MESSENGERS OF EVIL

 BEING A FURTHER ACCOUNT OF THE LURES AND DEVICES OF FANTÔMAS

 THE FANTÔMAS DETECTIVE NOVELS

 BY PIERRE SOUVESTRE AND MARCEL ALLAIN

 AUTHORS OF "FANTÔMAS, " "THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE, " ETC. 

NEW YORKBRENTANO'S1917

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY BRENTANO'S

CONTENTS

 I. THE DRAMA OF THE RUE NORVINS

 II. THOMERY'S TWO LOVES

 III. UNEXPECTED COMPLICATIONS

 IV. A SURPRISING ITINERARY

 V. MOTHER TOULOUCHE AND CRANAJOUR

 VI. IN THE OPPOSITE SENSE

 VII. PEARLS AND DIAMONDS

 VIII. END OF THE BALL

 IX. FINGER PRINTS

 X. IDENTITY OF A NAVVY

 XI. AN AUDACIOUS THEFT

 XII. INVESTIGATIONS

 XIII. RUE RAFFET

 XIV. SOMEONE TELEPHONED

 XV. VAGUE SUSPICIONS

 XVI. DISCUSSIONS

 XVII. AN ARREST

 XVIII. AT THE BOTTOM OF THE TRUNK

 XIX. CRIMINAL OR VICTIM?

 XX. UNDER THE HOODED MASK

 XXI. IN A PRISON VAN

 XXII. AN EXECUTION

 XXIII. FROM VAUGIRARD TO MONTMARTRE

 XXIV. AT SAINT LAZARE

 XXV. A MOUSE TRAP

 XXVI. IN THE TRAP

 XXVII. THE IMPRINT

 XXVIII. COURAGE

MESSENGERS OF EVIL

I

THE DRAMA OF THE RUE NORVINS

On Monday, April 4th, 19--, the evening paper _La Capitale_ publishedthe following article on its first page:--

A drama, over the motives of which there is a bewildering host ofconjectures, was unfolded this morning on the heights of Montmartre. TheBaroness de Vibray, well known in the Parisian world and among artists, whose generous patroness she was, has been found dead in the studio ofthe ceramic painter, Jacques Dollon. The young painter, renderedcompletely helpless by a soporific, lay stretched out beside her whenthe crime was discovered. We say 'crime' designedly, because, when thepreliminary medical examination was completed, it was clear that thedeath of the Baroness de Vibray was due to the absorption of somepoison. 

The painter, Jacques Dollon, whom the enlightened attentions of DoctorMayran had drawn from his condition of torpor, underwent a shortexamination from the superintendent of police, in the course of which hemade remarks of so suspicious a nature that the examining magistrate puthim under arrest then and there. At police headquarters they areabsolutely dumb regarding this strange affair. Nevertheless, thepersonal investigation undertaken by us throws a little light on what isalready called: _The Drama of the Rue Norvins_. 

 _The Discovery of the Crime_

This morning, about seven o'clock, Madame Béju, a housekeeper in theservice of the painter, Jacques Dollon, who, with his sister, Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon, occupied lodge number six, in the Closeof the rue Norvins, was on the ground-floor of the house, attending toher customary duties. She had been on the premises about half an hour, and, so far, had not noticed anything abnormal; however, astonished atnot hearing any movements on the floor above, for the painter generallyrose pretty early, Madame Béju decided to go upstairs and wake hermaster, who would be vexed at having let himself sleep so late. She hadto pass through the studio to reach Monsieur Jacques Dollon's bedroom. No sooner had she raised the door curtain of the studio than sherecoiled, horrorstruck!

Disorder reigned in the studio: a startling disorder!

Pieces of furniture displaced, some of them overturned, showed thatsomething extraordinary had happened there. In the middle of the room, on the floor, lay the inanimate form of a person whom Madame Béju knewwell, for she had seen her at the painter's house many a time--theBaroness de Vibray. Not far from her, buried in a large arm-chair, motionless, giving no sign of life, was Monsieur Jacques Dollon!

When the good woman saw the rigid attitude of these two persons, sherealised that she was in the presence of a tragedy. 

Stirred to the depths, she redescended the stairs, calling for help:shortly afterwards, the entire Close was in a state of ferment: houseporters, neighbours, male and female, crowded round Madame Béju, endeavouring to understand her disconnected account of the terrifyingspectacle she had come face to face with but a minute before. 

Sudden death, suicide, crime--all were plausible suppositions. The moreaudacious of these gossip-mongers had ventured as far as the studiodoor; from that standpoint, a rapid glance round enabled them to get aclear idea of the truth of the housekeeper's statements: they returnedto give a confirmation of them to the inquisitive and increasing crowdin the principal avenue of the Close. 

'The police! The police must be informed!' cried the Close portress. 

Whilst this woman, with considerable presence of mind, and aided byMadame Béju, exerted herself to keep out the people of the neighbourhoodwho had got wind of the tragedy, two men had set off to seek the police. 

 _Lodge Number 6_

On the summit of Montmartre is the rue Norvins. In shape it resembles adonkey's back, and at one particular spot it hugs the accentuated curveof the Butte. The Close of the rue Norvins is situated at number 47. Itis separated from the street by a strong iron gate, the porter's lodgebeing at the side. The Close consists of a series of little dwellings, separated by wooden railings, up which climbing plants grow. Fine treesencircle these abodes with so thick a curtain of leafage that theinhabitants might think themselves buried in the depths of the country. 

Lodge Number 6 is even more isolated than the others. It consists of aground floor and a first floor, with an immense studio attached. Threeyears ago, Number 6 was leased to Monsieur Jacques Dollon, then astudent at the Fine Arts School. It has been continuously occupied bythe tenant and his sister, Miss Elizabeth Dollon, who has kept house forher brother. For the last fortnight the painter has been alone: hissister, who had gone to Switzerland to convalesce after a long illness, was expected back that same day, or the day following. 

The reputation of the two young people is considered by their neighboursto be beyond criticism. The artist has led a regular and hard-workinglife: last year the Salon accorded him a medal of the second class. 

His sister, an affable and unassuming girl, seemed always much attachedto her brother. In that very Bohemian neighbourhood she is highlythought of as a girl of the most estimable character. 

The Baroness de Vibray visited them frequently, and her motor-car usedto attract attention in that high, remote suburb--the wilds ofMontmartre. The old lady liked to dress in rather showy colours; she wasconsidered eccentric, but was also known to be good and generous. Shetook a particular interest in the Dollons, whose family, so it was said, she had known in Provence. Jacques Dollon and his sister highly valuedtheir intimacy with the Baroness de Vibray, who was known all over Parisas a patroness of artists and the arts. 

 _First Verifications_

Already slander and imagination between them had concocted the wildeststories, when Monsieur Agram, the eminent police superintendent of theClignancourt Quarter, appeared at the entrance to the Close. Accompaniedby his secretary, he at once entered Number 6, charging the twopolicemen, who were assisting him, on no account to allow anyone toenter, excepting the doctor, whom he had at once sent for. 

He requested the portress to hold herself at his disposal in the garden, and made Madame Béju accompany him to the studio. Barely twenty minuteshad elapsed since the housekeeper had been terror-struck by the dreadfulspectacle which had met her eyes there. When she entered with thesuperintendent of police nothing had been altered. Madame de Vibray, horribly pale, her eyes closed, her lips violet-hued, lay stretched onthe floor: her body had assumed the rigidity of a corpse. That ofJacques Dollon, huddled in an arm-chair, was in a state of immobility. 

Monsieur Agram at once noticed long, intersecting streaks on the floor, such as might have been traced by heavy furniture dragged over the waxedboards of the flooring. A pungent medicinal odour caught the throats ofthe visitors: Madame Béju was about to open a window: the superintendentstopped her:

'Let things remain as they are for the present, ' was his order. Aftercasting an observant eye round the room he questioned the housekeeper:

'Is this state of disorder usual?'

'Never in this world, sir!' declared the good woman. 'Monsieur Dollonand his sister are very steady, very regular in their habits, especiallythe young lady. It is true that she has been absent for nearly a month, but her brother has often been left alone, and he has always insisted onhis studio being kept in good order. '

'Did Monsieur Dollon have many visitors?'

'Very seldom, monsieur. Sometimes his neighbours would come in; and thenthere was that poor lady lying there so deathly pale that it makes meill to look at her. . . . '

 _Jacques Dollon lives_

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor employedin connection with relief for the poor. The superintendent of policepointed out to this Dr. Mayran the two inanimate figures. A glance ofthe doctor's trained eye sufficed to show him that Madame de Vibray hadbeen dead for some time. Approaching Jacques Dollon, Dr. Mayran examinedhim attentively:

'Will you help me to lift him on to a bed or a table?' he asked. 'Itseems to me that this one is not dead. '

'His bedroom is next to this!' cried Madame Béju. 'Oh, heavens above! Ifonly the poor young man would recover!'

Silently the doctor, aided by the superintendent and a policeman, transported young Dollon into the next room. 

'Air!' cried the doctor, 'give him air! Open all the windows! It seemsto me a case of suspended animation! There is partial suffocation. Thiswill probably yield to energetic treatment. '

Whilst good Madame Béju, whose legs were shaking under her, was carryingout the doctor's orders, the superintendent of police kept watch to seethat nothing was touched. The doctor's attention was concentrated onJacques Dollon. Monsieur Agram was searching for some indication whichmight throw light on the drama. So far he had been unable to formulateany hypothesis. Should the moribund painter return to consciousness, theexplanation he could give would certainly clear up the situation. Atthis point in the superintendent's cogitations, the doctor called out:

'He lives! He lives! Bring me a glass of water!'

Jacques Dollon was returning to consciousness! Slowly, painfully, hisfeatures contracting as at the remembrance of a horrible nightmare, theyoung man stretched his limbs, opened his eyes: he turned a dull gaze onthose about him, a gaze which became one of stupefaction when heperceived these unknown faces gathered round his bed. His eyes fell onhis housekeeper. He murmured:

'Mme . . . Bé-ju . . . Je. . . , ' and fell back into unconsciousness. 

'Is he dead?' whispered Monsieur Agram. 

The doctor smiled:

'Be reassured, monsieur: he lives; but he finds it terribly difficult towake up. He has certainly swallowed some powerful narcotic and is stillunder its influence; but its effects will soon pass off now. '

The good doctor spoke the truth. 

In a short time Jacques Dollon, making a violent effort, sat up. Castingscared and bewildered glances about him, he cried:

'Who are you? What do you want of me?. . . Ah, the ruffians! The bandits!'

'There is nothing to fear, monsieur. I am simply the doctor they havecalled in to attend to you! Be calm!. . . You must recover your senses, and tell us what has happened!'

Jacques Dollon pressed his hands to his forehead, as though in pain:

'How heavy my head is!' he muttered. 'What has happened to me?. . . Let mesee!. . . Wait. . . . Ah . . . Yes . . . That's it!'

At a sign from the doctor, the superintendent had stationed himselfbeside the bed, behind the young painter. 

Keeping a finger on his patient's pulse, the doctor asked him, in afatherly fashion, to tell him all about it. 

'It is like this, ' replied Jacques Dollon. . . . 'Yesterday evening I wassitting in my arm-chair reading. It was getting late. I had been workinghard. . . . I was tired. . . . All of a sudden I was surrounded by masked men, clothed in long black garments: they flung themselves on me. Before Icould make a movement I was gagged, bound with cords. . . . I feltsomething pointed driven into my leg--into my arm. . . . Then anoverpowering drowsiness overcame me, the strangest visions passed beforemy eyes; I lost consciousness rapidly. . . . I wanted to move, to cryout . . . In vain . . . There was no strength in me . . . Powerless . . . Andthat's all!'

'Is there nothing more?' asked the doctor. 

After a minute's reflection Jacques answered:

'That is all. '

He now seemed fully awake. He moved: the movement was evidently painful:'It hurts, ' he said, instinctively putting his hand on his left thigh. 

'Let us see what is wrong, ' said the doctor, and was preparing toexamine the place when a voice from the studio called:

'Monsieur!'

It was Monsieur Agram's secretary. The magistrate left his post by thebed and went into the studio. 

'Monsieur, ' said the secretary, 'I have just found this paper under thechair in which Monsieur Dollon was: will you acquaint yourself with itscontents?'

The magistrate seized the paper: it was a letter, couched in thefollowing terms:

 _Dear Madame, _

 _If you do not fear to climb the heights of Montmartre some evening, will you come to see the painted pottery I am preparing for the Salon: you will be welcome, and will confer on us a great pleasure. I say 'us, ' because I have excellent news of Elizabeth, who is returning shortly: perhaps she will be here to receive you with me. _

 _I am your respectful and devoted_ _Jacques Dollon. _

The magistrate was frowning as he handed back the letter to hissecretary, saying: 'Keep it carefully. ' Then he went into the bedroom, where the doctor was talking to the invalid. The doctor turned toMonsieur Agram:

'Monsieur Dollon has just asked me who you are: I did not think I oughtto hide from him that you are a superintendent of police, monsieur. '

'Ah!' cried Jacques Dollon. 'Can you help me to discover what happenedto me last night?'

'You have just told us yourself, monsieur, ' replied themagistrate. . . . 'But have you nothing further to tell us? Can you notrecollect whether or no you had a visitor before the arrival of themen who attacked you?'

'Why, no, monsieur, no one called. '

The doctor here intervened:

'The pain in the leg, Monsieur Dollon complained of, need not cause anyanxiety. It is a very slight superficial wound. A slight swelling abovethe broken skin possibly indicates an intra-muscular puncture, whichmight have been made by someone unaccustomed to such operations, for itis a clumsy performance. It is a queer business!. . . '

Monsieur Agram, who had been steadily observing Jacques Dollon, persisted:

'Is there not a gap, monsieur, in your recollections of whatoccurred?. . . Were you quite alone yesterday evening? Were you notexpecting anyone?. . . Are you certain that you did not have a visitor?Did not someone pay you a visit--someone you had asked to come and seeyou?'

Jacques Dollon opened his eyes--eyes of stupefaction--and stared at thesuperintendent:

'No, monsieur. '

'It is that----' went on Monsieur Agram. Then stopping short, anddrawing the doctor aside, he asked:

'Do you consider him in a fit state to bear a severe moral shock?. . . Aconfrontation?'

The doctor glanced at his patient:

'He appears to me to be quite himself again: you can act as you see fit, monsieur. '

Jacques Dollon, astonished at this confabulation, and vaguely uneasy, was, in fact, able to get up without help. 

'Be good enough to go into your studio, monsieur, ' said the magistrate. 

Jacques Dollon complied without a word. No sooner did he cross thethreshold than he recoiled, terror-struck. 

He was shaking from head to foot; his lips were quivering; every featureexpressed horrified shrinking from the spectacle confronting him. 

'The--the--the Baroness de Vibray!' he barely articulated: 'how can itbe possible?'

The superintendent of police did not lose a single movement made by theyoung painter, keeping a lynx-eyed watch on every expression thatflitted across his countenance. He said:

'It certainly is the Baroness de Vibray, dead--assassinated, no doubt. How do you explain that?'

'But, ' retorted Jacques Dollon, who appeared overwhelmed: 'I do notknow! I do not understand!'

The magistrate replied:

'Yet, did you not invite her to your studio? Had you not asked her tocome some evening soon? Had you not certain pieces of painted pottery toshow her?'

'That is so, ' confessed the painter: 'but I was not aware. . . . I did notknow. . . . ' He seemed about to faint. The doctor made him sit down in thechair where he had been found unconscious. Whilst he was recovering, Monsieur Agram continued his investigations. He opened a littlecupboard, in which were several poisonous powders: this was shown by thewriting on the flasks containing them. He spoke to the doctor, takingcare that Jacques Dollon should not overhear him:

'Did you not say that this woman's death is due to poison?'

'It certainly looks like it. . . . A post-mortem will . . . '

 _The Arrest_

Interrupting the doctor, Monsieur Agram went up to Jacques Dollon:

'In the exercise of your profession, monsieur, do you not make use ofvarious poisons, of which you have a reserve supply here?'

'That is so, ' confirmed Jacques Dollon, in a faint voice: 'But it is avery long time since I employed any of them. '

'Very good, monsieur. '

Monsieur Agram now made Madame Béju leave the room. He asked her totransmit an order to his policemen: they were to drive back the crowd. Soon a cab brought by a constable entered the Close, and drew up beforethe door of Number 6. 

Jacques Dollon, supported by two people, descended and entered the cab. 

Immediately a rumour spread that he had been arrested. 

This rumour was correct. 

 _Our Inquiry--Silence at Police Headquarters--Probable Motives of the Crime_

Such are the details referring to this strange affair, which we havebeen able to procure from those who were present. But the motives whichdetermined the arrest of Monsieur Dollon are obscure. 

There are, however, two suspicious facts. The first is the puncture madein Monsieur Jacques Dollon's left leg: this puncture is aggravated by ascratch. According to the doctors, soporific, injected into the humanbody by the de Pravaz syringe, acts violently and efficaciously. It isbeyond a doubt that Monsieur Jacques Dollon has been renderedunconscious in this manner. 

To begin with, the painter's first version was considered the true one, namely, that he had been surprised by robbers, who rendered himunconscious; but, on reflection, this explanation would not hold water. Murderous house-thieves do not send people to sleep: they kill them. Addto this that nothing has been stolen from Monsieur Dollon: therefore, mere robbery was not the motive of the crime. 

Besides, Monsieur Dollon maintained that he was alone; yet at that timeMadame de Vibray was in his studio, and was there precisely because theartist himself had asked her to come. We know that the Baroness deVibray, who was very wealthy, took a particular interest in this youngman and his sister. 

We should consider ourselves to blame, did we not now remind our readersthat the names of those personages--Dollon, Vibray--implicated in thedrama of the rue Norvins, have already figured in the chronicles ofcrimes, both recent and celebrated. 

Thus the assassination of the Marquise de Langrune cannot have beenforgotten, an assassination which has remained a mystery, which wasperpetrated a few years ago, and brought into prominence thepersonalities of Monsieur Rambert and the charming ThérèseAuvernois. . . . 

Madame de Vibray, who has just been so tragically done to death, was anintimate friend of the Marquise de Langrune. . . . 

Monsieur Jacques Dollon is a son of Madame de Langrune's old steward. . . . 

We do not, of course, pretend to connect, in any way whatever, the dramaof the rue Norvins with the bygone drama which ended in the execution ofGurn, [1] but we cannot pass over in silence the strange coincidencethat, within the space of a few years, the same halo of mysterysurrounds the same group of individuals. . . . 

[Footnote 1: See _Fantômas_. ]

But let us return to our narrative:

Monsieur Jacques Dollon, interrogated by the superintendent of police, declared that he very rarely made use of the poisons locked up in thelittle cupboard of his studio. . . . 

Notwithstanding this, it was discovered, during the course of theperquisition, that one of the phials containing poison had been recentlyopened, and that traces of the powder were still to be found on thefloor. This powder is now being analysed, whilst the faculty are engagedin a post-mortem examination of the unfortunate victim's body; but, atthe present moment, everything leads to the belief that there does notexist an immediate and certain link between this poison and the suddendeath of the Baroness de Vibray. 

It might easily be supposed, and this we believe is the view taken atPolice Headquarters, that for a motive as yet unknown, a motive thejudicial examination will certainly bring to light, the artist haspoisoned his patroness; and, in order to put the authorities on thewrong scent (perhaps he hoped she would leave the studio before thedeath-agony commenced), he has devised this species of tableau, inventedthe story of the masked men. 

In fact, the doctor who first attended him has declared that thepuncture, clumsily made, might very well have been done by JacquesDollon himself. 

It is worth noting that not a soul saw the Baroness de Vibray enterMonsieur Dollon's house yesterday evening: as a rule, she comes in hermotor-car, and all the neighbourhood can hear her arrival. 

It seems evident that Jacques Dollon will abandon the line of defence hehas adopted: it can hardly be described as rational. 

There is little doubt but that we shall have sensational revelationsregarding the crime of the rue Norvins. 

 _Last Hour_

Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon, to whom Police Headquarters hastelegraphed that a serious accident has happened to her brother, hassent a reply telegram from Lausanne to the effect that she will returnto-night. 

The unfortunate girl is probably ignorant of all that has occurred. Nevertheless, we believe that two detectives have left at once for thefrontier, where they will meet her, and shadow her as far as Paris, incase she should get news on the way of what had occurred, and shouldeither attempt to escape, or make an attempt on her life. 

Decidedly, to-morrow promises to be a day full of vicissitudes. 

 * * * * *

This article, published on the first page of _La Capitale_, was signed:

 JÉRÔME FANDOR. 

II

THOMERY'S TWO LOVES

Two days before the sinister drama, details of which Jérôme Fandor hadgiven in _La Capitale_, the smart little town house inhabited by theBaroness de Vibray, in the Avenue Henri-Martin, assumed a festiveappearance. 

This did not surprise her neighbours, for they knew the owner of thischarming residence was very much a woman of the world, whosereception-rooms were constantly opened to the many distinguishedParisians forming her circle of acquaintances. 

It was seven in the evening when the Baroness, dressed for dinner, passed from her own room into the small drawing-room adjoining. Crossinga carpet so thick and soft that it deadened the sound of footsteps, shepressed the button of an electric bell beside the fireplace. Amajor-domo, of the most correct appearance, presented himself. 

"The Baroness rang for me?"

Madame de Vibray, who had instinctively sought the flattering approvalof her mirror, half turned:

"I wish to know if anyone called this afternoon, Antoine?"

"For the Baroness?"

"Of course!" she replied, a note of impatience in her voice: "I want toknow if anyone called to see _me_ this afternoon?"

"No, madame. "

"No one has telephoned from the Barbey-Nanteuil Bank?"

"No, madame. "

Repressing a slight feeling of annoyance, Madame de Vibray changed thesubject:

"You will have dinner served as soon as the guests arrive. They will notbe later than half-past seven, I suppose. "

Antoine bowed solemnly, vanished into the anteroom, and from thencegained the servants' hall. 

Madame de Vibray quitted the small drawing-room. Traversing the greatgallery with its glass roof, encircling the staircase, she entered thedining-room. Covers were laid for three. 

