* * * * *
It was ten o'clock at night. Corporal Vinson was dressing in haste.
"Plague take it!" he cried. "I mustn't lose a moment if I don't want
to miss my train."
Vinson was dressing in Fandor's bedroom. There must have been a time
when Corporal Vinson was very proud of putting on the uniform of a
French soldier; but at this particular moment his feelings were the
very opposite. However, he clad himself in this same uniform with
lightning rapidity. Careful of his smart appearance, the corporal
examined himself in the glass: the reflection was so satisfactory that
he broke into smiles--undoubtedly his uniform suited him.
There was a violent ring at the door-bell. Vinson jumped: he began to
tremble.
"Who can it be at this hour?" he asked himself. "I was sure something
would happen! I was bound to catch it somehow!"
Vinson dared not risk a movement: he stood rigid, motionless. Whoever
was at the door must be led to think that there was not a living soul
in Fandor's flat.
Again the bell rang, a violent ring: it was the ring of someone who
does not mean to go away, who knows that the delay in opening the door
is deliberate.
"Plague take that porter!" murmured the corporal. "I'll wager."...
Again the bell rang violently.
Something had to be done. Drops of sweat rolled down the corporal's
face.
"By jingo, this business is going to end very badly!"
The young soldier rapidly drew off his shoes and tiptoed to the
vestibule. Through the keyhole he looked to see who was ringing for
the fourth time, and more violently than ever.
No sooner had Vinson looked than he swore softly.
"Good Heavens! What I feared! It's an agent from the Second Bureau!...
I recognise him!... I am sold--there's not a doubt of it!"
Ghastly from terror, Vinson watched the visitor put his hand in his
pocket, then choose a key from his bunch.
"Ah! This individual has a master-key! And I--I have an idea!"
Vinson leaped backwards, just as the agent was putting his key in the
lock, and rushed towards Fandor's study. He locked the door at the
precise moment the agent entered the flat.
"Halt!" cried he: Vinson's movements had been heard.
The corporal's answer was to double-lock the door. "What you are
doing there is childish!" cried the agent. "I have master-keys! Give
yourself up!" Taking a fresh key, he unlocked the door Vinson had just
closed. The corporal was not in the room. The agent rushed to another
door which led from the study to the dining-room. He opened that door,
entered the dining-room; it was empty also: Vinson had fled to the
room adjoining.
"You cannot keep at it!" cried the agent. "You see the doors cannot
offer a moment's resistance! I shall corner you!"
But Vinson, retreating from room to room, aimed at drawing on his
pursuer to the last room of the flat. Directly the agent entered the
dining-room, Vinson, quick as lightning, leapt into the corridor,
crossed the vestibule at a bound, opened the door leading to the
staircase, slamming it behind him.
On the landing he hesitated a second.
"Must he go down the stairs?"
The agent would follow in his track, the pursuit would develop, for,
seeing a soldier in uniform racing along, the passers-by would join in
the running: it would be fatal--Vinson would be caught.
"I'll double back," thought he, "back and up!"
Hurriedly he mounted the next flight of stairs, gaining the third
story. No sooner had he reached the landing which dominated Fandor's
flat than the agent, in his turn, reached the staircase and ran to the
balustrade to try and catch sight of Vinson on his way down to the
street. He did not doubt that this was the soldier's way of escape.
The agent could not see a soul.
"Got off, by Jove!" He was furious.
He was about to descend, when someone, belonging to the house
probably, began to mount the first flight of stairs in leisurely
fashion, someone who could have no suspicion of the pursuit going on
in the house. Very likely the agent neither intended nor desired to be
recognised for what he was: it was quite probable that he did not wish
to be seen, for, on hearing this someone coming up towards him, he
stopped short in his descent.... It was his turn to hesitate a moment.
Then it suddenly occurred to him that this new-comer might be a
resident on one of the lower floors and so would not come higher. With
this, the agent retraced his steps, crossed the landing on to which
Fandor's flat opened, and began to mount the next flight leading to
the third floor.
This did not suit Vinson: he was on tenterhooks.
"If he keeps coming up," thought the corporal, "much use it will be
for me to retreat upwards! He will nip me on the sixth floor! It's a
dead cert!"
Then he had a brilliant idea. He began to walk on the landing with
heavy steps, imitating someone coming downstairs. Forthwith, the
agent, who was coming up, stopped short. He had no wish to be seen by
the person descending either! The only thing left for him to do was to
take refuge in the journalist's flat! Easy enough with his master-key!
He reopened the door, closing it just in time to escape being seen by
the resident coming upstairs.
Vinson, who had not lost a single movement of the agent's, gave a sigh
of satisfaction. He had perfectly understood the why and wherefore of
his pursuer's hesitations; he seemed now in high good-humour; had he
not caught sight of the new arrival! He was immensely amused!
The person who had just come upstairs was now ringing Fandor's bell.
Not getting any answer, he selected a key on his bunch, and it was his
turn to l
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