Inspecting the table arrangements with the eye of a mistress of thehouse, she straightened the line of some plates, gave a touch ofdistinction to the flowers scattered over the table in a conventionaldisorder; then she went to the sideboard, where the major-domo had lefta china pot filled with flowers. With a slight shrug, the Baronesscarried the pot to its usual place--a marble column at the further endof the room:

"It was fortunate I came to see how things were! Antoine is a goodfellow, but a hare-brained one too!" thought she. 

Madame de Vibray paused a moment: the light from an electric lamp shoneon the vase and wonderfully enhanced its glittering beauty. It was apiece of faience decorated in the best taste. On its graceful form theartist had traced the lines of an old colour print, and had scrupulouslypreserved the picture born of an eighteenth-century artist'simagination, with its brilliancy of tone and soft background of tendergrey. Madame de Vibray could not tear herself away from thecontemplation of it. Not only did the design and the treatment pleaseher, but she also felt a kind of maternal affection for the artist:"This dear Jacques, " she murmured, "has decidedly a great deal oftalent, and I like to think that in a short time his reputation. . . . "

Her reflections were interrupted by the servant. The good Antoineannounced in a low voice, and with a touch of respectful reproach in histone:

"Monsieur Thomery awaits the Baroness in the small drawing-room: he hasbeen waiting ten minutes. "

"Very well. I am coming. "

Madame de Vibray, whose movements were all harmonious grace, returned byway of the gallery to greet her guest. She paused on the threshold ofthe small drawing-room, smiling graciously. 

Framed in the dark drapery of the heavy door-curtains, the soft lightfrom globes of ground glass falling on her, the Baroness de Vibrayappeared a very attractive woman still. Her figure had retained itsyouthful slenderness, her neck, white as milk, was as round and fresh asa girl's; and had the hair about her forehead and temples not beenturning grey--the Baroness wore it powdered, a piece of coquettishaffection on her part--she would not have looked a day more than thirty. 

Monsieur Thomery rose hastily, and advanced to meet her. He kissed herhand with a gallant air:

"My dear Mathilde, " he declared with an admiring glance, "you aredecidedly an exquisite woman!"

The Baroness replied by a glance, in which there was somethingambiguous, something of ironical mockery:

"How are you, Norbert?" she asked in an affectionate tone. . . . "And thosepains?"

They seated themselves on a low couch, and began to discuss theirrespective aches and pains in friendly fashion. Whilst listening to hiscomplaints, Madame de Vibray could not but admire his remarkable vigour, his air of superb health: his looks gave the lie to his words. 

About fifty-five, Monsieur Norbert Thomery seemed to be in the plenitudeof his powers; his premature baldness was redeemed by the vivacity ofhis dark brown eyes, also by his long, thick moustache, probably dyed. He looked like an old soldier. He was the last of the great Thomeryfamily who, for many generations, had been sugar refiners. His was apersonality well known in Parisian Society; always first at his officeor his factories, as soon as night fell he became the man of the world, frequenting fashionable drawing-rooms, theatrical first-nights, officialreceptions, and balls in the aristocratic circles of the faubourgSaint-Germain. 

Remarkably handsome, extremely rich, Thomery had had many love affairs. Gossips had it that between him and Madame de Vibray there had existed atender intimacy; and, for once, gossip was right. But they had beentactful, had respected the conventions whilst their irregular union hadlasted. Though now a thing of the past, for Thomery had sought otherloves, his passion for the Baroness had changed to a calm, strong, semi-brotherly affection; whilst Madame de Vibray retained a morelively, a more tender feeling for the man whom she had known as the mostgallant of lovers. 

Thomery suddenly ceased talking of his rheumatism:

"But, my dear friend, I do not see that pretty smile which is yourgreatest charm! How is that?"

Madame de Vibray looked sad: her beautiful eyes gazed deep into those ofThomery:

"Ah, " she murmured, "one cannot be eternally smiling; life sometimesholds painful surprises in store for us. "

"Is something worrying you?" Thomery's tone was one of anxious sympathy. 

"Yes and no, " was her evasive reply. There was a silence; then she said:

"It is always the same thing! I have no hesitation in telling you that, you, my old friend: it is a money wound--happily it is not mortal. "

Thomery nodded:

"Well, I declare it is just what I expected! My poor Mathilde, are younever going to be sensible?"

The Baroness pouted: "You know quite well I am sensible . . . Only ithappens that there are moments when one is short of cash! Yesterday Iasked my bankers to send me fifty thousand francs, and I have not hearda word from them!"

"That is no great matter! The Barbey-Nanteuil credit cannot be shaken!"

"Oh, " cried the Baroness, "I have no fears on that score; but, as arule, their delay in sending me what I ask for is of the briefest, yetno one has come from them to-day. "

Thomery began scolding her gently:

"Ah, Mathilde, that you should be in such pressing need of so large asum must mean that you have been drawn into some deplorable speculation!I will wager that you invested in those Oural copper mines after all!"

"I thought the shares were going up, " was Madame de Vibray's excuse: shelowered her eyes like a naughty schoolgirl caught in the act. 

Thomery, who had risen, and was walking up and down the room, halted infront of her:

"I do beg of you to consult those who know all the ins and outs, personscompetent to advise you, when you are bent on plunging into speculationsof this description! The Barbey-Nanteuil people can give you reliableinformation; I myself, you know. . . "

"But since it is really of no importance!" interrupted Madame de Vibray, who had no wish to listen to the remonstrances of her too prudentfriend: "What does it matter? It is my only diversion now!. . . I lovegambling--the emotions it arouses in one, the perpetual hopes and fearsit excites!"

Thomery was about to reply, to argue, to remonstrate further, but theBaroness had caught him glancing at the clock hanging beside thefireplace:

"I am making you dine late, " she said in a tone of apology. Then, with atouch of malice, and looking up at Thomery from under her eyes, to seehow he took it:

"You are to be rewarded for having to wait!. . . I have invited PrincessSonia Danidoff to dine with you!"

Thomery started. He frowned. He again seated himself beside theBaroness:

"You have invited her?. . . "

"Yes . . . And why not?. . . I believe this pretty woman is one of yourspecial friends. . . That you consider her the most charming of all yourfriends now!. . . "

Thomery did not take up the challenge: he simply said:

"I had an idea that the Princess was not much to your taste!"

The eyes of Madame de Vibray flashed a sad, strange look on her oldfriend, as she said gently:

"One can accustom oneself to anything and everything, my dearfriend. . . . Besides, I quite recognise that the Princess deservesthe reputation she enjoys of being wonderfully beautiful and alsointellectual. . . . "

Thomery did not reply to this: he looked puzzled, annoyed. . . . 

The Baroness continued:

"They even say that handsome bachelor, Monsieur Thomery, is notindifferent to her fascinations!. . . That, for the first time in hislife, he is ready to link . . . "

"Oh, as for that!. . . " Thomery was protesting, when the door opened, andthe Princess Sonia Danidoff rustled into the room, a superbly--adazzlingly beautiful vision, all audacity and charm. 

"Accept all my apologies, dear Baroness, " she cried, "for arriving solate; but the streets are so crowded!"

". . . And I live such a long way out!" added Madame de Vibray. 

"You live in a charming part, " amended the Princess. Then, catchingsight of Thomery:

"Why, you!" she cried. And, with a gracious and dignified gesture, thePrincess extended her hand, which the wealthy sugar refiner hastened tokiss. 

At this moment the double doors were flung wide, and Antoine, with hismost solemn air, his most stiff-starched manner, announced:

"Dinner is served!"

". . . No, " cried she, smiling, whilst she refused the arm offered by herold friend; "take in the Princess, dear friend; I will follow . . . Bymyself!"

Thomery obeyed. He passed slowly along the gallery into the dining-roomwith the Princess. Behind them came the Baroness, who watched them asthey went: Thomery, big, muscular, broad-shouldered: Sonia Danidoff, slim, pliant, refined, dainty!

Checking a deep sigh, the Baroness could not help thinking, and herheart ached at the thought:

"What a fine couple they would make!. . . What a fine couple they willmake!"

But, as she seated herself opposite her guests, she said to herself:

"Bah!. . . I must send sad thoughts flying!. . . It is high time!"

"My dear Thomery!" she cried playfully: "I wish--I expect you to showyourself the most charming of men to your delicious neighbour!"

Ten o'clock had struck before Madame de Vibray and her guests left thedinner-table and proceeded to the small drawing-room. Thomery wasallowed to smoke in their presence; besides, the Princess had accepted aTurkish cigarette, and the Baroness had allowed herself a liqueur. Amost excellent dinner and choice wines had loosened tongues, and, inaccordance with a prearranged plan, Madame de Vibray had directed theconversation imperceptibly into the channels she wished it to follow. Thus she learned what she had feared to know, namely, that a veryserious flirtation had been going on for some time between Thomery andthe Princess; that between this beautiful and wealthy young widow andthe millionaire sugar refiner, the flirtation was rapidly developinginto something much warmer and more lasting. So far, the final stagehad evidently not been reached; nevertheless, Thomery had suggested, tentatively, that he would like to give a grand ball when he tookpossession of the new house which he was having built for himself in thepark Monceau!. . . And had he not been so extremely anxious to secure apartner for the cotillion which he meant to lead!. . . Then Madame deVibray had suggested that the person obviously fitted to play thisimportant part was the Princess Sonia Danidoff! Who better!

The suggestion was welcomed by both: it was settled there and then. 

"Yes, " thought the Baroness, "Thomery's marriage is practicallyarranged, that is evident!. . . Well, I must resign myself to theinevitable!"

It was about half-past eleven when Sonia Danidoff rose to take leave ofher hostess. Thomery, hesitating, looked first at his old friend, thenat the Princess, asking himself what he ought to do. Madame de Vibrayfelt secretly grateful to him for this momentary hesitation. As a womanwhose mourning for a dead love is over, she spoke out bravely:

"Dear friend, " said she, "surely you are not going to let the Princessreturn alone?. . . I hope she will allow you to see her safely home?"

The Princess pressed the hands of her generous hostess: she was radiant:

"What a good kind friend you are!" she cried in an outburst of sincereaffection. Then, with a questioning glance, in which there was a touchof uneasiness, a slight hesitation, she said:

"Ah, do let me kiss you!"

For all reply Madame de Vibray opened her arms; the two women clungtogether, sealing with their kiss the treaty of peace both wished tokeep. 

When the humming of the motor-car, which bore off the Princess andThomery, had died away in the distance, Madame de Vibray retired to herroom. A tear rolled down her cheek:

"A little bit of my heart has gone with them, " she murmured. The poorwoman sighed deeply: "Ah, it is my whole heart that has gone!"

There was a discreet knock at the door. She mastered her emotion. It wasthe dignified mistress of the house who said quietly:

"Come in!"

It was Antoine, who presented two letters on a silver salver. Heexplained that, believing his mistress to be anxiously awaiting somenews, he had ventured to bring up the last post at this late hour. 

After bidding Antoine good night, she recalled him to say:

"Please tell the maid not to come up. I shall not require her. I canmanage by myself. "

Madame de Vibray went towards the little writing-table, which stood inone corner of her room; in leisurely fashion she sat down and proceededto open her letters with a wearied air. 

"Why, it's from that nice Jacques Dollon!" she exclaimed, as she readthe first letter she opened: "I was thinking of him at this veryminute!" . . . "Yes, " she went on, as she read, "I shall certainly pay hima visit soon!"

Madame de Vibray put Jacques Dollon's letter in her handbag, recognisingon the back of the second letter the initials B. N. , which she knew tobe the discreet superscription on the business paper of her bankers, Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil. It was long and closely written, in a fine, regular hand. When she began to read it her attention was wandering, forher mind was full of Sonia Danidoff and Thomery, and what she hadascertained regarding their relation to each other; but little by littleshe became absorbed in what she was reading, till her whole attentionwas taken captive. As she read on, however, her eyes opened more andmore widely, there was a look of keenest anguish in them, her featurescontracted as if in pain, her bosom heaved, her fingers were tremblingunder the stress of some intense emotion:

"Oh, my God! Ah! My God!" she gasped out several times in a half-chokedvoice. 

 * * * * *

Silence had reigned for a long while in the smart town house of theBaroness de Vibray in the Avenue Henri-Martin. . . . 

From without came no sound; the avenue was quiet, deserted; the nightwas dark. But when three o'clock struck, the bedroom of Madame de Vibraywas still flooded with light. She had not left her writing-table sinceshe had read the letter of her bankers, Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil. Shewrote on, and on, without intermission. 

III

UNEXPECTED COMPLICATIONS

At nine o'clock in the morning, the staff of that great evening paper, _La Capitale_, were assembled in the vast editorial room, writing outtheir copy, in the midst of a perfect hubbub of continual comings andgoings, of regular shindies, of perpetual discussions. 

A stranger entering this room, which among its frequenters went by thename of "The Wild Beasts' Cage, " might easily have thought he waswitnessing some thirty schoolboys at play in recreation time, instead ofbeing in the presence of famous journalists celebrated for their reportsand articles. 

Jérôme Fandor had no sooner appeared on the threshold than he wasaccorded a variety of greetings--ironical, cordial, fault-finding, sympathetic. But he ignored them all; for, like most of those who cameinto the editorial room at this hour, he was preoccupied with one thingonly--where the caprice of his editorial secretary would send him flyingfor news, in the course of a few minutes? On what difficult and delicatequest would he be despatched? It depended on the exigencies of passingevents, on how questions of the hour struck the editorial secretary, inrelation to Fandor. 

Just as he had expected, the editorial secretary called him. 

"Hey! Fandor, come here a minute! I am on the make-up: what have you gotfor to-day?"

"I don't know. Who has charge of the landing of the King of Spain?"

"Maray. He has just left. Have you seen the last issue of _l'Havas_?"

"Here it is. . . . "

The two men ran rapidly through the night's telegrams. 

"Deplorably empty!" remarked the editorial secretary. "But where am I tosend you?. . . Ah, now I have it! That article of yours on the rue Norvinsaffair, yesterday evening, was interesting--it made the others squirm, Iknow! Isn't there anything more to be got out of that story?"

"What do you want?"

"Can't you stick in something just a little bit scandalous about theBaroness de Vibray? Or about Dollon? About no matter whom, in fact?After all, it's our one and only crime to-day, and you must put insomething under that head!. . . "

Jérôme Fandor seemed to hesitate. 

"Would you like me to rake up the past--refer to what happened before?"

"What past?"

"Come now, you must have an inkling of what I refer to!"

"Not I!"

"Ah, my dear fellow, it will not be the first time we have had tomention these personages in our columns!. . . Just cast your mind back tothe Gurn affair!. . . "

"Ah, the drama in which a great lady was implicated . . . To herdetriment! Lady . . . Lady Beltham?"

"You have got it! These Dollons--Jacques and Elizabeth--did you knowit?--happen to be the children of old Dollon, who was murdered in thetrain--an extraordinary murder!--when on his way to Paris, to giveevidence in the Gurn case?"

"Why, of course! I remember perfectly!" declared the editorialsecretary: "Dollon, the father, was the Marquise de Langrune'ssteward!. . . The old lady who was murdered!. . . Isn't that so?"

"That's it!. . . But, after the death of his mistress, he entered theservice of the Baroness de Vibray, she who was assassinated yesterday!"

"Well, I must say they have not been favoured by fortune, " said thesecretary jokingly. "But, look here, Fandor--like father, like son, eh?. . . If this young Dollon has murdered Madame de Vibray, doesn't thatmake you think that his father was the murderer of the Marquise deLangrune?"

Jérôme Fandor shook his head:

"No, old boy, yesterday's crime was ordinary, even common-place, but theassassination of the Marquise de Langrune, on the contrary, gave thepolice no end of bother. "

"They did not find out anything, did they?"

"Why, yes!. . . Don't you remember?. . . Naturally enough, it must all seemrather remote to you, but I have all the details as clearly in mind asif they had happened only yesterday. . . . The Gurn affair was one of thefirst I had a hand in, with Juve . . . It was in connection with that veryaffair I made my start here on _La Capitale_. "[2]

[Footnote 2: See _Fantômas_. ]

Fandor grew pale:

"And you were jolly proud of it, eh, Fandor?. . . Good Heavens, how youdid hold forth about this Juve! And you regularly fed us up with thisvillain, so mysterious, so extraordinary, who was never run to earth, could not be captured, was capable of the most inhuman cruelties, capable of devising the most unimaginable tricks and stratagems--thisFantômas!"

Fandor grew pale:

"My dear fellow, " said he, "never speak sneeringly or jokingly ofFantômas!. . . No doubt it is taken for granted, by the public at anyrate, that Fantômas is an invention of Juve and myself: that Fantômasnever existed!. . . And that because this monster, who is a man of genius, has never been identified; because not a soul has been able to lay handson him . . . ; and because, as you know, this fruitless pursuit has costpoor Juve his life. . . . "

"The truth is, this famous detective died a foul death!"

"No! You are mistaken! Juve died on the field of honour! When, after aterribly difficult and dangerous investigation, he succeeded (by thistime it was no longer the Gurn-Fantômas affair, but that of theboulevard Inkermann at Neuilly) in cornering Fantômas, he was well awarethat he risked his life in entering the bandit's abode. What happenedwas that the villain found means to blow up the house, and to bury Juveunderneath the ruins. [3] Fantômas has proved the stronger; but, according to my ideas, Juve has had, none the less, the finest death hecould desire--death in the midst of the fight--a useful death!"

[Footnote 3: See _The Exploits of Juve_. ]

"Useful? In what way?. . . "

"My dear fellow, " cried Fandor, in a tone of vigorous denial, "in theopinion of all unprejudiced minds, the death of Juve has proved, provedup to the hilt, the existence of Fantômas. . . . More, it has forced thisvillain to disappear; it has restored peace, tranquillity tosociety. . . . At the cost of his life, Juve has scored a final triumph, he has deprived Fantômas of the power to do harm--pared his claws infact. "

"The truth is he is never mentioned now by a soul . . . For all that, Fandor, only to see you smile! Why--, " and the editorial secretary shooka threatening finger at his colleague: "I'll wager you still believe inFantômas!. . . That one fine day you will write us a rattling goodarticle, announcing some fresh Fantômas crime!"

Jérôme Fandor made no direct reply to this--it was useless to try andconvince those who had not closely followed the records of crimesperpetrated during recent years: you could not make them believe in theexistence of Fantômas. Fandor _knew_; but, Juve dead, was there anothersoul who could know the true facts?

All he said was:

"Well, my dear fellow, this does not tell us what we are to fill up thepaper with now!. . . If the doings connected with Fantômas are frightful, rousing our feelings in the highest degree, I repeat that yesterday'scrime bears no resemblance to them: we can put in a paragraph orso--that is all!"

"No way, is there, of compromising anyone with our Baroness de Vibray?"

"I don't think so! It's a perfectly common-place affair. An elderlywoman patronises a young painter, whose mistress she may or may not be, and she ends up by getting herself assassinated when the young manimagines he is mentioned in her will. "

"Ah! good! Well, I think you will have to fall back on the opening ofthe artesian well. That suit you?"

"Oh, quite all right!. . . If you like I can give you my copy in half anhour. I know who are going to speak at the inauguration ceremony, and Ican add names this evening! You know I am a bit of a specialist asregards reports written beforehand!"

Fandor had got well on with his article: at the rate he was going hewould have finished that morning, he thought with pleasure, and wouldhave a free afternoon. Just then an office boy appeared:

"Monsieur Fandor, you are being asked for at the telephone. "

Like most journalists, Fandor was accustomed to reply in nine cases outof ten, in similar cases, that he was not to be found. On this occasion, however, some interior prompting made him say:

"I will come. "

A few minutes later Fandor went up to the editorial secretary:

"Look here, old fellow, something unexpected has happened. . . . I must goto the Palais de Justice . . . You don't want me for anything else thismorning, do you?"

"No, go along! But what's up?"

"Oh . . . This Jacques Dollon, you know, the assassin of the rue Norvins?Well, this imbecile has gone and hanged himself in his cell!"

 * * * * *

At the exit door of _La Capitale_, in the noisy rue Montmartre, crowdedwith costermongers' barrows, Jérôme Fandor hailed a taxi. 

"To the Palais!"

Some minutes later he was crossing the hall of the Wandering Footsteps(as it is called), giving rapid, cordial greetings to all the barristersof his acquaintance--one never knew when they might impart a specialpiece of information which let an enterprising journalist into the know, or put him early on to a good thing--and finally reached the lobbies ofthe Law Courts proper. He was saying to himself as he went along:

"He is a good fellow, Jouet! The news is not known yet! He telephoned mefirst!"

His friend Jouet met him, with a warm handshake:

"You did not seem to be in a good temper at the telephone just now, although I was giving you a nice bit of information!"

"Yes, " retorted Fandor, "but information which simply proved how muchthe administrators of justice, to which you have the misfortune tobelong, can make egregious mistakes! When, for once, you succeed inimmediately arresting the assassin of someone well known, and are in aposition to bring into play all the power and rigour of the law, you areclumsy enough to give the fellow a chance of punishing himself, you lethim commit suicide on the very first night of his arrest!"

Fandor had been speaking in a fairly loud voice, as usual, but, atimperative signs made by his friend, he lowered his tones:

"What is it?" he murmured. 

His friend rose:

"What we are going to do, old boy, is to take a turn in the galleries!I have something to say to you, and, joking apart, you are not tobreathe a word of it to a soul--sh?"

"Count on me!"

Presently the two friends found themselves in one of the corridors ofthe Palais, known only to barristers and those accused of law-breaking. 

"Come now!" cried Fandor, "your assassin has hanged himself, hasn't he?"

"My assassin!" expostulated the junior barrister: "My assassin! Allow meto inform you that Jacques Dollon is innocent!"

"Innocent?" Jérôme Fandor shrugged a disbelieving shoulder: "Innocent!It is the fashion of the day to transform all murderers intoinnocents!. . . What ground have you for making such a declaration ofinnocence?"

"Here is my ground! I have just copied it out for you! Read!. . . "

Fandor hastened to read the paper handed to him by his friend. It washeaded thus:

 "_Copy of a letter brought by Maître Gérin to the Public Prosecutor, a letter addressed to Maître Gérin by the Baroness de Vibray. _"

"Oh, it's a plant!" cried Fandor. 

"Go on reading, you will see. . . . "

Fandor continued:

 "_My dear Maître_, --

 _You will forgive me, I am certain of that, for all the inconvenience I am going to cause you; I turn to you because you are the only friend in whom I have confidence. _

 _I have just received a letter from my bankers, Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil, of whom I have often spoken to you, who you know manage all my money affairs for me. _

 _This letter informs me that I am ruined. You quite understand--absolutely, completely ruined. _

 _The house I am living in, my carriage, the luxurious surroundings so necessary to me, I shall have to give it all up, so they tell me. _

 _These people have dealt me a terrible blow, struck me brutally. . . . _

 _My dear maître, I learned this only two hours ago, and I am still stunned by it. I do not wish to wait for the inevitable moment when I shall begin to console myself, because I shall begin to hope that the disaster is exaggerated. I have no family, I am already old; apart from the satisfaction it gives me to use my influence on behalf of youthful talent, and to help forward its development, my life has no sense in it, it is without aim or object. My dear maître, there are not two ways of announcing to one's friends resolutions analogous to that I now take: when you receive this letter I shall be dead. _

 _I have in front of me, on my writing-table, a tiny phial of poison which I am going to drink to the last drop, without any weakening of will, almost without fear, as soon as I have posted this letter to you myself. _

 _I must confess that I have an instinctive horror of being dragged to the Morgue, as happens whenever there is some doubt about a suicide. It is on account of this I now write to you, so that, thanks to your intervention, all the mistakes justice is liable to make may be avoided. _

 _I kill myself, I only; that is certain. _

 _No one must be incriminated in connection with my death, if it be not Fatality, which has caused my ruin. I once more apologise, my dear maître, for all the measures you will be forced to take owing to my death, and I beg you to believe that my friendship for you was very sincere:_

 _Signed:_

 BARONESS DE VIBRAY. "

"Good for you!" cried Fandor. "Here's a go! What a pretty petard inprospect!. . . Jacques Dollon was innocent; you arrest him; he is soterrified that he hangs himself! Well, old boy, I must say you make somefine blunders on Clock Quay!"

"It is nobody's fault!" protested the young barrister. 

"That is to say, " retorted Fandor, "it is everybody's fault! By Jove! Ifyou let innocent prisoners hang themselves in their cells, I am nolonger surprised that you leave the guilty at liberty to walk thestreets at their sweet will!"

"Don't make a joke of it, old boy!. . . You understand, of course, that sofar no one in the Palais has seen the letter! It has just been broughtto the Public Prosecutor's office by Madame de Vibray's solicitor, Maître Gérin. You came on the scene only a few minutes after I had sentup the original to the examining magistrate. The case is in Fuselier'shands. "

"Is he in his office?"

"Certainly! He should proceed with the examination relative to poorDollon this morning. "

"Very well then, I will go up. I shall jolly soon get out of this boobyof a Fuselier the information I need to make one of the best reports Ihave ever written. And you know, I am ever so obliged to you for thematter you've given me! But, mind you, I am going to put together a bitof copy that will not deal tenderly with our gentlemen of the robe--thelot of you! No, it is a bad, unlucky business enough, but it is evenmore funny--it is tragi-comedy!"

"For my part . . . " began Fandor's barrister friend. 

"Yes, yes! Good day, Pontius Pilate!" cried Fandor. "I am going up toFuselier. . . . We must meet to-morrow!"

Hastening along the corridors, Fandor gained the office of the examiningmagistrate. 

 * * * * *

Fandor had known the magistrate a long while. Was not Fuselier thejustice who, with Detective Juve, had had everything to do with thestrangely mysterious cases associated with the name of Fantômas? In thecourse of his various judicial examinations he had often been able togive Fandor information and help. At first hostile to the constantpreoccupation of Juve and Fandor--for long the arrest of Fantômas wastheir one aim--the young magistrate had gradually come to believe inwhat had seemed to him nothing but the detective's hypothesis. Open-minded, gifted with an alert intelligence, Fuselier had carefullyfollowed the investigations of Juve and Fandor. He knew every detail, every vicissitude connected with the tracking of this elusive bandit. Since then the magistrate had taken the deepest interest in the pursuitof the criminal. Thanks to his support, Juve had been enabled to takevarious measures, otherwise almost impossible, avoid the many obstaclesoffered by legal procedure, risk the striking of many a blow he couldnot otherwise have ventured on. 

Fuselier had a high opinion of Juve, and his attitude to Fandor wassympathetic. 

Our journalist was going over the past as he hastened along:

Ah, if only Juve were here! If only this loyal servant of Justice, thissincerest of friends, this bravest of the brave, had not been struckdown, Fandor would have been full of enthusiasm for the Dollon affair;for its interest was increasing, its mystery deepening! But Fandor wassingle-handed now! He had had a miraculous escape from the bomb whichhad blown up Lady Beltham's house on that tragic day when Juve had allbut laid hands on Fantômas!

But Fandor would not allow himself to become disheartened--never that!In the school of his vanished friend he had learned to give himself upwith single-minded devotion to any task he took up; his solesatisfaction being duty well fulfilled. . . . Well, the Dollon case shouldbe cleared up!. . . To do so was to render a service to humanity! Havingcome to this conclusion he hastened to interview Monsieur Fuselier. 

 * * * * *

"Monsieur Fuselier, " cried Fandor as he shook hands with the magistrate, "you must know quite well why I have come to see you!"

"About the rue Norvins affair?"

"Say rather about the Dépôt affair! It is there the affair becametragic. "

Monsieur Fuselier smiled:

"You know then?"

"That Jacques Dollon has hanged himself? Yes. That he was innocent?Again, yes!" confessed Fandor, smiling in his turn: "You know that at_La Capitale_ we get all the information going, and are the first to getit!"

"Evidently, " conceded the magistrate. "But if you know all about it, whyput my professional discretion to the torture by asking absurdquestions?"

"Now, what the deuce are they about on Clock Quay? Don't they supervisethe accused in their cells?"

"Certainly they do! When this Dollon arrived at the Dépôt he wasimmediately conducted to Monsieur Bertillon: there he was measured andtested, finger marks taken, and so on. "

"Just so, " said Fandor. "I saw Bertillon before coming on to you. Hetold me Dollon seemed crushed: he submitted to all the tests withoutmaking the slightest objection; but he never spoke of suicide, neversaid anything which could lead one to imagine such a fatal termination. "

"Well, he would not cry it aloud on the housetops!. . . When he leftMonsieur Bertillon, what then?"

"After!. . . Oh, the police took him to a cell, and left him there. Atmidnight the chief warder made his rounds and saw nothing abnormal. Itwas in the morning they found this unfortunate Dollon had hangedhimself. "

"What did he hang himself with?"

"With strips of his shirt twisted into a rope. . . . Oh, my dear fellow, Isee what you are thinking! You fancy that there has been a want ofcommon prudence--that the warders were lax--that they had let him retainhis braces, his cravat or his shoe laces!. . . Well, it was notso--precautions were taken. "

"And this suicide remains incomprehensible!"

"Well!. . . This wretched youth must have been ferociously energetic, because he had fastened these shirt ropes of his to the iron bars of hisbed, and strangled himself by lying on his back. Death must have beenlong in coming to release him from his agony. "

"Can I not see him?" asked Fandor. 

"Why not photograph him?" asked the magistrate in a bantering tone. 

"Oh, if it were possible!. . . " Fandor stopped short. A youth knocked andentered:

"A lady, who wishes to see you, monsieur. "

"Tell her I am too busy. "

"She asked me to say that it is urgent. "

"Ask her name. "

"Here is her card, monsieur. "

Monsieur Fuselier looked at the card: he started!

"Elizabeth Dollon!. . . Ah . . . Good Heavens, what am I to say to this poorgirl? How am I to tell her?"

Just then the door was pushed violently open, and a girl, in tears, rushed towards him:

"Monsieur, where is my brother?"

"But, mademoiselle!. . . "

Whilst the magistrate mechanically asked his distracted visitor to sitdown, Jérôme Fandor discreetly withdrew to the further side of the room;he was anxious that the magistrate should forget his presence, so thathe might be a witness of what promised to be a most exciting interview. 

"Pray control yourself, mademoiselle, " begged the magistrate. "Yourbrother has perhaps been arrested through a mistake. . . . "

"Oh, monsieur, I am sure of it, but it is frightful!"

"Mademoiselle, the dreadful thing would be that he was guilty. "

"But they have not set him at liberty yet? He has not been able to clearhimself?"

"Yes, yes, mademoiselle, he has vindicated himself, I even . . . " MonsieurFuselier stopped short, intensely pained, not knowing how to tellElizabeth Dollon the terrible news. 

At once she cried: "Ah, monsieur, you hesitate! You have learnedsomething fresh? You are on the track of the assassins?"

"It is certain . . . Your brother is not guilty!"

The poor girl's countenance suddenly brightened. She had passed ahorrible night after her return to Paris, and the receipt of the wirefrom Police Headquarters. 

"What a nightmare!" she cried. "But the telegram said he wasinjured--nothing serious, is it?. . . Where is he now? Can I see him?"

"Mademoiselle, " said the magistrate, "your brother has had a terribleshock!. . . It would be better!. . . I fear that!. . . "

Suddenly Elizabeth Dollon cried:

"Oh, monsieur, how you said that! How can seeing me do him harm?"

As Monsieur Fuselier did not reply, she burst into tears:

"You are hiding something from me! The papers said this morning that healso was a victim! Swear to me that he is not?"

"But . . . "

"You _are_ hiding something from me!" The poor girl was frantic withterror: she wrung her hands in a state of despair: "Where is he? I mustsee him! Oh, take pity on me!"

As she watched the magistrate's downcast look, his air of discomfiture, the horrid truth flashed on Elizabeth Dollon:

"Dead!" she cried. She was shaken with sobs. 

"Mademoiselle!. . . Oh, mademoiselle!" implored the magistrate, filledwith pity. He tried to find some words of consolation, and thisconfirmed her worst fears:

"I swear to you!. . . It is certain your brother was not guilty!"

The distracted girl was beyond listening to the magistrate's words!Huddled up in an arm-chair, she lay inert, collapsed. Presently she roselike a person moving in some mad dream, her eyes wild:

"Take me to him!. . . I want to see him! They have killed him for me!. . . Imust see him!"

Such was her insistence, the violence with which she claimed the rightto go to her brother, to kneel beside him, that Monsieur Fuselier darednot refuse her this consolation. 

"Control yourself, I beg of you! I am going to take you to him; but, forHeaven's sake, be reasonable! Control yourself!"

With his eyes he sought for the moral support of Fandor, whose presencehe suddenly remembered. But our journalist, taking advantage of themomentary confusion, had quietly slipped from the room. 

Evidently some unpleasant occurrence had upset the routine existence ofthe functionaries at the Dépôt. The warders were coming and going, talking among themselves, leaning against the doors of the numerouscells. The chief warder called one of his men:

"There must be no more of this disorder, Nibet!"

The chief warder was furious: he was about to hold forth to hissubordinate, when an inspector approached. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"Sergeant, it is Monsieur Jouet. He has a gentleman with him. He has apermit. Should I allow him to enter?"

"Who? Monsieur Jouet?"

"No, the gentleman accompanying him!"

"Hang it all! Why, yes--if he has a permit!"

The sergeant moved away shrugging his shoulders disgustedly. 

"Not pleased with things this morning, the chief isn't, " one of thewarders remarked. 

"Not likely, after last night's performance!"

"It's he who will catch it hot over this business!" The warder rubbedhis hands, laughing. 

Meanwhile, Fandor had appeared at the entrance of the corridor, underthe guidance of a warder. He was thinking of the splendid copy he hadsecured: he was hoping that when Fuselier learned that a journalist hadobtained admittance to the Dépôt, and had seen the corpse of JacquesDollon in his cell, that he would not turn vicious: "But after all, "said he to himself, "Fuselier is not the man to give me the go-by out ofspite. "

Fandor walked up and down the hall of the prison. He had informed thewarders that he was waiting for the magistrate. "How strange life is!"thought he. "To think that once again I should be brought into closecontact with Elizabeth Dollon, and that there is no likelihood of herrecognising me--we were such children when we parted--she especially!Had she any recollection of the little rascal I was at the time of poorMadame de Langrune's assassination?" And, closing his eyes, Fandor triedto call to mind the features of the Jacques Dollon he used to know: itwas useless! The body of Jacques Dollon he would be gazing at in a fewminutes would be that of an unknown person, whose name alone awakenedmemories of bygone days. . . . 

So to pass the time Fandor continued his marching up and down. 

Monsieur Fuselier appeared at the entrance to the Dépôt, supporting theunsteady steps of poor Elizabeth Dollon. Fandor quickly drew back intoan obscure corner:

"Better not attract attention to myself just at present, " thoughtFandor; "I will wait until the cell door is opened. If Fuselier doesnot wish to give me permission to remain, I can at any rate cast a rapidglance round that ill-omened little cell!"

Fandor followed, at a distance, the wavering steps of the poor girl whomMonsieur Fuselier was supporting with fatherly care. 

When they paused before one of the cells pointed out by the head warder, Monsieur Fuselier turned to Elizabeth Dollon:

"Do you think you are strong enough to bear this trial, mademoiselle?. . . You are determined to see your brother?"

Elizabeth bent her head; the magistrate turned towards the warder:

"Open, " said he. As the key was turned in the lock he said: "Accordingto instructions from the Head, we have placed him on his bed again. . . . There is nothing to frighten you . . . He seems to be asleep. . . . Nowthen!"

But as he opened the door, stretching his arm in the direction of thebed where the body of Jacques Dollon should be, an oath escaped him:

"Great Heavens! The dead man is gone!"

In this cell with its bare walls, its sole furniture an iron bedsteadand a stool riveted to the floor, in this little cell which the eyecould glance round in a second, there was no vestige of a corpse:Jacques Dollon's body was not there!

"You have mistaken the cell, " said the magistrate sharply. 

"No, no!" cried the astounded warder. 

"You can see, can't you, that Jacques Dollon is not there?"

"He was there a few minutes ago!"

"Then they must have taken him somewhere else!"

"The keys have never left me!"

"Oh, come now!"

"No, sir. He was there . . . Now he isn't there! That's all I know!. . . Hey! You down there!" yelled the warder: "Who knows what has become ofthe corpse of cell 12?. . . The corpse we laid out just now?"

One after the other the warders came running. All confirmed what theirchief had said: the dead body of Jacques Dollon had been left there, lying on the bed: not a soul had entered the cell: not a soul hadtouched the corpse!. . . Yet it was no longer there! Jérôme Fandor, wellin the background, followed the scene with an ironical smile. Thefrantic warders, the growing stupefaction of Monsieur Fuselier, amusedhim prodigiously. The magistrate was trying to understand the how, why, and wherefore of this incredible disappearance:

"As this man is not here, he cannot have been dead . . . He has escaped. . . But if he wanted to escape he must have been guilty!. . . Oh, I cannotmake head or tail of it!"

Seizing the head warder by the shoulders, almost roughly, MonsieurFuselier asked:

"Look here, chief, was this man dead, or was he not?"

Elizabeth Dollon was repeating:

"He lives! He lives!" and laughing wildly. 

The warder raised his hand as though taking a solemn oath:

"As to being dead, he was dead right enough!. . . The doctor will tell youso, too: also my colleague, Favril, who helped me to lay out the body onthe bed. "

"But how can a dead body get away from here? If he _was_ dead, he couldnot have escaped!" said the magistrate. 

"It is witchcraft!" declared the warder, with a shrug. 

Fuselier flew into a rage:

"Had you not better confess that you and your colleagues did not keepproper watch and ward!. . . The investigation will show on whose shouldersthe responsibility rests. "

"But, sakes alive, monsieur!" expostulated the warder: "There aren'tonly two of us who have seen him dead!. . . There are all the hospitalattendants of the Dépôt as well!. . . There is the doctor, and there aremy colleagues to be counted in: the truth is, monsieur, some fiftypersons have seen him dead!"

"So you say!" cried the impatient magistrate: "I am going to inform thePublic Prosecutor of what has happened, and at once!"

As he was hurrying away, he spied Jérôme Fandor, who had not missed asingle detail of the scene. 

"You again!" exclaimed the irate magistrate: "How did you get in here?"

"By permit, " replied our journalist. 

"Well, you have learned what there is to know, haven't you? Be off, then! You are one too many here!. . . Frankly, there is no need for you toaugment the scandal!. . . Will you, therefore, be kind enough to takeyourself off?" And Fuselier, almost beside himself with rage, raced offto the Public Prosecutor's office. 

After the magistrate's furious attack, Fandor could not possibly lingerin the corridors of the Dépôt. The warders, too, were pressing theirattentions on him and on Elizabeth Dollon:

"This way, monsieur!. . . Madame, this way!. . . Ah, it's a wretchedbusiness!. . . Here, this way! This way!. . . Be off, as fast as you can!"

Presently Fandor was descending the grand staircase of the Palais, steadying the uncertain steps of poor Elizabeth Dollon. 

"I implore you to help me!" she cried: "Help me: help us! My brother isguiltless--I could swear to that!. . . He must--must be found!. . . Thishideous nightmare must end!"

"Mademoiselle, I ask nothing better, only . . . Where to find him?"

"Ah, I have no idea, none!. . . I implore you, you who must knowinfluential people in high places, do not leave any stone unturned, doall that is humanly possible to save him--to save us!"

Intensely moved by the poor girl's anguish of mind, Fandor could nottrust himself to speak. He bent his head in the affirmative merely. Hailing a cab, he put her into it, gave the address to the driver, andas he was closing the door Elizabeth cried:

"Do all that is humanly possible--do everything in the world!"

"I swear to you I will get at the truth, " was Fandor's parting promise. The cab had disappeared, but our journalist stood motionless, absorbedin his reflections. At last, uttering his thoughts aloud, he said:

"If the Baroness de Vibray has written that she has killed herself, thenshe has killed herself, and Dollon is innocent. It's true the letter maybe fictitious . . . Therefore we must put it aside--we have no guaranteeas to its genuineness. . . . Here is the problem: Jacques Dollon is dead, and yet has left the Dépôt! Yes, but how?"

Jérôme Fandor went off in the direction of the offices of _La Capitale_so absorbed in thought that he jostled the passers-by, without noticingthe angry glances bestowed on him:

"Jacques Dollon, dead, has left the Dépôt!" He repeated this improbablestatement, so absurd, of necessity incorrect; repeated it to the pointof satiety:

"Jacques Dollon is dead, and he has got away from the Dépôt!"

Then, in an illuminating flash, he perceived the solution of thisapparently insoluble problem:

"A mystery such as this is incomprehensible, inexplicable, impossible, except in connection with one man! There is only one individual in theworld capable of making a dead man seem to be alive after his death--andthis individual is--Fantômas!"

To formulate this conclusion was to give himself a thrilling shock. . . . Since the disappearance of Juve, he had never had occasion to suspectthe presence, the intervention of Fantômas in connection with any ofthe crimes he had investigated as reporter and student of human nature. 

Fantômas! The sound of that name evoked the worst horrors! Fantômas!This bandit, this criminal who has not shrunk from any cruelty, anyhorror--Fantômas is crime personified!

Fantômas! He sticks at nothing!

Pronouncing these syllables of evil omen, Fandor lived over again allthe extraordinary, improbable, impossible things that had reallyhappened, and had put him on the watch for this terrifying assassin. 

Fantômas!

It was certain that to whatever degree he had participated in theassassination of the Baroness de Vibray, one must not be astonished atanything; neither at anything inconceivable, nor at any mysteriousdetails connected with the murder. 

Fantômas!

He was the daring criminal--daring beyond all bounds of credibility. Andwhatever might be the dexterity, the ingenuity, the ability, thedevotion of those who were pursuing him, such were his tricks, such hiscraft and cunning, such the fertility of his invention, so wellconceived his devices, so great his audacity, that there were groundsfor fearing he would never be brought to justice, and punished for hisabominable crimes!

Fantômas!

Ah, if life ever brought Jérôme Fandor and this bandit face to face, there would ensue a struggle of every hour, day, and moment--a struggleof the most terrible nature, a struggle in which man was pitted againstman, a struggle without pity, without mercy--a fight to the death!Fantômas would assuredly defend himself with all the immense elusivepowers at his command: Jérôme Fandor would pursue him with heart andsoul, with his very life itself! It was not only to satisfy his sense ofduty at the promptings of honour that the journalist would take action:he would have as guide for his acts, and to animate his will, thepassion of hate, and the hope of avenging his friend Juve, fallen avictim to the mysterious blows of Fantômas. 

 * * * * *

In his article for _La Capitale_ Fandor did not directly mention thepossible participation of Fantômas in the crime of the rue Norvins. Whenit was finished he returned to his modest little flat on the fifth floorin the rue Bergere. He was about to enter the vestibule, when he noticeda piece of paper, which must have been slipped under his door. Hestooped and picked up an envelope:

"Why, it is a letter--and there is no name and no stamp on it!"

Entering his study, he seated himself at his table and prepared to beginwork. Then he bethought him of the letter, which he had carelesslythrown on the mantelpiece. He tore it open, and drew out a sheet ofletter paper. 

"Whatever is this?" he cried. His astonishment was natural enough, forthe message was oddly put together. To prevent his handwriting beingrecognised, Fandor's correspondent had cut letters out of a newspaper, and had stuck them together in the desired order. The two or three linesof printed matter were as follows:

 "Jérôme Fandor, pay attention, great attention! The affair on which you are concentrating all your powers is worthy of all possible interest, but may have terribly dangerous consequences. "

Of course there was no signature. 

Evidently the warning referred to the Dollon case. 

"Why, " exclaimed Fandor, "this is simply an invitation not to busymyself hunting for the guilty persons!. . . Who has sent this invitationand warning? Surely the sender is the assassin, to whose interest it isthat the inquiry into the rue Norvins murder should be dropped!. . . Itmust be Jacques Dollon!. . . But how could Dollon know my address? Howcould he have found time between his flight from the Dépôt and thepresent minute, to put this message of printed letters together, andtake it to the rue Bergere?. . . And that at the risk of encounteringsomeone who could recognise him, and might have him arrested afresh? Hadhe accomplices?"

Fandor was puzzled, agitated:

"But I am mad!. . . Mad! It cannot be Dollon!. . . Dollon is dead--dead as adoor nail--dead beyond dispute, because fifty men have seen him dead;dead, because the Dépôt doctors have certified his death!"

Daylight was fading; evening was coming on; Fandor was still turning thewhole affair over in his mind. Every now and again he murmured:

"Fantômas! Fantômas has to do with this extraordinary, this mysteriousaffair! Fantômas is in it!. . . Fantômas!"

IV

A SURPRISING ITINERARY

Jérôme Fandor had passed a bad night!

Visions of horror had continually arisen in his troubled mind. Betweennightmare after nightmare he had heard all the horrors of the nightsound out in the darkness and the glimmering dawn. Then he had falleninto a heavy sleep, which had left him on awaking broken with fatigue. He had given himself a cold douche, and this had calmed his nerves; thenhe had dressed quickly. When eight o'clock struck he was at hiswriting-table, thinking things over:

"It's no laughing matter. I thought at first that the Dollon affair wasquite ordinary; but I am mistaken. The warning I received last nightleaves me no doubts on that head. Since the guilty person thinks itnecessary to ask me to keep quiet, it is evident he fears myintervention; if he is afraid of that it is because it must be hurtfulto him; if disastrous to him, a criminal, it is evident that it must beuseful to honest folk. My duty, then, is to go straight ahead at allcosts. . . . "

There was another motive besides this of duty which incited him tofollow more closely the vicissitudes of the rue Norvins drama, a motivestill indefinite, vague, but nevertheless terribly strong. . . . 

Jérôme Fandor had sworn to Elizabeth Dollon that he would get at thetruth. 

He recalled the girl's entreaty, her emotion; and when he closed hiseyes, now and again, he seemed to see before him the tall, graceful, fair and fascinating sister of the vanished artist. . . . All Fandor wouldadmit to himself was a chivalrous feeling towards her--Elizabeth Dollonwas worth putting himself out for--that was all!

Our journalist spent the entire morning seated at his writing-table, hishead between his hands, smoking cigarette after cigarette, arranging hisplans for investigating the Dollon case:

"What I have to find out is how the dead man left the Dépôt. It is thefirst discovery to be made, the first impossibility to beexplained--yes, and how am I to set about it?"

Suddenly Fandor jumped up, marched rapidly up and down his room, whistled a few bars of a popular melody, and in his exuberant gaietyattempted an operatic air in a voice deplorably out of tune. 

"There are eighty chances out of a hundred that I shall not succeed, "cried he; "but that still leaves me twenty chances of arriving at asatisfactory result--let us make the attempt!"

As Fandor was hurrying off, he called to the portress in passing:

"Madame Oudry, I don't know whether I shall be back this evening or no. Perhaps I may have to leave Paris for awhile, so would you be kindenough to pay particular attention to any letters that may come forme--be very particular about them, please!"

Fandor went off. A thought struck him. He turned back. He had somethingmore to say to the good woman:

"I forgot to ask you whether anyone called to see me yesterdayafternoon!"

"No, Monsieur Fandor, no one!"

"Good! If by any chance a messenger should bring a letter for me, lookvery carefully at him, Madame Oudry. I have a colleague or two who areplaying a joke on me, and I should not be sorry to get even with them!"

This time Fandor really went off, having set his portress on the alert. In the rue Montmartre he hailed a cab:

"To the National Library! And as quick as you can!"

 * * * * *

"By Jove! It's three o'clock! I've not a minute to lose!" cried Fandoras he got back his stick from the cloak-room of the National Library: hehad handed it in there some hours ago. He entered the rue Richelieu. Nowfor an ironmonger's shop! He caught sight of one and went in:

"I should like fifty yards of fine cord, please; very strong and verypliable, " said Fandor. 

The shopkeeper stared at the smart young man:

"What do you want it for, sir?. . . I have various qualities. "

Without the trace of a smile, and as if it were the most natural thingin the world, he replied:

"It is for one of my friends: he wants to hang himself!"

A shout of laughter was the response to this witticism, and the amusedshopkeeper forthwith displayed various samples of cords. Fandor promptlymade his choice and left the shop. 

"Now for a watchmaker's!" said our journalist. He entered a jeweller'sclose by:

"I want an alarum clock--a small one--the cheapest you have!"

Provided with his alarum, Fandor looked at his watch again:

"Confound it all! It's half-past three!" he cried. He signalled to aclosed cab:

"To the Palais de Justice! As hard as you can lick!"

Directly Fandor was well inside the vehicle, he drew down the blinds;took off his coat; unbuttoned his waistcoat!. . . 

 * * * * *

The great clock of the Palais de Justice had just struck four, and itssilvery tones were echoing harmoniously along the corridors when JérômeFandor entered the tradesman's gallery. He turned to the right, andgained the little lobby in which the cloak-room is. He quietly enteredit. Barristers were coming and going, full of business, throwing offtheir gowns, inspecting the letters put aside during the sittings of theCourts. Fandor made his way among the groups with the ease of custom. Heseemed to be looking for someone, and finished by questioning one of thewomen employed in the cloak-room:

"Is Madame Marguerite not here?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur, she is down below. "

Madame Marguerite was an old friend of Fandor's. She was head of thecloak-room staff, and by her kind offices she had often obtained aninterview for our journalist with one or other of the big-wigs of thebar, who generally object strongly to being questioned by journalists. When she appeared, Fandor told her he only wanted a little bit ofinformation from her. 

"Oh, yes, I know all about that! There is someone you wish to see, andyou want me to manage it for you!"

"No! Not a bit of it! What I want to know is, where these gentlemen ofthe Court of Justice robe and unrobe? I mean the Justices of the AssizeCourts!"

This seemed to astonish Madame Marguerite considerably:

"But, Monsieur Fandor, if you wish to interview one of the puisnejudges, it would be ten times quicker for you to go and see him at hisown home: here, at the Palais, it's almost certain he will refuse toanswer you. . . . "

"Don't bother about that, Madame Marguerite! Just tell me where theseworthy guardians of order, defenders of right and justice, divestthemselves of their red robes?"

Madame Marguerite was too much accustomed to our young journalist'sridiculous questions and absurd requests and remarks to argue with himany longer. 

"The robing-room of these gentlemen, " said she, "is in one of the outeroffices of the court, near the Council Chamber. "

"There is an assistant in that room, isn't there?"

"Yes, Monsieur Fandor. "

"Ah! That is just what I wanted to know! Many thanks, madame, " andFandor, grinning with satisfaction, made off in the direction of theCourt of Assizes. He ran up the steps leading to the Council Chamber, and spying the messenger asked:

"Can President Guéchand see me, do you think?"

"Monsieur le President has gone. "

Fandor seemed to be reflecting. He gazed searchingly round the room. Asa matter of fact, he was verifying the correctness of MadameMarguerite's information. All round the room Fandor saw the littlepresses where the men of law kept their red robes. Yes, it was therobing and unrobing room of the puisne judges, the magistrates, rightenough!

"So the President has gone? Ah, well . . . " Fandor hesitated: he mustthink of some other name. He noticed the visiting cards nailed to eachpress, indicating the owner. He read one of the names and repeated it:

"Well, then, could Justice Hubert see me--could he possibly? Will youask him to let me see him for five minutes?"

"What name shall I say?"

"My name will not tell him anything. Please say it is with reference tothe--er--Peyru case--and I come from Maître Tissot. "

"I will go and see, " said the messenger, moving off. 

Whilst he was in sight Fandor walked up and down in the regulation way, murmuring:

"Maître Tissot!. . . The Peyru case!. . . Go ahead, my good fellow! You willhave a nice kind of reception down below there--with those made-upnames. "

Some minutes later, the messenger returned to his post, prepared toinform the importunate young man that he could not possibly be receivedby Justice Hubert. He stopped short on the threshold: not a soul was tobe seen!

"Wherever has that young man got to? Taken himself off, most likely!. . . I expect he was one of those lawyer's clerks--confound them! A nice foolI should have looked if his Honour, Justice Hubert, had said he wouldreceive him!"

With this reflection the messenger went back to his newspaper, notwithout having ascertained that it was four o'clock, and therefore hehad still an hour to wait before he could have his coffee and cigar atthe "Men of the Robe. "

 * * * * *

Through the great windows of the Court of Assizes, carefully closed asthey were, not a ray of moonlight filtered into the court room. And thisobscurity lent an added terror to a silence as profound as the grave, asilence which, with the falling shades of night, assumed possession ofthe vast hall, where so many criminals had listened to the fatalsentence--the sentence of death. 

 * * * * *

When the Court had risen, the assistants had, as usual, proceeded to putthe place in order; then the police sergeant had made his rounds, andhad gone away, double locking the doors behind him. After this thechamber had gradually sunk into complete repose: a repose which would bebroken the following morning when the bustling routine of the legal daycommenced once more. 

Little by little, too, the many and varied noises, which had echoed andre-echoed the whole day through in the galleries of the Palais deJustice, had died down, and sunk into silence. 

The custodians had made their last round; the barristers had quitted therobing-room; the poor wretches who had slunk in to warm themselves atthe heating apparatus in the halls had shuffled back to the coldstreet, and the whistling blasts of the north wind. The immense pile wasentirely deserted. 

A clock began to strike. 

Then, hardly had the last stroke of eleven sounded, awakening the echoesof the empty galleries, than in the Court of Assizes itself, under themonumental desk, before which the justices sat in state by day, a noisemade itself heard, long, strident, nerve-racking--the noise of an alarumclock!

Just as the alarum ceased its raucous call, a loud yawn resoundedthrough the empty spaces of the chamber. The sleeper, who had selectedthis spot that he might indulge, all undisturbed, in a revivifyingsleep, evidently took no pains to smother the sound of his voice, for, after yawning enough to dislocate his jaws, he uttered a loud: "Ah!" Heaccompanied his yawns with exclamations:

"It's a fact, the Republic doesn't do things up to the scratch! The rugshere are of poor quality!. . . I'm aching all over!. . . The floor is strewnwith peach kernels--surely?. . . At any rate, it's a quiet hotel, and oneis not disturbed--a truly delectable refuge to have a jolly good snorein!"

The sleeper sat up:

"What's the time exactly? Let us have a light on it!" A match wasstruck, and a tiny flare of light shone from under the desk of thepresiding judge:

"Ten past eleven! I've still five minutes to be lazy in--and I shallneed all of it, for I've a rough night before me! I can rest awhile, andthink things over!"

The speaker calmly lay down again, trying to find a comfortable positionon what he christened mentally: "The administrative peach kernels":

"Let me see, now!" he went on aloud. "At five in the afternoon it wasknown that Jacques Dollon had committed suicide; was probably innocent, and that his corpse had disappeared. Yesterday, at half-past five, _LaCapitale_ announced that he had a very pretty sister. . . . To-night atten past eleven behold me, shut up quite alone in the Palais de Justice, free to proceed to the little investigation I think of making. . . . JérômeFandor, my dear friend, I congratulate you! You have not managedbadly!. . . 

"Yes, " went on our journalist, "what a joke it is! Here have I gotmyself shut up in the Palais without the slightest difficulty! It istrue, that if the assistant had been obliged to open, and verify, thecontents of all the robing-rooms of all the judges, he would never havefinished. As for me, in my cupboard, I followed all the good fellow'smovements, and he never suspected my presence. If I am to becongratulated, he cannot be blamed for it! There I was, there Iremained, and now I must be off!"

Fandor drew a small wax taper from his pocket and lighted it with amatch. 

"What's to be done with the alarum?" he went on. "To leave it will be tobetray my having passed this way--what of it?. . . In any case, even ifthis reporting job fails, I shall make a story out of it . . . And how canthey accuse me of stealing if I leave my cloak as a gift for hisjudgeship!"

Laughing, Fandor piled up the law books lying on the desk, and placedthe alarum on the top; that done, he went to the principal entrance, theonly one with double doors. He seized the heavy iron bar placed acrossthe door and worked it loose. He drew the two leaves of the door towardshim; and, although it had been locked as usual, he effected his escape, after a considerable trial of strength. 

Out on the stairs, lighted taper in hand, the laughing Fandor closed thetwo leaves of the door with the utmost care, and went forward whistlinga marching tune. His objective was a certain little staircase leading tothe top story of the Palais, and this he mounted with vigorousdetermination. There was no likelihood of chance encounters, for therewas not a soul in the vast building: the police were making their roundsoutside it. Our adventurous journalist did not make his way upwards withstealthy tread--there was no need for that. Having gained the top floor, he went straight to a corner where an ebony ladder was ensconced, aladder which had long been the joy and pride of the grand master of thispart of the Palais, the amiable Monsieur Peter. 

"Pretty heavy!" grumbled Fandor, as he carried it upwards. Under theroof he caught sight of a skylight, rested his ebony ladder against it, and climbed briskly on to the roof. 

From thence Fandor had a view that was fairy-like. Spread out in thedistance were the sparkling lights of Paris. He was divided from them bythe vast mass of roofs about him, by a gulf of empty space, and beyond, by a dark blur--the two arms of the Seine flowing on either side of thePalais de Justice. . . . The mysterious darkness! The fascination of thesparkling points of light!. . . Fandor gave himself a mental shake. . . . This was no moment for dreaming under the stars!

From his pocket he took a tiny, folding dark lantern; from hispocket-book he drew a paper, which he spread out and proceeded to study. As he bent over it, he murmured:

"A bit of good luck that I was able to get hold of a complete anddetailed plan of the Palais de Justice! Without it I never could havefound my way among these roofs!"

He examined the plan for some minutes; made a note of various landmarks;then refolding it, he gained one of the sloping roofs facing the quay ofthe Leather Dressers:

"Now, " thought Fandor, "I must be just above the Dépôt! And now to findout how Jacques Dollon, dead or living, has got out of the Dépôt! No usethinking of a window, for the cell has not got one! Fuselier has reasonon his side when he declares that you do not get out of the cells of theDépôt, nor out of the Palais!. . . Well, now--to carry off Dollon, deador living, by way of the Palais Square, or by the boulevard, is out ofthe question: there are too many people about!. . . To carry him off byone of the exits, on to either of the quays, is equally out of thequestion: there are the sentries, in the first place, and then comes theSeine--then Jacques Dollon has left the Dépôt, or he has not, or, at anyrate, he is still somewhere in the Palais--unless . . . "

Fandor interrupted his cogitations to light a cigarette: smoking helpedhim to think things out:

"It is equally certain that if Dollon is still in the Palais, he cannotbe in the Dépôt, for the Dépôt has been rigorously searched since hisdisappearance, and he would most certainly have been found, had he beenanywhere about the Dépôt. It is also certain that he is not inside thePalais, because the only means of communication between the Dépôt andthe Palais is a single staircase, and it is certain that a corpse couldnot have been taken that way unperceived. . . . Then it follows thatJacques Dollon must have got out by the only ways which are incommunication with the Dépôt: that is to say, the drains and thechimneys!"

"How could he have got out, or been got out by the drains? As far as Iknow, there is no system of pipes large enough to allow of the passageof a man through the pipes which join the main sewers; but, as a set-offto that, there is a chimney--the ancient chimney of MarieAntoinette--which communicates with the Dépôt, and the roof I am now on:it must have been by this chimney that the escape was made! Let us seewhether this is so or not!"

By the light of his tiny dark lantern Fandor studied afresh the plan ofthe Palais, and tried to identify the various chimneys about him. Hesoon picked out the orifice of Marie Antoinette's chimney. After aconsidering glance at it, he remarked:

"That's odd! Here is the only chimney whose opening is below the ledgeof the roofs! It is certain that unless one had been warned, and hadexamined this roof from some neighbouring building, the orifice of thischimney would not be noticed. If Jacques Dollon passed out by it, no onewould notice his exit!"

Our journalist continued his examination, full of excitement. Surely hewas on the right track!

"Ah! Ah! Here are stones freshly scraped and scratched!" he crieddelightedly. "And this white mark is just the kind of mark which wouldbe made by a cord scraping against the wall! And look what a size thischimney is! It's not only one Jacques Dollon who could pass out by it, but two! But three! A whole army! Ah, ha, I believe I am on the righttrack! Now for it!"

Fandor bent over and looked down the interior of the chimney; and, atthe risk of toppling over, he managed to reach something he saw shiningin the darkness of the opening; he drew himself up, radiant:

"By Jove! There are irons fixed in the walls of the chimney to climb upand down by; and, what is more, they bear traces of a recentpassage--the rust has been rubbed off here and there!. . . Yes, it is bythis way Dollon has come out!. . . To whom else could it be an advantageto use this as an exit from the interior of the Palais, on to theroofs?"

Fandor was keen on the scent! Here, indeed, was matter for an articlewhich would bring him into notice--good business for a journalist!

"If Dollon had been alive, " reflected Fandor, "it is evident that, onceon the roofs, he had a choice of three ways to escape: he could do whatI have just done, but the other way about; he could break a skylight, jump into a garret, and lie hidden under the tiles, awaiting thepropitious moment when he could gain the corridors below and, minglingwith the crowd, slip unobserved into the street; or, he could hide amongthe roofs, and stay there; or, he could search for an opening--one ofthose air holes which put the cellars and drains in communication withthe exterior. . . . But I have come to the conclusion that Dollon is dead!Then his corpse could only remain up here; or, it has been put down intosome place where nobody goes. The garrets of the Palais are soincessantly visited by the clerks and registrars that no corpse couldremain undiscovered in any of them. Therefore, either Jacques Dollon'scorpse is somewhere on the roofs of the Palais, or there is some sort ofcommunication between the roofs and the drains--it is obvious!"

Evidently the next step was to search every hole and corner of thesesame roofs. Armed with revolver and lantern, Fandor started on his tourof investigation; but prudently, for he was now almost certain thatthere were a number of accomplices involved in this Dollon affair. 

To go carefully over the enormous roof of the Palais de Justice was nolight task! One has only to consider the immensity of this monumentalpile, its complicated architecture, the numberless little courtsenclosed within its vast confines, to understand the difficulties withwhich our intrepid journalist had to contend. But Jérôme Fandor was notthe man to be discouraged in the face of difficulties: he was determinedto brave them--conquer them! He examined, minutely, the entire roofingof the Palais; he did not leave a corner or a morsel of shadowunexplored; there was not a gutter which he had not searched from end toend. When, after two hours of strenuous exertion, he returned to hisstarting-point, the chimney of Marie Antoinette, he was fain to confessthat if Jacques Dollon had mounted to the roof of the Palais de Justicehe certainly had not remained there. 

Fandor unfolded his plan once more. It fluttered in the night breeze, ashe carefully numbered all the chimneys opening on to this roof; then, one by one, he identified them with the real chimneys before his eyes. He exclaimed joyfully:

"There, now! It's just what I suspected!"

He had discovered there was one chimney not down on the plan: "Whitherdid it lead?" At all costs he must find out--make sure. He hastened tothis extra chimney. Its orifice was large enough to allow of the passageof a man; also, here again, stones had been recently loosened, and arope had rubbed against them:

"What the deuce is this chimney?" thought Fandor. "Another mystery! Thischimney is not a chimney; there is not a trace of soot on it, even oldsoot!"

After a moment's reflection, he added:

"Can it be for ventilation only? But a ventilation hole could onlycommunicate with one of the apartments in the Palais itself, and how thedeuce could they drop a corpse down there? It would have been in thehighest degree imprudent to attempt it! No, it is not by that road theyhave carried off Dollon's body! But then by what way?"

He glued his ear to the chimney. After a while, Fandor could make out avague, intermittent sound--could catch a little, far-away, plashingsound. 

"Can the chimney communicate with the Seine?" he asked himself. "No, weare too far off it. Why this opening, then?. . . Ah, I have it! It is adrain, a sewer, it communicates with!"

To verify that, there was nothing for it but to descend this chimney, which was no chimney! So be it!. . . Fandor took off his coat, anduncovered the long, fine cord, rolled round and round his middle. Weighting the cord with a flint, he let it slide down the chimney, testing the straightness of the descent by the balanced oscillations ofthe stone, and so ascertaining the even size of the opening, as far asthe line would go. This was the work of a few minutes. 

Fandor did not hesitate: he was eager to embark on the descent. 

"After all, " he murmured, "though I may find myself face to face with aband of assassins--what of it? It is all in the night's risks!"

He fastened the end of the cord to one of the neighbouringchimneys--fastened it firmly; then, his revolver handily stuck in hisbelt, Fandor seized the cord, twisted it round his legs, and let himselfslowly down through the narrow opening. 

It was a perilous descent! Fandor did not know whether his cord was longenough, and, lost in the darkness, with only the gleam of light from hislantern to guide him, he was naturally afraid of reaching the end of hisrope unawares, and of falling into the black void beneath. But what heobserved in the course of his descent excited him so much that he almostforgot the danger he was running. To those at all practised in policedetective work, it was clear as daylight that men had passed this way, and recently. 

"Here is a dislodged stone, " muttered Fandor. "And here are scrapes andscratches--fresh . . . And . . . That mark looks like blood!"

Pushing his knees and his shoulders against the wall to support himselfand stay his movements, he examined the mark. There was no doubtpossible: Fandor's sharp eyes and the lantern's light had picked out alittle red patch, which sullied one of the projecting stones in thechimney walls:

"This, " reflected our amateur detective, "only confirms Dollon's death:if the wound which caused this mark had been made by a living body, themark would have been larger, and there would have been others, for itmust come from an abrasion of the skin made during the descent. But thisblood mark has resulted from a dead body knocking against the stones ofthe wall: it is not a mark make by flowing blood, but by blood crushedout. "

He descended a few yards further:

"Here's a find!" he cried. He had just perceived some hairs sticking tothe rough surface of the stones. Again, with arched shoulders and bentknees, he supported himself against the wall, examined his discovery, left half the hairs where they were, took the rest, and carefully placedthem in his pocket-book:

"The police must not be able to say that I have arranged this for theirbenefit, " Fandor remarked. "Cost what it may, if I do not come acrossDollon's corpse below, I must find out to-morrow whether these hairsresemble his. "

Fandor went on descending, and first in one place, then in another, hesaw on the walls of this chimney whitish patches such as might have beencaused by the passage of a heavy mass or body, hanging at the end of arope, and striking against the walls on its way down. Whilst he stillbelieved himself to be some distance off the end of his downwardjourney, he felt a point of resistance beneath his feet. At first hemistook it for firm ground, much to his surprise. He was about to leavego of his cord when a remnant of prudence restrained him:

"How do I know there is not an abyss depths upon depths below me--downinto the very bowels of the earth! I had better take care!"

What Fandor had taken for firm ground was nothing but an iron stapleprojecting from the wall. Fandor seized it, stopped for a minute ortwo's breathing space, ascertained, by drawing it up, that of his cordthere were only a few yards remaining; but he also perceived, and withwhat relief, that from where he was resting, downwards the chimney was, as far as he could see by his lantern's light, marked off into regularspaces by these iron staples which are sometimes placed there for theuse of chimney cleaners and masons. Fandor found them a most convenientkind of ladder. The descent now became easy, and in a short time ouradventurous journalist reached the bottom of the chimney. At first hecould not understand where he had got to. In the thick gloom around himhis lantern's gleam of light showed him a kind of vaulted wall ofmassive masonry. He advanced a step or two with noiseless tread, listening, on the alert. Not a sound could he hear: he decided to exposethe full light of his lantern. 

The brighter light showed him that the chimney from which he was nowstanding some yards away ended in a kind of sewer, evidently no longerin use; and the plashing sound he had heard on the far up heights of thePalais roofs proceeded from a thin and muddy stream of water flowing inthe middle of the sewer channel in the direction of the Seine. Kneelingat the foot of the chimney Fandor could distinguish marks of steps madeby human feet; much deeper and very different indentations were visiblealso:

"Not only have men passed this way but a short while ago, " he murmured, "but they were carrying a heavy burden: there are two kinds offootmarks, made by two kinds of shoes, and the heels have made muchdeeper marks in the soil than have the tips--yes, these men bore a heavyburden!"

Fandor was so pleased that he mentally rubbed his hands over thisdiscovery. His quest was a success so far: he was on the track ofDollon's body! And what copy for _La Capitale_! Then a sad thought cameto dim his delight:

"Poor, poor Elizabeth Dollon! I swore to her I would get at thetruth--and a lamentable truth it is! Her brother is dead: he died in theDépôt: he was done to death--it was no suicide!"

Whilst talking to himself Fandor was scrutinising every inch of theground as he moved forward: there might be fresh clues:

"It's a queer kind of sewer, " he went on. "This streamlet is as much mudas water, is almost stagnant. Evidently this underground sewer way is nolonger used--has been abandoned!"

A horrid spectacle struck him motionless. His lantern made visible astruggling, heaving mass of rats, fighting tooth and claw, enormous ratsdevouring some hidden thing!

Fandor's stomach rose at the sight. 

Oh, horror! Could it be Jacques Dollon's body?

Fandor snatched up a stone and flung it furiously among the uncleanbeasts. They fled. On the ground he could distinguish a mass, a red, formless mass, saturated with congealed blood:

"Assuredly, if the corpse has disappeared, it is there the assassinsmust have cut it in pieces, that they might carry it more easily, andthose vile creatures are in the thick of feasting on the poor victim'sremains!. . . Pouah!"

Fandor moved on, only to discover another pool of blood almost as large, also besieged by rats:

"Evidently I shall find nothing else, " thought Fandor: "the corpse nolonger exists!"

He continued his advance, determined to find out what this undergroundway ended in. His lantern was flickering to a finish when he arrived atthe end of the sewer and found, as he had foreseen, that its opening hadbeen cut in the steep bank of the Seine:

"That's a bit of luck! I can get out this way instead of having to climbback the way I came, up to the Palais roof and down again!"

It was still night; darkness reigned save on the far horizon, where afaint, whitish line indicated the early dawn of an April day. 

Fandor was just asking himself by what gymnastic feat he could regainthe quay, and he was leaning over the opening of the sewer, his bodybending far forward over the inky waters of the Seine. Before he hadtime to turn, before he could regain his balance, a brutal blow frombehind half stunned him, and a vigorous thrust precipitated his bodyinto the Seine. 

V

MOTHER TOULOUCHE AND CRANAJOUR

"Come along, Cranajour! Let's have a sight of what they've given you forthe frock coat and the whole outfit!"

The person thus challenged rummaged in the pockets of his old, much-patched and filthy garments, and after interminable fumblings andhuntings, finished by extracting a certain number of silver pieces, which he counted over with the greatest care, finally he replied:

"Seventeen francs, Mother Toulouche. "

Mother Toulouche showed her impatience:

"It's details I want! How much for the coat? How much for the wholesuit? I've got to know, I tell you! I've got to write it all down, andI've got to see how much I've to hand over to each of the owners of theduds!. . . Try to remember, Cranajour!"

The individual who answered to this odd appellation reflected. After asilence, shrugging his shoulders, he replied:

"I don't know. I can't make myself remember--not anyhow!. . . And it's along time since I sold the goods!"

Mother Toulouche shrugged in turn:

"A long time!" she grumbled. "What a wretched job! Why, it's only twohours since--barely that!. . . It's true, " she went on, with a pityinglook at the shabby, down-at-heel fellow, who had spread out hisseventeen francs on the table, "it's true that you're known not to havetwo ha'p'orths of memory, and that at the end of an hour you haveforgotten what you've done!"

"That's right enough, " answered Cranajour. 

"Let's have done with it, then, " cried Mother Toulouche. 

She held out a repulsive-looking specimen of old clothes:

"Be off with you! Go and pawn this academician's cast-off! When thecomrades catch a sight of this bit of stuff to the fore, they'llunderstand they can come without danger!. . . No cops about the store onthe lookout, are there?"

Mother Toulouche took the precaution to advance to the threshold of herstore, cast a rapid glance around--not a suspicious person, nor a signof one to be seen:

"A good thing, " muttered she, "but I was sure of it! Those police spiesare going to give us some peace for a bit!. . . Likely the whole lot ofthem are on this Dollon business! Isn't it so, Cranajour?"

As she retreated into her store again Mother Toulouche knocked againstthat individual, who had not budged: he had hung over his armrespectfully the miserable bit of stuff that had been styled anacademician's robe:

"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked she sharply. 

"Nothing. . . . "

"What are you going to do with that?"

Cranajour seemed to reflect:

"Haven't I told you, " grumbled Mother Toulouche, "to go and stick it upoutside?. . . Don't say you've gone and forgotten already!"

"No, no!" protested Cranajour, hastening to obey orders. 

"What a specimen!" thought Mother Toulouche, whilst counting over theseventeen francs. 

Cranajour was a remarkably queer fish, beyond question. How had he gotinto connection with Mother Toulouche and her intimates? That remained amystery. One fine day this seedy specimen of humanity was found amongthe "comrades" exchanging vague remarks with one and another. He stuckto them in all their shifting from this place to that: no one had beenable to get out of him what his name was, nor where he came from, for hewas afflicted with a memory like a sieve--he could not remember thingsfor two hours together. A feeble-minded, poor sort of fellow, with not ahalfpenny's worth of wickedness in him, always ready to do a hand's turnfor anyone: to judge by his looks he might have been any age betweenforty and seventy, for there is nothing like privations and misery toalter the looks of a man! Faced by this queer fish, with a brain like asieve, they had christened him "Crâne à jour"--and the nickname hadstuck to this anonymous individual. Besides, was not Cranajour the mostcomplaisant of fellows, the least exacting of collaborators--alwayscontent with what was given him, always willing to do his best!

As to Mother Toulouche; she kept a little shop on the quay of the Clock. The sign over her little store read:

 "_For the Curiosity Lover. _"

This alluring title was not justified by anything to be found insidethis store, which was nothing but a common pick-up-anything shop: it wasa receptacle for a hideous collection of lumber, for old brokenfurniture, for garments past decent wear, for indescribable odds andends, where the wreckage of human misery lay huddled cheek by jowl withthe beggarly offscourings of Parisian destitution. 

Behind the store, whose little front faced the edge of the quay andlooked over the Seine, was a sordid back-shop: here the pallet of MotherToulouche, a kitchen stove out of order, and the overflow of the goodswhich were crowded out of the store were jumbled up in ill-smellingdisorder. This back-shop communicated with the rue de Harlay by a narrowdark passage; thus the lair of old Mother Toulouche had two outlets, norwere they superfluous; in fact, they were indispensable for such asshe--ever on the alert to escape the inquisitive attentions of thepolice, ever receiving visitors of doubtful morals and thoroughly badreputation. 

Mother Toulouche's quarters comprised not only the two stores, but acellar both large and deep, to which one obtained access by a staircasepitch dark, crooked, and everlastingly covered with moisture, owing tothe proximity of the river. The floor of the cellar was a kind ofnoisome cesspool: one slipped on the greasy mud--floundered about in it:for all that, this cellar was almost entirely filled with cases of allkinds, with queer-looking bundles, with objects of various shapes andsizes. Evidently the jumble store of Mother Toulouche did not confineitself to the rough-and-ready shop in the front; and, into the bargain, this basement might be used as a safe hiding-place in an emergency, aprecious refuge for whoever might feel it necessary to cover his tracks, and thus escape the investigations of the police, for instance!

Mother Toulouche, as a matter of fact, needed such premises as hers: ifshe took ceaseless precautions it was because she had a reason for heruneasy watchfulness. 

Mother Toulouche had already come into involuntary contact with thepolice; and her last and most serious encounter with them went as farback as those days of renown when the band of Numbers had as their chiefthe mysterious hooligan Loupart, also known under the name of Dr. Chaleck. [4] She had been arrested for complicity in a bank-note robbery, had been tried, and had been sentenced to twenty-two months'imprisonment. 

[Footnote 4: See _The Exploits of Juve_. ]

Not turned in the slightest degree from the error of her ways, andpossessing some money, which she had kept carefully hidden, MotherToulouche had decided to set up shop close to the Palais de Justice, that Great House where those gentlemen of the robe judged and condemnedpoor folk! She would say:

"Being so close to the red-robed I shall end by making the acquaintanceof one or two of them, and that may turn out a good job for me one ofthese days!"

But this was merely a blind, for other considerations had led to MotherToulouche renting this shop on the Isle of the City, in opening on thequay of the Clock, a quay but little frequented, her wretched jumblestore of odds and ends. She had kept in touch with the band of Numbers, which had gradually come together again as soon as the various numbersof it had finished serving their time. 

For a while they had lived unmolested, but lately misfortunes had laid aheavy hand on the group. Still, as the band began to break up, othermembers came to replace those who had disappeared, either temporarily orfor good and all. 

At any rate, they could safely count on the assistance of an individualmore valuable to them than anyone; this was a man named Nibet, whoalthough he intervened but seldom, could, thanks to his influence, savethe band many annoyances. This Nibet held an honourable officialposition; he was a warder at the Dépôt. 

 * * * * *

Whilst Mother Toulouche, from the back of her store, was watching with aderisive air the good-natured Cranajour fasten up the Academician's robein a prominent position on the front of her nondescript emporium, someone stepped inside, and warmly greeted Mother Toulouche with a:

"Good day, old lady!"

It was big Ernestine, [5] who explained volubly that for a good half hourshe had been prowling about near the statue of Henry IV, keeping thestore well in view, but not daring to approach until the usual signalhad been displayed. Those who frequented the place knew that when thestore was under police observation and Mother Toulouche feared a raidshe took care to hang out any kind of old clothes; but if the way wasclear, if no lurking police were on the lookout, then the rallying flagwould be hoisted, the flag being the old, patched, rusty, mustyAcademician's robe. 

[Footnote 5: See _The Exploits of Juve_. ]

Ernestine had arrived looking thoroughly upset:

"Have you heard the latest?" she cried, "the bad news?"

"What news? Whose news?" questioned Mother Toulouche. 

"Why, that poor Emilet has come down a regular cropper!"

"The poor fellow!. . . He isn't smashed up, is he?" Mother Toulouchelifted her hands. 

"I haven't heard anything more than what I've told you!"

Consternation was on the faces of the two women. 

Their good Mimile! He who knew how to take care of himself withoutleaving a comrade in the lurch, who stuck to them, working for thecommon good. 

A few years previous to this Mimile, having refused to conform tomilitary law, had been arrested in the tavern of a certain Father Kornduring a particularly drastic police raid, and the defaulting youth hadbeen straightway put under the penal military discipline administered tosuch as he. Instead of making himself notorious by his execrable conductas those in his position generally did, he behaved like a little saint. Having thus made a reputation to trade on, he was twice able to stealthe money from the regimental chest without a shadow of suspicionfalling on him, and, what was worse, two of his innocent comrades hadbeen accused of the crime, had been condemned and shot in his stead!Owing to his good conduct Mimile had been transferred to a regimentstationed in Algiers, and having a considerable amount of spare time onhis hands, he got into close touch with the aeroplane mechanics. 

He was very much at home in this branch of work: could not Mimiledemolish a lock as easily as one rolls a cigarette? He was daring to adegree, and, as soon as his time in the army was up, he began to earnhis living as an aviator, and rightly, for he had become an able airman. Nevertheless, Mimile become Emilet, had aspired to greater things: ahumdrum honest livelihood was not to his taste!

He had come to the conclusion that provided he went warily nothing couldbe easier than to carry on a lucrative smuggling trade by aeroplane: hecould fly from country to country under the pretext that he was out tomake records in flying. Custom-house officials and police inspectors inthe interior would never think of examining the tubes of a flyingmachine, to see whether or no they were packed with lace; nor would itoccur to them to overhaul certain cells fore and aft to discover whetherthings of value had been secreted in them, such as thousands of matchesor false coin. 

So, from time to time, Mimile would announce that he was off on a trialtrip to Brussels from Paris, from London to Calais, and so on. 

For mechanics Mimile had two brokendown sharpers, who served asconnecting links between the aviator and the band of smugglers and falsecoiners who gathered at the lair of Mother Toulouche under the seal ofsecrecy. This was why big Ernestine was so anxious when she heard ofMimile's accident. Had the aeroplane been totally wrecked? Would thevery considerable prize of Malines lace they were expecting reach itsdestination safe and sound?

For some time past ill-luck had pursued them, had seemed to pursueimplacably these unfortunates who took such pains and precautions tocarry through their unlawful operations to a successful issue. Alreadythe Cooper, a member of the confraternity who had had his glorious hourin the famous days of Chaleck and Loupart, had scarcely left prisonretirement before he had been nabbed again, owing to the far too sharpeyes of the French custom-house officials on the Belgian frontier. Others of the band were also under lock and key again: it really seemedas if Mother Toulouche and her circle were being strictly watched by thepolice . . . And now here was Emilet who had come a regular cropper in hisaeroplane--no doubt about it!

Mother Toulouche was set on knowing the rights of it:

"But what has happened to Emilet exactly?"

She called Cranajour. The queer fellow came forward from the back store, where he had been loafing: he had a bewildered air. 

"Cranajour, " said Mother Toulouche, putting a sou in his hand, "hurryoff and buy me an evening paper! Now be quick about it!. . . Don'tforget. . . . Make a knot in your handkerchief to remind a stupid head!"

"Oh, don't be afraid, Mother Toulouche, " declared Cranajour, "I shan'tforget!" He nodded to big Ernestine, and vanished as by magic into thedarkness, for night had fallen. 

Scarcely had Cranajour gone, than a surly looking individual slippedinto the store, not by the quay entrance, but through the back store, towhich he had gained access by the dark passage leading to the rue deHarlay. 

His collar was turned up as though he were cold; his cap was drawn wellover his eyes, thus his face was almost entirely hidden. 

Having barred the door on the quay side of the store, Mother Toulouchejoined big Ernestine and the newcomer:

"Well, Nibet, anything fresh?" she asked. 

Removing his cap and lowering his collar Nibet's crabbed visage gloweredon the two women: it was the Dépôt warder right enough:

"Bad, " he growled between his teeth: "Things are hot right at thePalais!"

"Things to worry about--to do with comrades committed for trial?"questioned big Ernestine. 

Nibet shrugged and threw a glance of disdain at the girl:

"You're going silly! It's this Dollon mess-up!"

The warder gave them an account of what had happened. The two women wereall ears, as they followed Nibet's story of events which had thrown thewhole legal world into a state of commotion: incomprehensibleoccurrences, which threatened to turn an ordinary murder case into oneof the most mysterious and most popular of assassination dramas. 

Mother Toulouche and big Ernestine were well aware that Nibet knew muchmore than he had told them about the details of the Dollon-Vibrayaffair; but they dared not cross-examine the warder who was in a nastymood--nor did the announcement of Emilet's accident add to his gaiety!

"It just wanted that!" he grunted: "And those bundles of lace were toturn up this evening too!"

"Who is to bring them?" asked big Ernestine. 

"The Sailor, " declared Nibet. 

"And who is to receive them?" demanded Mother Toulouche. 

"I and the Beadle, " answered Nibet in a surly tone. "Come to think ofit, " went on Nibet, staring hard at big Ernestine, "where _is_ that manof yours--the Beadle?"

 * * * * *

Like someone who had been running at top speed Cranajour, who had beengone about an hour on his newspaper-buying errand, drew up pantingbefore the dark little entry leading from the rue de Harlay to the denof Mother Toulouche. He slipped into the passage; but instead ofrejoining the old storekeeper he began to mount a steep and tortuousstaircase, which led up to the many floors of the house. He climbed upto the seventh story; turned the key of a shaky door, and entered anattic whose skylight window opened obliquely in the sloping roof. 

This poverty-stricken chamber was the domicile of the queer fellow whopassed his daylight hours in the company of Mother Toulouche, hobnobbingwith a hole-and-corner crew, cronies of the old receiver of stolengoods. 

Overheated with running, Cranajour unbuttoned his coat, opened hisshirt, sprinkled his face and the upper part of his body with coldwater, sponged the perspiration from his brow, and brushed the dust offhis big shoes. 

It was a clear starlight night. To freshen himself up still more he puthis head and shoulders out of the half-opened window. He was gazing atthe roofs facing him; suddenly he started, and his eyes gleamed. Theywere the roofs, outlined against the night sky, of the Palais deJustice. There was a shadow on the roof of the great pile, a shadowwhich moved to and fro, passing from one roof ridge to another, nowvanishing behind a chimney, now coming into view again. AnxiouslyCranajour followed the odd movements of the mysterious individual whowas making his lofty and lonely promenade up above there. 

"What the devil does it mean?" soliloquised the watcher. Whoever couldhave seen Cranajour at this moment would have been struck by the markedchange produced in his physiognomy. This was not the Cranajour of thewandering eye, the silly smile, the stupid face, known to MotherToulouche and her cronies; it was a transformed Cranajour, mobile offeature, lively of movement, a sharp, keen-witted Cranajour! Veritablyanother man!

Puzzled by the vagaries of the promenader on the Palais roofs, Cranajourfollowed his movements intently for a few minutes longer. He would haveremained at the window the whole night long had the unknown persisted inhis peregrinations; but Cranajour saw him climb to the top of a chimney, a wide one, lower himself slowly into the opening of it, and then vanishfrom view!

Cranajour waited a while in hopes that the unknown would not be long incoming out of his mysterious hiding-place again. He waited and expectedin vain: the roofs of the Palais resumed their ordinary aspect: solitudereigned there. 

 * * * * *

Not long afterwards Cranajour re-entered the back store. 

"What a time you have been!" cried Mother Toulouche: "You've brought thenewspaper, haven't you?"

Cranajour looked at the little company with his most stupid expressionand then lowered his eyes:

"My goodness, I've forgotten to buy one!" he cried. 

Nibet, who had paid but scant attention to the new arrival, continuedhis conversation with big Ernestine: they were talking about her lover, nicknamed the Beadle. 

He was a terrible individual this Beadle! Though his nickname suggesteda peaceful occupation, he really owed it to the frightful reputation hehad won as a "_bell-ringer_"; but the bells big Ernestine's lover was inthe habit of ringing were unfortunate pedestrians whom he would rob andhalf murder, beating them unmercifully about the head and body. Sometimes he would beat them to within an ace of their last gasp:occasionally he would beat the life out of them altogether if they triedto resist his brutal attacks. The Beadle was an Apache[6] of the firstorder of brutality. 

[Footnote 6: Hooligan. ]

Big Ernestine finished explaining to Nibet that he must not count on theBeadle that evening, for things were so queer and uncertain, the outlookwas so gloomy that no one knew what bad business they might be in for. 

Mother Toulouche asked if he had got mixed up in the Dollon affair. 

Cranajour cocked his ear at that, whilst pretending to put a greatbundle of old clothes in order. 

But Nibet replied:

"The Beadle has nothing whatever to do with that business. . . . I knowwhat I know about all that. . . . He's afraid of getting what the Coopergot, so he keeps away. He's not far out either--you've got to be carefulthese days--queer times!"

Ernestine and Mother Toulouche bewailed the Cooper's fate:

"Poor fellow! No sooner out of quod than back--only a fortnight'sliberty! And with a vile accusation fastened to him--smuggling andcoining!"

Nibet tried to relieve their minds:

"Haven't I told you, " growled he, "that I'm going to get Maître HenriRobart to defend him? He knows how to get round juries: he'll get theCooper off with an easy sentence. "

Nibet looked at his watch:

"It will soon be half-past two! Got to go down! The boatman will bethere before long, at the mouth of the sewer!"

Mother Toulouche, who was always in a flurry when smuggled goods were tobe unloaded in her cellars, tried to dissuade Nibet:

"You'll never be able to manage it by yourself!"

Nibet glanced at Cranajour. The warder hesitated, then said:

"Since there's no one else, couldn't I take Cranajour with me?"

At first objections were raised; there was a low-voiced discussion, sothat the simpleton might not catch what they were saying: Cranajour hadnever been up to dodges of this kind: so far he had been kept out ofthem; besides, he was such a senseless cove, he might give things away, make a hash of it!

Nibet smiled:

"Why, it's just because he is such a simpleton, and because he hasn't amite of memory that we can use him safely!"

"That's true!" said Mother Toulouche, somewhat reassured. 

She called to Cranajour:

"Come along, Cranajour, and just tell us where you dined this evening!"

The simpleton seemed to make a prodigious effort of memory, seized hishead between his hands, closed his eyes, and racked his brains: afterquite a long silence, he declared emphatically and with a distressedair:

"Faith, I can't tell you now!"

Nibet, who had closely watched this performance, nodded:

"It's quite all right, " he said. 

The cellars below Mother Toulouche's store were extensive, dark, andill-smelling. The walls glistened with exuding damp, and the ground wasa sticky mass of foul mud, of all sorts of refuse, of putrefying matter. 

Nibet, followed by his companion, made his way down to them: it was noeasy descent, for they had to climb over cases of all kinds, and overbales and bundles that moved and rolled about. They passed into asmaller cellar, around which were ranged long boxes of tin with rustycovers. 

Cranajour, who had been given the lantern to carry, was attracted tothese boxes: he lifted the cover of one of them and drew backwonderstruck, for the box was full of shining gold pieces! Nibet, with ajab and thrust in the back, interrupted Cranajour's contemplation ofthis fortune:

"Nothing to faint over!" he growled. "You're not such a simpleton then!You know the value of yellow boys? All right, then, I'll give you one ortwo, if you do your job all right! But, " continued the warder, leadinghis companion to the further end of the second cellar, "you will have tolook out if you present your banker with one of those pieces, for thelittle bits of shiny won't pass everywhere--you've got to keep your eyeopen--and jolly wide, too!"

Cranajour nodded comprehension:

"False money! False money!" he murmured. 

There was a very strong big door: an iron bar kept it closed. Nibetraised it with Cranajour's help. Through the door the two men passedinto a long dark passage, swept by a sharp rush of air. The floor of itwas paved, and at the side of it flowed a pestilential stream, carryingalong in its slow-moving water a quantity of miscellaneous filth: it wasthick as soup with impurities. 

"The little collecting sewer of the Cité, " whispered Nibet. Pointing toa grey patch in the distance he put his mouth to Cranajour's ear:

"See the daylight yonder? That's where the sewer discharges itself intothe Seine: it's there the boatman and his load will be waiting for uspresently. "

Nibet stopped dead; drew Cranajour back by the sleeve, and steppedstealthily backwards to the massive doors of the cellar. An unaccustomednoise had alarmed the warder. In profound silence the two men stoodlistening intently. There was no mistake! The sound of sharp regularsteps could be clearly heard coming from that part of the sewer oppositethe opening. 

"Someone!" said Cranajour, who was all on the alert, as he had been inhis attic, watching the shadow and its vagaries on the roofs of thePalais de Justice. 

Nibet nodded. 

The light from a dark lantern gleamed on the damp, slimy walls of thesubterranean passageway. 

"Come inside, " murmured Nibet, in an almost inaudible voice; and, withinfinite precaution, he closed the massive portal between the cellar andthe sewer-way. 

In safe hiding the two men could watch the approaching intruder: theyhad extinguished their lantern, and were peering through the badlyjoined wood of the solid door. Friend or foe? An individual moved intoview. The reflected light of his lantern lit up the vaulting of thesewer-way, and showed up his face. The man was young, fair, wore asmall moustache!

Hardly had he passed the cellar door when Nibet gripped Cranajour's armand growled--intense rage was expressed in grip and tone--"It's he!Again! The journalist of the Dollon affair, of the Dépôtbusiness--Jérôme Fandor! Ah. . . . This time we'll see!. . . "

Nibet's hand plunged into his trouser pocket. 

Cranajour was eagerly watching the warder's every movement: he clearlyheard the sharp snap of a pocket-knife--a long sharp knife--a deadlyweapon!

Giving prudence the go-by, Nibet had opened the door, and draggingCranajour in his wake had rushed into the sewer-way, hard on the heelsof the journalist, who was slowly going in the direction of the Seine. Nibet ground his teeth. 

"I have had enough of that beast! Always on our track! Too good a chanceto miss! I'm going to make a hole in his skin for him!"

In the twilight of early dawn, which penetrated the sewer near theopening, Cranajour shuddered. 

With stealthy step the two men drew near the journalist. Fandor walkedon unsuspicious at a slow regular pace, his head lowered. The twobandits came up to within a yard of him. Noiselessly, savagelydetermined, Nibet lifted his arm for a murderous stroke. At this precisemoment Fandor stopped at the verge of the exit, by which the sewerdischarged its burden steeply into the Seine. 

Yet a moment: Nibet's knife was poised for the rapid and terriblestroke; it was about to bury itself in the neck of the journalist up tothe hilt, when Cranajour lifted his foot, as if inspired by an idea onthe spur of the moment, gave the journalist a violent kick in the lowerpart of the back, and sent him flying into space!

They heard his body fall heavily into the Seine. . . . So roughly suddenhad been Cranajour's movement that Nibet stood dumbfounded, arm in air, and staring at Cranajour:

Cranajour smiled his most idiotic smile, nodded, but did not utter oneword!. . . 

 * * * * *

It was formidable, the rage of Nibet! Here had that crass fool, Cranajour, kicked away the warder's chance of ridding himself of thejournalist for good and all! This hit-and-miss made Nibet foam withrage. Of all the exasperating simpletons, this fool of a Cranajour tookthe cake!

The two made their way back to the store, where Mother Toulouche and bigErnestine anxiously awaited results; and now not only had the two menreturned stuttering over their statements and with no news of theboatman, who was generally up to time, but they had missed a fineopportunity chance had offered them!

Nibet hated the journalist like all the poisons. Taunts, jeers, abusewere heaped on the silly head of Cranajour, who, all in vain, raised hiseyes to heaven, beat his chest, shrugged his shoulders, stammered, mumbled vague excuses:

"He didn't know exactly why he had done it! He thought he was helpingNibet!"

They disputed and contended for two hours. Suddenly Cranajour broke along silence and demanded, looking as stupid as a half-witted owl:

"What have I done then? What are you scolding me for?"

Mother Toulouche, big Ernestine, and the wrathful Nibet stared at oneanother, taken aback--then they understood: two hours had gone by, andCranajour no longer remembered what had happened!

Decidedly he was more innocent than a new-born babe! There was nothingwhatever to be done with such an idiot, that was certain!

VI

IN THE OPPOSITE SENSE

When Jérôme Fandor had been precipitated into the Seine so unexpectedlyand with such violence he kept control of his wits: he did not utter acry as he fell head foremost into the darkling river. He was anexcellent swimmer: all aching as he was, he let himself go with thecurrent and presently reached the sheltering arch of the Pont Neuf. There he took breath for a minute:

"Queer!" was all he murmured. Then with regular strokes he made for thesteep bank of the Seine opposite. Quitting the river, he secretedhimself behind a heap of stones which lay on the quay. He took off hissoaked garments and wrung the water out of them. This done, and clad inwhat looked like dry clothes, Fandor walked along the quay, hailed apassing cabman half asleep on his seat, jumped inside, and gave hisaddress to the Jehu. 

 * * * * *

When he arrived at _La Capitale_ on the Friday morning a boy approachedhim, and whispered mysteriously:

"Monsieur Fandor, there's a very nice little woman in the sitting-room, who has been waiting for over an hour. She wishes to see you. She willnot give her name: she declares that you know who she is. "

"What is she like?" Fandor asked. His curiosity was not much aroused. 

"Pretty, fair, all in black, " replied the boy. 

"Good. I'll go in, " interrupted Fandor. 

He entered the sitting-room and stood face to face with MademoiselleElizabeth Dollon. She came forward, her eyes shining, her face alightwith welcome:

"Ah, monsieur, " she cried, taking his hands in hers, a movement of puregratitude: "Ah, monsieur, I knew you would come to my help! I have readyour article of yesterday. Thank you again and again! But, I imploreyou, since my brother is alive, tell me where I can see him! For mercy'ssake don't keep me waiting!"

Surprise kept Fandor silent a moment. 

_La Capitale_ had published the evening before a sensational article byFandor, in which, under the guise of suppositions and interrogations, hehad narrated the various adventures as they had happened to himself, concluding with the question--really an ironical one: "If JacquesDollon, who had disappeared from his cell, where he had been left fordead, had escaped from the Dépôt by way of the famous chimney of MarieAntoinette, had reached the roof of the Palais, had redescended byanother passageway to the sewer opening on to the Seine, did it not seempossible that Dollon had escaped alive from the Dépôt?"

Fandor had indulged in a gentle irony, despite the gravity of thecircumstances, in order to complicate the already complicated affair, and so plunge the police into a confusion worse confounded: this, inspite of his conviction that Dollon was dead, dead as dead could be!

Now the cruelty of this professional game was brought home to him. Hisarticle had raised fresh hopes in Dollon's poor sister! At sight of thischarming girl, brightened with hope, Fandor felt all pity and guilt. Hepressed her hands; he hesitated; he was troubled. He did not know how toexplain. At last he murmured:

"It was wrong of me, mademoiselle, very wrong to write that article insuch a way without warning you beforehand. Alas! You must not cherishillusions, illusions which this unfortunate article has given rise to, illusions I cannot believe in myself. I speak with all the sincerity ofwhich I am capable, with the keenest desire to be of service to you: Idare not let you buoy yourself up with false hopes. . . . I assure youthen, that from what I have been able to learn, to see, to know, I amconvinced that your unfortunate brother is no more!. . . If there havebeen moments when I have doubted this, I am now morally certain that heis dead. Take courage, mademoiselle! Try, try to forget--to--to . . . "

Fandor was trembling with emotion: he could not continue. Elizabeth benther head, her eyes full of tears. She could not speak. She was overcomeby this cruel dashing to the ground of her hopes. Never, never, to seeher brother again!

An agonising silence reigned. 

Fandor was profoundly troubled by this mute grief. He sought in vain forsome word of comfort, of encouragement. 

Elizabeth rose to go. The poor girl realised that nothing could begained by prolonging the interview. Her one need now was to be alone, for then she could weep. 

Fandor was about to accompany her to the door, when a boy entered:

"Monsieur Fandor, there's a man wishes to speak to you!"

"Say I am not here, " replied our journalist: he had no wish to seestrangers just then. 

"But Monsieur Fandor, he says he is the keeper of the landing stage ofthe passenger boat service, and he comes with reference to the Dollonaffair!"

Both Elizabeth Dollon and Jérôme Fandor started. She was trembling. Ourjournalist said at once:

"Bring him in then!"

The boy went off, and Fandor turned to the trembling girl. 

"Tell me, Mademoiselle Elizabeth, do you feel equal to hearing whatthis man has to tell us? It is not improbable that he has seensomething--something it would be best you should not hear--had you notbetter avoid it?"

Elizabeth shook her head in the negative. She was collecting all herforces: she would not remain ignorant of any detail of the terribletragedy which had cost her brother so dear:

"I shall be strong enough, " she announced firmly. 

The boy ushered in the visitor. He looked a good specimen of his class, a man about forty. On his cap were the gold anchors of those in theemploy of the Paris boat service. 

"Monsieur!. . . Madame!. . . At your service!" The good fellow was very muchembarrassed:

"Monsieur Fandor, " he went on, "you do not know me, but I know you verywell, that I do!. . . I read your articles every day in _La Capitale_. They're jolly good! What I say is . . . "

Fandor cut short his admirer: "Now tell me what brings you here!"

"Oh, well, here goes! I was reading your article yesterday, about howJacques Dollon, no more dead than you or I, had escaped over the roofsof the Palais de Justice. That made me laugh, because I am the keeper ofthe landing stage at the Pont Neuf Station. This affair is supposed tohave happened in my parts, don't you see?. . . Well, I had just come tothe bit where you also suppose that the corpse might easily have beendevoured by rats inside the sewer. . . . Well, Monsieur Fandor, I canassure you that it was nothing of the sort. . . . "

The journalist was all eyes and ears. He signed to Elizabeth that shemust keep quiet, so as not to intimidate the good fellow. 

"Come now, what is it you have seen?"

"What I've seen?. . . Why, I saw Dollon break bounds!"

At this statement Elizabeth grew white as a sheet. She jumped up, andwith clasped hands rushed towards the keeper:

"Speak, speak quickly, I implore you!" she cried. 

Fandor drew Elizabeth back gently, and whispered a few words to her. Heturned to the keeper:

"Mademoiselle has also come to make a statement regarding this affair, "he explained. "That is why she is so interested in what you have justtold us. . . . But tell us how you saw Jacques Dollon escape!"

"Well, I had got up a bit earlier than usual to see that the anchors andmooring were all right, and I thought I saw what looked like a bigbundle fall into the river from the sewer opening--only I was halfasleep and didn't take much notice; for, what with all the rain we'vebeen having, there's no end of filthy stuff tumbling out of the mouth ofthe sewers. But, a few minutes after that, I noticed that the bundle, instead of going with the flow of the current, was drifting across theSeine, plainly making for the bank. There could be no mistake aboutthat!"

Elizabeth Dollon cried:

"And then? And then?"

"Then, my little lady, what if this surprise packet didn't turn offbehind an arch of the Pont-Neuf! I didn't see what became of it--but noone will get it out of my head that it isn't some jolly dog who had nowish to show himself--that's what I think!"

The keeper paused, then went on:

"That's all I have to tell you, Monsieur Fandor . . . It might serve forone of your articles some time or other . . . Only you mustn't say that Itold you. I might get into trouble with my chiefs about it!"

Elizabeth Dollon was no longer listening. She had turned to Fandor, andwith shining eyes murmured:

"He lives!. . . He lives!. . . "

Fandor thanked the keeper, and got rid of him. Directly the door closedon him he darted to Elizabeth:

"Poor child!" he cried, full of pity for her. 

"Ah! Don't pity me! I don't need your pity now!. . . My brother isalive!. . . That man has seen him!"

Fandor had to undeceive her:

"Your brother is certainly dead, " he declared. "If he were theindividual in question, it would not have been yesterday morning, but the morning before that, when the keeper saw him; and I doassure you . . . "

"But this good fellow is telling the truth then?"

"I assure you that I have good reasons, the best of reasons, forbelieving, for being certain, that the swimmer who crossed the Seine wasnot your brother!"

"Great Heaven! Who was it then?"

Fandor hesitated a moment. . . . Should he divulge his secret? All he saidwas:

"It was not your brother--I know that!"

So decisive was his tone, so great the sympathy vibrating through hiswords, that Elizabeth Dollon, once more convinced that Fandor was notspeaking at random, bent her head and shed tears of deepest grief andbitter disappointment. 

Fandor allowed the sorrow-stricken girl to give way to her grief for afew minutes; then he gently asked her:

"Mademoiselle Elizabeth, shall we have a little talk?. . . You see Isimply cannot tell you everything, yet I would gladly help you!. . . Butfirst and foremost, I beg of you to put quite out of your mind this hopethat your brother is still alive!. . . "

Sadly Elizabeth wiped away her tears, and in a voice which she tried tosteady, said:

"Oh, what is to become of me! I thought I had found in you a support, ahelp, and now you abandon me! And I had put my faith in your goodness ofheart!. . . There are your articles on the one hand, and your attitude onthe other--what am I to make of it? It is driving me to despair! And ifyou only knew how much I need to be supported, encouraged; I feel as ifI should go out of my senses--out of my mind . . . And I am alone, soterribly alone!"

The poor girl's voice was broken by sobs, her whole body was shaken bythem. Fandor went up to her, and spoke to her in a low toneaffectionately: he felt great sympathy and an immense pity for thisunhappy young creature, who charmed and attracted him. He tried toconsole her, and to change the current of her thoughts:

"Come now, Mademoiselle, do try to control yourself a little! I havepromised to help you, and I certainly shall--you may be sure of it. Butconsider now--if I am to be of real use to you, I must know a littleabout you: you, yourself, your family, your brother; who your friendsare, and who are your enemies! I must enter into your existence, not asa judge, but as a comrade who is interested in all that concerns you. Will you not confide in me? Once I know what there is to know we mightthen unite our efforts to some purpose, and find out what really hashappened, since the mystery remains inexplicable. "

Elizabeth Dollon felt the young man was sincere, and that what he saidin such a gentle voice was true. 

This poor human waif asked no more than to be allowed to cling towhoever would take pity on her and be kind. She now spoke to JérômeFandor of her childhood without suspecting in the least that the sameJérôme Fandor--Charles Rambert--used to play with her in those days. [7]

[Footnote 7: See _Fantômas_. ]

She mentioned the assassination of the Marquise de Langrune--the firsttragic episode of her life; then had come the horrible death of herfather, old Steward Dollon, who had passed from the service of theMarquise to that of the Baroness de Vibray, and then perished, thevictim of a criminal. 

She explained how Jacques Dollon and she had come to settle in Paris, feeling themselves rich on the savings they had inherited from theirparents. Elizabeth had become a dressmaker, and Jacques had become anartist-craftsman. Gradually the young man's talent and industry hadenabled his sister to leave her workroom and come to live with him. Hisreputation was a growing one, and the two young people looked forward toan existence of honest comfort in the near future. They got to know somepeople, one or two of whom were rich, and had shown their interest inthe brother and sister. 

Jérôme Fandor interrupted her:

"You always remained on good terms with the Baroness de Vibray?"

At this question the girl's eyes flashed:

"They have put into print shameful things about this poor dear Baroness, and about my brother also. The papers have represented her as eccentric, as mad; they have said worse things than that, you know that, don'tyou?. . . They have declared that there was a very intimate relationbetween her and my brother--I cannot say more--it is too hateful! It isall false--as false as false can be! The Baroness was particularlyinterested in Jacques, but assuredly that was owing to the long standingrelations between her family and ours. . . . The suicide of the Baronesshas been a sad addition to my grief, for I was very fond of her!. . . "

Fandor had been listening attentively to Elizabeth's story. He now said:

"You have used the word 'suicide, ' mademoiselle: do you then reallythink, as everyone seems to do, that your patroness killed herself ofher own free will?"

Elizabeth reflected a minute before replying:

"That was what she wrote--and one must believe that, nevertheless . . . "

"Nevertheless?"

Elizabeth hesitated, passed her hand over her forehead, then said:

"Nevertheless, Monsieur Fandor, the more I think over this death, themore remarkable it seems. The Baroness de Vibray was not the kind ofperson to commit suicide, even if she were unhappy, even if she wereruined. I have often heard her speak of her money affairs; she even usedto joke about the expostulations of her bankers, MessieursBarbey-Nanteuil, because she was too fond of gambling. That was our poorfriend's weakness: she was a dreadful gambler: she was always betting onhorses and gambling on the Bourse. "[8]

[Footnote 8: Stock Exchange. ]

"Do you know the Barbey-Nanteuils at all, mademoiselle?"

"A little. I have met them once or twice at Madame de Vibray's--when shehad one of her little evenings. Once or twice my brother has asked theiradvice about investments--very modest investments I can assure you--andthey got one of their friends, a Monsieur Thomery, to buy some of mybrother's art pottery. "

"Have you many acquaintances in Paris, mademoiselle?"

"Besides the Baroness we hardly saw anyone except Madame Bourrat, a verynice, kind woman, widow of an inspector of the City of Paris; she keepsa boarding-house at Auteuil, rue Raffet. In fact, I am staying with hernow, for I had not the courage to go back to my brother's place: toomany dreadful memories are connected with his studio there. I am luckyto find such a sympathetic friend in Madame Bourrat, and such a warmwelcome. . . . I am alone now, and life is sad. "

Fandor went on with his cross-examination:

"Nevertheless, mademoiselle, I must ask you to return in thought to thattragic home of yours. Please tell me what people you knew in yourimmediate neighbourhood? Acquaintances?"

Elizabeth considered:

"Acquaintances is the word, because we were not on really intimate termswith our neighbours in the Cité; for the most part they are either artstudents or work-people. However, we saw fairly often a nice man, astranger, a Dutchman I think he was, called Monsieur Van Hoeren; hemanufactures accordions; and lives in a little house opposite ours, withsix children; he has been a widower for years! Also there was a MonsieurLouis, an engraver, who used to take tea with us in the eveningsometimes, his wife also: he is employed in the Posts and Telegraphs. Wehad practically no other acquaintances. "

Elizabeth stopped. There was a silence. Fandor asked another question:

"Tell me, mademoiselle, when you entered the studio for the first timeafter the tragedy, did you notice anything abnormal?"

The poor girl shuddered at the appalling picture before her mind's eye:

"Good Heavens, monsieur, " she cried, "I did not examine the studiominutely! I had only one thought--to be with my brother, who had been sounjustly accused, so . . . "

Fandor interrupted to ask:

"Do you not know that at his preliminary examination your brotherdeclared that he had not received a single visitor during the eveningpreceding the tragedy? How then do you explain the fact that theBaroness de Vibray was found dead in his studio, and at his side, whenno one had seen her enter it? Did your brother make a mistake? Pleasetell me what you think about it!"

Elizabeth gazed anxiously at the young journalist, then fixed her eyeson the floor. Her hands twitched; she began to twist her fingersfeverishly:

"Do trust me!" begged Jérôme Fandor. "Please tell me what you think!"

Elizabeth rose, took several steps, and placed herself in front of thejournalist:

"Ah, monsieur, there is something mysterious, which I cannot explain! Asa matter of fact, someone must have come to see my brother that evening:I cannot assert it as a fact beyond dispute certainly: but in my ownmind I feel quite sure about it. "

"But you must have more proof of it than that?" cried Fandor. 

"But--there is more!" cried Elizabeth, as if enlightened by a suddendiscovery: "There is a fact!. . . "

"Tell me, do!" cried Fandor, intensely interested. 

"Well, just imagine, then! Among the papers scattered over his table, and close to his book, which was open, I noticed a sort of list of namesand addresses, written on our own note-paper, and in the kind of greenink we use--so--well . . . "

"So, " interrupted the journalist, "you came to the conclusion that thislist had been written at your brother's house?"

"Yes, and it was not my brother's handwriting. "

"Nor that of the Baroness de Vibray?"

"Nor that of the Baroness de Vibray!"

"And what did this list contain?"

"Names, addresses, I tell you, of persons we knew. There were also twoor three dates. . . . "

"And is that all?"

"That is all, monsieur: I saw nothing else!"

"Little enough, " murmured Fandor, disappointed. "Still no detail, however slight, must be ignored!. . . What have you done with that list, mademoiselle?"

"I must have taken it with me when I collected all the papers I couldfind the day before yesterday, before going to the boarding-house atAuteuil. "

"When you have an opportunity, will you bring me that list?" requestedFandor. 

 * * * * *

The conversation was interrupted. A boy came to tell Fandor that he waswanted on the telephone by someone in the Public Prosecutor's Office. 

 * * * * *

Later on in the day Jérôme Fandor sent the following express message toElizabeth Dollon:

 _"Do not believe a word of the Police Headquarters' version which you will read in this evening's 'La Capitale. '"_

This despatched, our journalist commenced his article entitled:

 STILL THE AFFAIR OF THE RUE NORVINS

 _Police Headquarters takes a view of this affair which is the very reverse of that taken by our contributor, Jérôme Fandor. _

 _By the Seine sewer, the roofs of the Palace, and the chimney of Marie Antoinette, an inspector has succeeded in reaching the Dépôt. _

 _Police Headquarters is convinced that Jacques Dollon escaped alive!_

VII

PEARLS AND DIAMONDS

"Nadine!"

"Princess!"

"Nadine, what time is it?"

The young Circassian, with hair as black as ink, souple and slender, rose from her chair and was hastening from the bedroom to ascertain thetime when her mistress recalled her:

"Don't go away, Nadine! Stay with me!"

The dusky Circassian obeyed: she stared with big, astonished eyes intothose of her mistress:

"But, Princess, why don't you wish me to go?"

The Princess stammered in a mysterious tone:

"Don't you know then, Nadine, that to-day is the anniversary?. . . And Iam frightened!"

 * * * * *

Princess Sonia Danidoff was in her bath robe. It must have been aquarter past eleven, or even nearer midnight than that. Although she hadlived in Paris for years, she had never been able to make up her mind tosettle in a flat of her own. Possessing an immense fortune, she muchpreferred the American way of living, and had taken a suite of rooms inone of those great palace-hotels near the place de l'Etoile. Though avery smart staff of servants was reserved for her exclusive use, herfavourite attendant was a pretty Circassian, in whom she had absoluteconfidence. This Nadine was a native of Southern Russia. The movement ofcity life and civilised manners and customs had at first terrified thislittle savage; but she had learned to adapt herself to her changedsurroundings, and was now high in the favour of Princess Sonia. She, andshe alone, was authorised to be present when the beautiful great ladytook her daily baths. For some years past the Princess had insisted onthe presence of a maid when she took her baths: without fail they musteither be in the bathroom itself, or in the room next to it, withinreach or call. But on this particular evening Sonia Danidoff, morenervous and restless than usual, would not allow Nadine to leave her fora second. As to the time--well, if she did not know the exact time itcould not be helped! Really it did not matter to her whether she werehalf an hour or no, for the ball given in her honour by Thomery, themillionaire sugar refiner: in fact, it would be much better to make herappearance after all the guests had assembled--her arrival would givethe crowning touch of brilliancy to this society function. 

Sonia Danidoff had pronounced the word "anniversary" in a tone ofanguish so sincere that Nadine was genuinely alarmed. She knew, only toowell, what this fatal word meant to her mistress. 

She had not forgotten that five years ago to the day, just when thePrincess was enjoying her evening bath, a mysterious individual hadappeared before her, who, after frightening her, had robbed her of alarge sum of money. The adventure would have been little out of theordinary, for hotel robberies are frequent, had not the audacious banditbeen quickly identified as the enigmatic and elusive Fantômas, whoseprodigious reputation had only increased with the passage of the years. 

Sonia Danidoff, who was not ignorant of the dramatic adventures imputedto this legendary hero, could not bear to think of the position she hadbeen placed in that awful night, when, threatened and robbed byFantômas, she had escaped death by a series of unknown and unguessablecircumstances: the tormenting mystery of it all had preyed insistentlyupon her mind. Since then Sonia Danidoff had never taken a bath withoutthinking of Fantômas; and every year when the anniversary of hisaggression came round she suffered cruelly: she was seized with wild, unreasoning fears at the idea that she might see this terrifying banditappear before her again, and that this time he would be merciless. 

Nadine knew all this. She also shuddered at the vision this horribleanniversary evoked, but controlling herself, she was anxious to changethe current of her dear mistress's thoughts:

"Forget, try to forget, Sonia Danidoff, " she counselled in her melodiousvoice: "You are going to a ball--at Monsieur Thomery's--at your fiancé'shouse!"

The Princess shuddered:

"Ah, Nadine, my Nadine!" she cried, raising herself, and regarding hermaid with a strange look: "I cannot overcome my uneasiness--myalarms!. . . This coincidence of date agitates me. . . . You know howsuperstitious we are at home--in our Russia--and the life I lead inParis has not destroyed in me the simplicity of soul of a daughter ofthe Steppes!"

Nadine did not know what reply to make to this pathetic outburst. ThePrincess went on:

"And then, do you see, I think it wrong of Monsieur Thomery to even wantto give this ball, only a fortnight after the tragic death of that poorBaroness de Vibray!. . . I tried to dissuade him from it. . . . I think theBaroness was his most intimate friend once!. . . "

"So it is said, " murmured Nadine. 

Sonia Danidoff went on, as if speaking to herself:

"I am not sure of it . . . It is precisely to remove this suspicion frommy mind that Thomery was determined to have his ball to-night at allcosts!. . . The Baroness de Vibray, so he told me, was no more than a goodold friend. . . . I cannot make her death an excuse for putting off theannouncement of our marriage . . . That would be to give colour toscandal. "

Sonia Danidoff shrugged her beautiful shoulders:

"Hand me a mirror!"

Nadine obeyed. The Princess gazed long and complacently at themarvellously lovely face reflected in the glass. 

"Princess, " cried Nadine, "you must leave the bath, you will be lateotherwise!"

In the adjacent dressing-room, brilliantly illuminated by electriclight, the Princess dressed with the aid of Nadine, proud and happy tobe the sole assistant of her beloved mistress. The toilet was a triumph:silk of an exquisite blue, draped with silk muslin incrusted with pointede Venise and bands of ermine: a costly masterpiece of the dressmaker'sart. It enhanced the brilliant beauty of Sonia Danidoff, and threwNadine into raptures. 

The Princess opened her jewel-box:

"This evening, Nadine, I shall be pearls and diamonds!" cried the lovelycreature, as she fixed two large grey pearls in her ears. 

"Oh, how beautiful you are, Princess! And what a lot they must havecost!" cried Nadine. 

"Ten thousand francs, my child, on each side of my head!"

Sonia slipped on her fingers three diamond rings set in platinum:

"And here are eight or nine thousand francs more, " continued she, asNadine's eyes grew round with wonder: her mind could hardly grasp allthese thousands of francs-worth of diamonds and pearls. There were stillmore to come; for, rejecting a magnificent bracelet, on the plea thatone no longer wore them at balls, the Princess smilingly bade herCircassian fasten round her neck a superb triple collar of pearls. Tothis was added a sparkling cascade of diamonds. Never had Nadine seenher beautiful mistress so richly dressed. Thus adorned, in Nadine'seyes, Sonia Danidoff was dazzlingly beautiful, exquisitely lovely. 

"You look like the Holy Virgin on the icons!" stammered Nadine, kneeling before her mistress, quite overcome by emotion. 

"Good Heavens! That is blasphemy! I am only a humble human creature!"said the Princess smiling. Then she once more looked at herself in themirrors, well satisfied with her appearance, certain of the effect shewould produce on her future husband Thomery. She threw over hershoulders a superb mantle of zibeline which was quite needed, for, though it was the middle of April, it was quite cold. 

Then, ready at last, she descended to her motor-car, and was whirledaway to the ball. 

 * * * * *

"Cranajour!. . . Cranajour!"

Mother Toulouche shouted herself breathless: she tried to shout louderand louder. It was in vain. She might shout herself hoarse--there was noreply. 

The old termagant, who had left the front of her hovel and had gone tocall her assistant, shouting in the passage at the back of the store, returned cursing and swearing, and seated herself near the store in thelean-to which did duty as a kitchen:

"Where in the devil's name has that imbecile got to?" she grumbled, whilst sipping with gusts from the bottom of a cup, into which she hadpoured a small allowance of coffee and a copious ration of rum. It wasabout eleven in the evening. There was not a sound to be heard. 

Having finished her rum and tea the old receiver of stolen goods went tothe entrance of the passage:

"Cranajour!. . . Cranajour!" yelled the old termagant. 

There was no answer. 

"He can't possibly be in his canteen, " said Mother Toulouche to herself. "If he was he'd have answered, fool though he is, and would have comedown!. . . Sure he's gone to drag his old down-at-heels somewhere--butwhere?. . . Oh, well, we can manage to do without him!"

The old receiver went back to her store, and was starting on a queersort of job when the door, which led on to the quay, burst open before apanting, breathless individual. He ran right up the store and stoppedshort. Mother Toulouche had seized the first thing she could find, andhad taken up a defensive attitude. Her weapon was a great ancientcavalry sabre!

But the newcomer intended no harm--quite the contrary! After aninstinctive recoil, he leaned against a table and wiped his forehead, breathing in gasps, incapable of pronouncing a syllable. 

Mother Toulouche had recognised him:

"Ah! It's you, Redhead!. . . And not a bit too soon either! I've beenwaiting for you this last half-hour! Ernestine will be there in tenminutes' time! However is it you are so late?"

Redhead was well named! His bullet-head was covered with russet-redhair, cut very short; his complexion was a good match; his bloatedcheeks and his potato-shaped nose were covered with red patches; hisshaven chin was a tawny red; round his little gimlet eyes was a fringeof red lashes: it was a bestial face. 

He was hatless; above his waistcoat with metal buttons he wore a blackcoat; his trousers had a yellow line down them: he was evidently aservant, wearing the livery of some big house. The fellow was slowlyrecovering his breath; but he continued to wipe great drops of sweat offhis narrow forehead; he was shaking all over, and his morose countenancewas twitching and contracting nervously. 

"Well, what's your news? Good or bad?" questioned Mother Toulouche in abrutal tone. 

Redhead replied almost inaudibly:

"That depends!. . . It's good on the whole. "

A gleam of cupidity showed in the old receiver's eyes:

"Got a bit of tin on her back, that woman--eh?"

Redhead nodded a "yes. " Thereupon Mother Toulouche went into her backstore and returned with a claret glass filled to the brim with rum:

"Shoot that down your throat! That'll put you right!"

When he had swallowed the bumper he seemed to gain courage, and said:

"If I didn't get here sooner it's because I had to wait--but I saw thelittle thing. . . . "

"What's her name?"

"Nadine, " replied Redhead, and added: "A pretty little brat, too!. . . She's got some fire in her eyes!"

"What's that to do with it?" interrupted Mother Toulouche. 

"You don't mean to tell me you were able to make her gabble a bit?" shequeried contemptuously. 

Redhead bridled: "Likely, since I know everything now . . . And I'm hersweetheart, let me tell you!"

Mother Toulouche said in a jeering tone:

"You don't tell me! You!"

"Oh, " replied Redhead, "it's just a way of speaking. She's a good littlething--there's nothing to it, you know!"

"So much the worse!" declared Mother Toulouche. "Virtuous sorts aren'tany use to our lot!. . . Well--what did she tell you--out with it!"

"Well, " said Redhead, "I waited three-quarters of an hour before Nadinejoined me. . . . I had no bother in making her talk, I can tell you:without the asking she told me everything . . . She was pretty wellflabbergasted with all the jewels her mistress had stuck on her clothesand her skin. . . . Seems there's hundreds of thousands' worth!. . . Allpearls and diamonds! Nothing but. . . . "

Mother Toulouche was calculating:

"Real pearls, real diamonds--it's possible there's all that worth!"

Steps could be heard on the pavement just outside. 

Redhead began to shake all over:

"Who is it?" he asked. "Someone coming in?"

Mother Toulouche grinned:

"Be easy, then! Haven't I told you there's nothing to fear?"

Nevertheless he asked anxiously:

"There's nothing more I'm wanted for here, is there? I've told you all Iknow. "

"No, no, it's all right!" replied Mother Toulouche, maternal andconciliating, "there's nothing more for you to do here. . . . Still, if youwant to see big Ernestine. . . . "

Without waiting to hear the end of her sentence Redhead hurried towardsthe exit. Mother Toulouche did not try to detain him:

"After all, " she said in a low tone to his back as a kind of farewell, "cut your sticks, my lad . . . Since you're funky!"

When alone she grumbled aloud:

"What a lot they are!. . . I never did!. . . White-livered, and for nothingat all!"

Mother Toulouche was still muttering when big Ernestine marched inthrough the back way. She had on a large hat and was heavily veiled. Sheproceeded to remove both hat and veil:

"Well?" she queried. 

"They've got on to it all right! Redhead has just gone! He knows throughthe little maid that the Princess went off to the ball, dressed up tothe nines--hung with jewels like a shrine!"

Big Ernestine uttered a deep sigh of satisfaction: her only reply was tohustle the old receiver:

"Look alive, Mother Toulouche!. . . You've got to give me a beggar'soutfit: it's up to you to see I'm disguised properly, and there's not aminute to lose either!"

Mother Toulouche was an expert at disguises and make-up of every sort:this was not to be wondered at, considering the queer company she kept, and the fraudulent business she carried on, and the smuggling she wasmixed up in!

Big Ernestine, disguised as a poverty-stricken creature and renderedunrecognisable, looked exactly like some unfortunate reduced tosoliciting alms. She walked into the back store, and helped MotherToulouche to take from a cupboard some bottles, bandages, and medicatedcotton-wool. By the light of a smoky lamp the two women scrutinised thelabels, sniffing the various phials and flasks. Big Ernestine, with theaid of Mother Toulouche, prepared compresses of pomade and cotton-wool, on which she sprinkled a few drops of a yellow liquid, giving out asickening odour. Besides this big Ernestine put inside her bodice a longphial, after making certain that the mixture, with which it was full, contained chloroform. . . . 

Then, under Mother Toulouche's watchful eye, Ernestine prepared what wascalled in that world of light-fingered gentry "the mask": a mask ofcotton, which is moulded by force on the face of the victim in order toplunge him, or her, into a heavy sleep. Whilst making these sinisterpreparations the two women talked as they went on with their evil task. Big Ernestine said, in reply to Mother Toulouche's questionings:

"Oh, it's simple enough! It's like this:. . . When the motor-car stops Ishall go to the right-hand door and begin to beg . . . Likely enough, thePrincess won't want to hear what I have to say, but while I attract herattention, Mimile, who will be on the other side, will open the door, and will stick the compress on her mug. . . . She won't struggle--besides, Mimile will have hold of her--and then I'll have had time to see whereher jewels are, and how they are fastened, and then I'll soon have themin my pocket--my deep 'un!"

Mother Toulouche nodded:

"It's arranged all right, but how will you arrest the motor?"

"Oh, that's where the others come in; they'll do it all right. . . . Iexpect they're seeing to it now!. . . "

"But, look here, " cried Mother Toulouche, "Mimile isn't in bits then?They said he had fallen from his flier!"

Big Ernestine gave a laugh:

"He fell right enough, poor little fellow, and from pretty high too--buthe's not broken a thing . . . Not this time . . . A bit of luck I don'tthink--eh?"

"He's a mascot, I'm certain, " declared Mother Toulouche. Then she said:"You spoke of the others?. . . Who are they--the others?"

"But didn't they tell you?" cried the surprised Ernestine, for shethought old Mother Toulouche was in the know: "Why, there's theBeadle--and the Beard. . . . "

"Oh, " cried Mother Toulouche, much impressed: "If the Beard's in it, then it's a serious affair!"

"Yes, " replied big Ernestine, staring hard at the old receiver of stolengoods: "It's serious all right! If the chloroform doesn't work--oh, well. . . They'll bring the knife into play. . . . "

Big Ernestine looked at her little silver watch to mark the time:

"Past midnight!" she remarked: "I must hurry off and see what they're upto!"

As she was making off Mother Toulouche stopped her:

"Have a glass of rum to start on--it puts heart into you!"

The two women were quite ready for a drink together. When they hadswallowed their dose, big Ernestine smacked her tongue:

"Famous stuff!. . . It puts a heart into you and no mistake!"

"Yes, it's the right stuff--the best, " agreed Mother Toulouche: "It'swhat Nibet prefers!" she added. Then she cried: "But Nibet, how . . . Isn't he in it?"

Big Ernestine put a finger on her lips:

"Nibet's in it of course--as he always is--you know that, oldToulouche--but he's content to show the way--you know he seldom doesanything himself . . . Besides, it seems he's on duty at the dépôtto-night!"

Big Ernestine threw an old shawl over her head and went off crying:

"I'm off, and in for it now!. . . Soon be back, Mother Toulouche!"

 * * * * *

The magnificent mansion of Thomery, the sugar refiner, overlooked thepark Monceau. It was approached by a very quiet little avenue, in whichwere a few big houses: it opened on to the boulevard Malesherbes, andwas known as the avenue de Valois. All the dwellings there aresumptuous, richly inhabited, and if the avenue is peaceful and silent byday, it is no uncommon thing to see it of an evening crowded withcarriages and luxurious motor-cars, come to fetch the owners away todinners and entertainments. 

On this particular evening the approaches to the avenue de Valois werefull of animation. Motors and broughams succeeded one another in a longfile, putting down the guests of Thomery under an immense marquee, covering the steps leading up to the vestibule. 

All the smart world had been invited to the reception: all Paris swarmedinto the brilliantly illuminated entrance-halls of the mansion. 

Two mounted policemen sat as immovable as bronze caryatides on eitherside of the entrance, whilst a swarm of policemen made the carriagesmove on, and drove away from the aristocratic avenue de Valois the bandof poverty-stricken and ragged creatures who crowded the pavement withthe hope of securing a handsome tip by opening a carriage door orpicking up some fallen object. 

It was no easy matter to keep order. One of the police sergeantsaccustomed to ceremonial functions remarked to one of his youngercolleagues:

"I have seen balls and receptions enough! Well, my boy, this Thomeryaffair is as fine a set out as if it were at the President's!"

Although it was one o'clock in the morning, both on the boulevardMalesherbes and at the entrance to the rue de Monceau there was movementand activity. If, as seemed likely, there was a crush in the greatreception-rooms of the Thomery mansion, it was certain that outside thecrowd had to form up in line to get near the counters, where the winesellers were serving their customers without a moment'sintermission--serving them with drinks of every description. Thus therewas a hubbub, there was noise and roystering clamour all around. Most ofthe chauffeurs, coachmen, and servants knew one another. 

Mingling with all this aristocracy of the servant class werepickpockets, mendicants obsequious and wheedling, who offered themselvesas understudies to these of the upper ten of the servant world, andthese aristocrats were ready to seize this chance of a little liberty, and at the same time play the generous patron to these poor failures inlife's battle. In fact they gave more generous tips than their masters;for did they not rub shoulders with misery and thus realise, only toovividly, the measureless horrors of destitution?

Ernestine and Mimile lost themselves in the noisy crowd. They were alleyes and ears for everything going on around them, whilst keeping inview their two accomplices, the Beadle and the Beard. This was more thanusually difficult, because they were disguised almost out ofrecognition. The Beard was muffled in a blue blouse and a big soft hat, which gave him the look of a peasant, who had wandered into a crowd withwhich he had nothing in common. The Beadle was capitally disguised as acoachman in good service who is out of a situation, but who, from vanityand custom, sports the emblems of office. 

He was continually chewing a quid of tobacco; for such is the habit ofcoachmen who cannot smoke on their seats, and thus console themselveswith two sous' worth of roll tobacco. 

The Beadle stopped beside a chauffeur who had just got down from hiscar, a magnificent limousine, lined with cream cloth, while its exteriorwas a dark maroon in the best taste. 

"Why, it's Casimir!" cried the Beadle, going up to the chauffeur withhands outstretched and smiling face. 

Mechanically the chauffeur, addressed as Casimir, responded to theoffered handclasp. But, after a short silence, he said in a questioningtone, quite frankly:

"I cannot recall you. "

"Can't you remember me!" cried the Beadle. "Why, don't you rememberCésar--César who was with Rothschild last year?"

No, Casimir could not remember. But he was quite willing to believe thathe knew César, for he had seen and known so many since he had been inthe service of Princess Sonia Danidoff, that there was nothingextraordinary about his forgetfulness. Besides, César looked quite adecent fellow, and had a taking face, and one only had to look at thatbeaming countenance of his to be sure that an invitation to take a drinktogether would soon be forthcoming!

The Beadle, satisfied that he had so easily made a friend of thechauffeur of Sonia Danidoff, whom he had only known by sight for thelast forty-eight hours, did in fact suggest their taking a glasstogether. The Beadle had indeed come up to expectations!

Drink was Casimir's besetting sin. Excellent chauffeur, solid andserious fellow as he was, he had two defects: he was addicted totippling, though he never drank to excess, and never got drunk. Also, hewas fond of a gossip: he could talk for hours without stopping. 

The Beadle had been posted up regarding Casimir's little weaknesses andtastes. Thus nothing was easier than to set trap after trap, into eachof which the simple fellow fell as they were set--fell fatally. 

The Beadle introduced the Beard to Casimir under the name of FatherIndia-rubber: an old codger, whose trade was to buy and sell tyres tochauffeurs, tyres new and also second-hand. At this moment a youngragamuffin appeared on the scenes: he asked if he might be left incharge of the car. It was Mimile. The young hooligan, who had followedthe conversation of the three men, and of Casimir in particular, whilstkeeping in the background, now intervened at the right moment. He madehis offer just as the chauffeur was looking about him in hopes offinding some poverty-stricken creatures into whose charge he could givehis car. Casimir gave him twenty sous as an earnest of what was tofollow in the way of coin, saying:

"Take great care of my little shanty! Don't let anyone come mouchingaround it, and when I return you shall have double what you've justhad!"

"Thank you, master!" cried Mimile, bowing low before the chauffeur: "Youmay rest assured I shall keep a good look out!"

Mimile exchanged signs of understanding with his two accomplices, whilstthey, talking as they went, drew the innocent Casimir towards thenearest tavern, which was crowded with wine-bibbers. 

Mimile, as faithful guardian of the limousine, soon got bored, althoughbig Ernestine was prowling around, and came to have a minute's talk withhim now and again: they dared not be seen together too much for fear ofattracting attention. As time went on, Mimile was surprised that neitherthe Beadle nor the Beard came to report progress. But at long last themajestic outline of the Beard was seen at the corner of the rue Monceau. The pretended seller of india-rubber was coming out of the tavern. 

He hastened to Mimile and, in a low, distinct voice, he gave him somehurried instructions, for now there was no time to lose:

"That idiot would never get done with his stories about motor-cars, andall that stuff and rubbish--what's that to us? But--keep your ears opennow, Mimile--it seems there are still fifteen litres of petrol in thetank, and that would take it a long way, for the motor consumes verylittle. . . . But this shanty has got to stop about five hundred yards fromhere, at the corner of the rue de Monceau and the rue de Téhéran . . . It's by this way Casimir will take his Baroness back from the ball. . . . Well, what you have to do is to take fourteen litres and a half fromthat tank and pitch them in the gutter!. . . When Casimir finds that hispetrol has given out, he will have to go in search of more . . . It'sduring his absence that we will work the trick on the prettyPrincess--we'll perform an operation on her, and amputateher--jewellery--the whole lot!"

The Beard drew from under his blouse an empty bottle, which he hadstolen in the tavern:

"Here's your measure! Count carefully fourteen litres and a half--thatdone, wait quietly till Casimir turns up: your part in the story will beforty sous, and not to rouse his suspicions; then, while he goes up theavenue de Valois to take up the Princess, you and Ernestine have togallop off to the corner of the rue de Monceau and the rue de Téhéran, then . . . Wait!"

 * * * * *

Mimile, with the agility of a monkey and the ability of a first-ratechauffeur--for there was nothing he did not know in the way of appliedmechanics, as became an aviator--executed to the letter his accomplice'sorders. 

The Beard meanwhile had returned to the tavern and Casimir. 

 * * * * *

Suddenly, all was activity in the world of carriages and coachmen! Thegreat ball was drawing to its end. Casimir was once more in possessionof his motor, and had generously tipped his understudy: thereupon thehooligan had made off as fast as his legs could carry him. Ernestinejoined him at the appointed spot: there the two rogues waited. "Listen!" cried big Ernestine some fifteen minutes later. 

She stared in the direction of the boulevard Malesherbes, with neckoutstretched and straining eyeballs. At last, after an agonising wait, she and Mimile saw the carriages driving by. "Attention!" cried bigErnestine in a sharp whisper . . . "everybody's on the move at last!"

 * * * * *

The Beadle and the Beard, hidden in the crowd which thronged theapproaches to the Thomery mansion, awaited the departure of PrincessSonia Danidoff: the idea of this rich prey excited them. Then as theystared at the first outflow of departing guests, the two bandits couldnot but notice that far from looking gay and animated as people do whohave danced and supped well, these guests of Thomery showed pale, dejected faces: in fact, they had all the appearance of people under theinfluence of some tragic emotion. 

"They look pretty down in the mouth, don't they?" whispered the Beard inthe Beadle's ear. 

"That's a fact! You'd think they were returning from a funeral!"

Then a vague rumour began to circulate; confirmation followed, spreadinsensibly within the Thomery mansion, was passed on by the lackeys, spread from the pavements to the avenue. People whispered ofincomprehensible things incredible, but which little by little tookdefinite shape. It was said that the Thomery ball had just become thescene of an accident, of a drama, of a robbery, of a crime!. . . Thepolice, and of the highest grade, had intervened. . . . The news spreadlike a train of ignited gunpowder. . . . Nevertheless, if Thomery's guestswere cognisant of the details, they did not take the beggars andpickpockets into their confidence: among the light-fingered gentryconjectures were rife. 

The Beadle and the Beard, who tried to catch odds and ends of talkseparately, joined each other again, looking crestfallen, discomfited. The Beadle broke silence, with an oath, adding:

"I am certain we have been done . . . Someone has got in before us--beentoo smart for us!"

Beard nodded: he was of the same opinion. 

But who then could have had the audacity to plan such an attempt andcarry it out, too? Who could have had the same idea as he and hiscomrades, and to realise it successfully? Whoever it was had provedhimself the better man. In spite of himself the bandit, in thought, formulated one word:

Fantômas!

VIII

END OF THE BALL

When Sonia Danidoff entered Thomery's ball-room she made a sensation. Itwas not far off midnight when she appeared in all her brilliant beautyand dazzling array, leaning on the arm of her host and fiancé, who borehis honours proudly. Dancers paused to admire this handsome couple; thenthe Hungarian band redoubled their efforts, and the whirling, eddyingwaltz started afresh, more gay, more inspiriting than before. 

In a corner opposite the musicians a group of persons were in animatedtalk: among them Sonia Danidoff, Thomery, and Jérôme Fandor. Music wastheir theme, some admired Wagner and the classics, others voted for themoderns, for the sugariest of waltzes, for the romantic, the bizarre. 

"For the profane like myself, " declared Thomery, laughing, "gipsy musichas its charms!"

"Oh, " cried Sonia Danidoff, "you are not going to tell me that suchhackneyed things as _The Smile of Spring_ and _The Blush Rose Waltz_ areto your taste!"

Her tone was reproachful, but her smile was charming. 

Nanteuil, the fashionable banker, who was fluttering about the Princess, hastened to take her side:

"Come now, Thomery, you would not put your signature to that?"

Jérôme Fandor, who had just joined the group, declared:

"For my part, I thoroughly agree with you, my dear Monsieur Thomery!"

Sonia Danidoff looked her surprise. 

Thomery replied, with a touch of malice:

"Monsieur Fandor is like myself--the Tonkinoise is more to his taste!"

"More than Wagner's operatic big guns!" finished Fandor. 

Then turning to the Princess who still wore her air of surprise:

"Yes, Princess, I confess it--my taste in music is deplorable: it comesfrom absolute ignorance. I do not understand these modernsymphonies--the simple romantic suits me best!"

"And that is?" . . . Queried Nanteuil:

"Just some music-hall air or ditty, " answered Fandor with a smile asfrank as his confession. 

The Princess was amused at this little pseudo-artistic discussion. Shewas about to speak when a couple of waltzers broke into the group andscattered it. 

Jérôme Fandor slipped away and wandered through the gorgeous receptionrooms. Here and there, when caught up in the throng and forced to halt, or when pressed against the wall of the ball-room, scraps ofconversation, mingled with the strains of the Hungarian band, fell onhis retentive ears. He took refuge at last in the embrasure of a window;but his retreat was soon invaded by two young men who, he gathered, hadrun across each other in the gallery, and were continuing their talkabout old times and new. 

"Come, tell me, dear Charley, what has been happening to you since weleft the school?"

"Bah! I go from the Madeleine to the Opera nearly every evening, andthen back again; I go to bed late and get up late; I go out a good deal, as you see; sometimes I dance, but very rarely; I often play bridge . . . And that is about all! It's not very interesting; but you, old boy . . . Iheard you had got a jolly good billet, my dear Andral!"

"Oh, hardly that, dear fellow; but I am well on the way to one, Ifancy. I had the good luck to be introduced to Thomery, and it sohappened he was wanting a young engineer for one of his sugarplantations in San Domingo. "

"Good Lord! At San Domingo, among the niggers?"

"That's right! Not so bad, though it and the boulevards are a few milesapart! But, on the other hand, I am interested in my work, and I ammarried to a charming woman--Spanish. "

"Won't you introduce me to your wife?"

"When we are nearer to her, old fellow! I came to Paris by myself totalk big business with Thomery. I am only here for a fortnight. . . . Nowdo point out some of the celebrities--you know everybody!"

Charley adjusted his eyeglass and looked about the room:

"Ah, there's an interesting pair! That old fellow and the young one, whoare so extraordinarily alike--the Barbey-Nanteuils, bankers forgenerations in the financial swim, and mixed up in all sorts of bigaffairs, sugar, among them. . . . Look here! That's the widow of an ironmaster, Allouat--she is passing close to the orchestra--not bad lookingin spite of her mahogany-coloured hair, granddaughter of a famous Frenchpeer, Flavogny de Saint-Ange. . . . Ah, I breathe again!. . . It's a detail, but I am quite delighted! General de Rini's daughters have at last foundpartners: they are ugly, poor things, and they've dressed themselves inrose-pink as though they were schoolgirls: a fine name, a distinguishedposition, but no fortune, and no husband!. . . Ah, now there's someone wholooks as if he were in luck--and he is, too--matrimonial luck. Theaffair is settled this evening, it's whispered. It will interest youparticularly, for the lucky fellow is none other than Thomery!"

"What! Thomery?"

"Yes, Thomery! Although he is well over fifty, he means to commitmatrimony! I quite envy him his future wife, my Andral! There she is!That stately dame who is going towards the last of the reception roomsall alone, rather haughty, but a noble creature--it's Princess SoniaDanidoff, related to the Tzar in some distant way and with an immensefortune. Just look, dear boy, at those splendid jewels on that beautifulneck of hers! They say she's got on seven hundred thousand francs'worth--and the rest to match--millions to swell the sugar refiner'spouch! She is to lead the cotillion with him, so there's no doubt aboutthe betrothal. By the by, you are going to stay for the cotillion?"

"Hum! I. . . "

"But you must! You simply must! We must sit together at supper, we havestill so much to say!. . . Besides, if you hurry off like that, I fancyThomery won't be best pleased. Oh, I say, there he is, coming our way!There's no denying it, he is a fine figure of a man, though he is in thefifties--but!. . . But!. . . But do look! What is the matter with him? Helooks as if he had seen a ghost. "

 * * * * *

Sonia Danidoff, who had been waltzing with Thomery, was a little out ofbreath. A quick glance in a mirror showed the lovely Princess that hercheeks were rather flushed:

"I am scarlet, " she thought, with that touch of feminine exaggerationcharacteristic of her! She was a true daughter of Eve!

At that exact moment she felt a slight tug at the bottom of her skirt, and at the same time a black coat was making profuse apologies: it wasMonsieur Nanteuil:

"I am in despair, Princess!" cried the banker. "But no one is quiteresponsible for his movements in such a crush!. . . I am very much afraidthat I have stepped on the muslin of your ravishing toilette and haveslightly torn it!"

The Princess protested that it did not matter in the least, and thebanker moved away, bowing low and pouring out apologies and regrets. Assoon as he had left her the Princess showed her annoyance: how could shelead the cotillion with this tear in her dress, slight though it mightbe--and the cotillion would begin in less than half an hour! Then sheremembered that her fiancé had led her, on her arrival, to a littledrawing-room, quite away from the reception rooms at the end of thegallery, that she might leave her cloak there, saying:

"Dear Princess, I have prepared this boudoir for you, and _you only_. "

Sonia decided to retire to this boudoir at once and repair the damage toher dress. As she passed the cloak-room on her way a maid offered herservices. The Princess refused them. If she could not have Nadine, shepreferred to manage for herself, besides, she saw that two pins, concealed in the silk muslin, would put her dress to rights; and a touchof powder to her cheeks would bring her colour down to a becoming tint. 

She was considerably amused at the veritable arsenal of flasks and boxesof perfumes which Thomery, as became an attentive lover, had placedthere in her honour: the little boudoir had been transformed into acomfortable ladies' dressing-room. Everything was provided, down to aglass of sugar and water, down to a little phial of alcohol and mint!

Sonia opened a powder box; then, like all the women of her race, havinga passion for perfumes, she took up a scent sprayer and lavishlysprinkled her throat and the lower part of her face with what waslabelled, "essence of violets. "

The Princess may have suffered from the intense heat of the ball-room, and required rest without realising it, for she felt slightly faint, alittle sick--almost a desire to sleep. . . . She slipped down on to a lowdivan, which occupied a corner of the room: she drew deep breaths, breaking in the perfume, a sweet rather strange scent, from thesprayer. 

"This scent is sickly, " she thought. "If only I had someeau-de-Cologne!"

Without rising, for she felt a real lassitude stealing over her, shelooked round for the eau-de-Cologne she wanted: Thomery's arsenal didnot contain any. There was only one sprayer and that Sonia Danidoff heldin her hand. 

She sprinkled herself a second time, hoping that the perfume wouldrevive her; but, on the contrary, her fatigue increased: her eyes closedfor a moment. . . . When she opened them again the room was in darkness. 

Sonia tried to rise from the divan. An overpowering torpor, though notdisagreeable, was benumbing her whole body, and before her eyes brightlights seemed to float, succeeded by thick darkness. Her head turnedround and round . . . She strove to cry out, but her voice stuck in herthroat: her body jerked with a feeble convulsive movement. She heardindistinctly an unknown voice murmuring:

"Let yourself go!. . . Sleep!. . . Have no fear!"

Sonia Danidoff essayed a momentary resistance, then she succumbed andlost all consciousness of her surroundings. . . . 

Absolute silence reigned in the boudoir Thomery had reserved for thesole use of his beautiful betrothed, when he arrived to lead her to thecotillion. He found the door shut. He knocked discreetly. There was noreply. Repeated knocking evoked no audible answer. Thomery opened thedoor. The room was in total darkness. He switched on the electric light:the boudoir was brilliantly illuminated. . . . The sight that met hisstartled eyes was so moving that he grew livid with horror and rushed tothe side of his betrothed. 

Sonia Danidoff was extended on the divan motionless and pale as death. Ahoarse and laboured breath came from her heaving bosom at irregularintervals: on the exquisite skin of neck and breast were spatteredstreaks of blood!

Beside himself, Thomery rushed away in search of help. 

It was at this terrible crisis that the fiancé of Sonia Danidoff hadattracted the attention of Charley, whose friend, the young engineerAndral, was the protégé of the man whose awful pallor and distracted airspelt tragedy. 

Thomery, his countenance ravaged by intense emotion, his hands clenched, shaken by nervous tremors, hastened, with unsteady steps, in thedirection of the gallery leading to the anteroom. 

Suddenly a woman's shrieks broke in on the charming harmonies of a slowwaltz, which the orchestra was rendering at the moment. . . . There was anirresistible rush towards the boudoir, where two half-fainting women hadcollapsed on chairs, and the famous surgeon, Dr. Marvier, was doing hisutmost to prevent the crowd from entering the room. The word went roundthat a tragedy had taken place--a death! Princess Sonia Danidoff was inthe room lying dead! The words "crime" and "murder" were freely bandiedabout: murmurs of "assassin, " "robber, " "assassination" could be heard. 

Some twenty of the guests who had entered the boudoir could givedetails. The dreadful rumours were true. Sonia Danidoff, they declared, was stretched out on the floor covered with blood, her breast bare, herpearls had vanished--a horrible sight!

The uproar died down; an icy silence reigned. The dancers drew togetherin groups discussing the terrifying tragedy. . . . Several women were stillin a fainting condition; pallid men were opening windows that fresh airmight circulate in the overheated rooms; on all sides they were watchingfor the return of their host. 

Thomery remained invisible. 

General de Rini called his two daughters to his side and spoke words ofaffectionate encouragement, for they were much upset. The old soldiermarched off with them in the direction of the grand staircase andtowards the cloak-room on the landing. As he was preparing to take overhis coat and hat, one of the footmen went up to him and said a few wordsin a low voice:

"What!. . . What!" cried the General. "What's the meaning of this?. . . Notto leave the house!. . . But, am I under suspicion then?. . . It isshameful!. . . I never heard of such a thing!"

A butler approached the irate General and said, very respectfully:

"I beg of you, General, to speak lower! A definite order to that effectwas given us ten minutes ago. Directly Monsieur Thomery was aware of the. . . Accident he had the entrance doors closed and had the housesurrounded by the detectives who were downstairs on duty. The sergeantis there to see this order carried out: you cannot leave thepremises!. . . It is not that you are under suspicion, General--of coursenot--but perhaps in this way they may succeed in finding the guiltyperson who has certainly not left the house, for no one has gone fromthe house for at least an hour. . . . "

General Rini had calmed down. He understood why his host had issued theorder. He retired to a corner of the gallery with his daughters, Yvonneand Marthe: the poor things seemed stunned. 

The reception rooms slowly emptied: the guests crowded on to theverandah and into the smoking-room. There was a buzz of talk--queries, comments, conjectures: it ceased abruptly. 

Monsieur Thomery had just appeared at the top of the grand staircase, accompanied by a gentleman, whose simple black coat was in strikingcontrast to the light dresses and brilliant uniforms of the guests. 

Someone whispered:

"Monsieur Havard!"

It was, in fact, the chief of the detective police force. Within acouple of minutes of his frightful discovery, Thomery had rushed to thetelephone and had called up Police Headquarters. It was a piece ofunexpected good fortune to find Monsieur Havard there at so advanced anhour. He had immediately responded to the call in person. 

Whilst crossing the reception rooms Thomery talked to him in a lowvoice:

"Accept my grateful thanks, Monsieur, for having answered my appeal forhelp so quickly. No sooner did I discover the body of my Princess than Ilost no time in having all the exits from the premises watched. Unfortunately I was obliged to leave my reception rooms for quite aquarter of an hour, so that I cannot tell you what happened there. Ifonly I had been able to remain with my guests, I might possibly havesurprised some movement, some gesture, some look, which would have putme on the track of this murderous thief . . . Unfortunately . . . "

Monsieur Havard interrupted, smiling:

"That does not matter, Monsieur: if the guilty person is among yourguests and has in some way betrayed himself, I shall hear of it. Thereare, at least, four or five plain clothes men among the dancers, I canassure you of that. "

"I can assure you to the contrary!" replied Thomery--"I know myguests--know who have been admitted here!"

"I also am sure of what I say, " insisted Monsieur Havard. "There isscarcely a ball, a reception, however select it may be, where you willnot find a certain number of our men. "

Thomery made no reply to this: they had arrived at the door of the fatalroom. The doctor was standing beside the victim. Dr. Marvier reassuredMonsieur Havard. He announced that the Princess had been almostliterally felled to the ground by a most powerful soporific and was inno real danger: she would certainly regain consciousness in the courseof an hour or two. . . . But she must be kept perfectly quiet: that wasabsolutely necessary. 

Monsieur Havard did not question the doctor's statement. After a rapidglance he was able to form his own opinion. There had been no struggle:the victim's wounds were due to the haste with which the thief had tornthe jewels from Sonia Danidoff's neck. He next considered the twowindows which, with the door opening on to the gallery, were the onlymeans of entrance and exit the room had. There were strong iron shuttersbehind the windows: these could not be very easily opened: in any case, it was impossible to close them again from the outside. The thief musthave been in the house, probably in the ball-room, and had followed thePrincess into this little retiring-room. . . . But what had been thePrincess's motive for coming here alone? Monsieur Havard had learnedthat the room had not been thrown open to the other guests. Then heperceived that the lace at the bottom of her dress was undone. He bentdown and examined it carefully: two pins, hastily stuck in, kepttogether a piece of this lace. . . . The conclusion Monsieur Havard came towas, that the Princess having a rent in her dress had wished to be alonefor a minute or two in order to repair the damage, and that while shewas stooping towards the bottom of her skirt the assassin had thrown herto the ground and despoiled her of her jewels. 

The chief of the detective force turned to Thomery abruptly:

"I shall be obliged to follow a course of action which may rather annoyyour guests; but they must excuse me. Everything leads me to think thatthe guilty person is on the premises, since no one has gone away. . . . Imust hold an investigation at once. I am going to cross-examine yourguests--probe them thoroughly--and I wish to put them through theirpaces in your office, Monsieur Thomery, one by one. . . . I will begin . . . With you . . . So that your guests take my questioning with a good grace. . . It is only a mere matter of form--a pure formality!. . . "

 * * * * *

The investigations were lengthy and trying and led to no resultwhatever. 

 * * * * *

Fandor, who was preoccupied by this fresh drama in which he had takensome part--far too slight to please him--was putting on his overcoatwhen he stopped dead. 

A voice--an unrecognisable voice--had murmured in his ear:

"Attention! Fandor!. . . It is serious!. . . "

Our journalist turned round in a flash. Ah, this time he would find outwho the mysterious unknown was--the unknown, who wished to influence byword written and word spoken, the course of these investigations he hadtaken in hand:

Anonymous friend?

Concealed adversary?

He must, at all costs, clear up the mystery. 

A dozen people were crowding round Fandor, insisting on being attendedto in the cloak-room. 

No one noticed the journalist. . . . 

No one seemed interested in what he was doing. . . . 

Fandor examined every one of Thomery's guests who were standing abouthim. He knew some of them by name, some he knew by sight. He searchedtheir faces with penetrating eyes; but, in vain. . . . Some werecommon-place looking, others calm, others impenetrable:

"Hang it all, " he grumbled. He went off furious and upset. 

IX

FINGER PRINTS

After having interrogated all the witnesses of last night's tragedy hecould get into touch with, Jérôme Fandor returned to the Palais deJustice. 

"All the same, " he confessed to himself, "I must admit that, up to thepresent, I do not know anything very definite about it. This PrincessSonia Danidoff has managed to get robbed in a most extraordinary way. Atone o'clock in the morning, Havard declares that the thief can be noneother than one of the guests, and thereupon every person present has tosubmit to being searched--an exhaustive search! Nothing comes of it. Then Bertillon arrives on the scene, and it seems he has obtained verydistinct imprints of finger marks. If they are as distinct as all that, the task of the police will be simplified; but, on the other hand, is itlikely the guilty person will be so simple as to respond to the summonsissued by the Public Prosecutor, a general summons issued to allThomery's guests to parade in Bertillon's office for the finger-marktest?. . . Not he! Why the moment he heard of it he would make for thetrain and pass the frontier!"

When his cab arrived at the Palais, Fandor uttered a big sigh ofsatisfaction:

"There are a good many things I am not clear about: let us hopeBertillon will give me some information. "

The entrance to the anthropometric department was under the discreetobservation of two detectives:

"Oh, " thought Fandor. "They think it probable there will be an immediatearrest, do they? We are going to have some complications, I foresee, inconnection with the finger-mark ceremony!"

He sent in his card and a few minutes after he found himself in thepresence of Monsieur Bertillon. 

"Well, what is it you want me to tell you?" asked this famous man ofscience. 

"Why, dear master, everything that took place last night! Is it truethat you have summoned here all Thomery's guests?. . . Have you obtainedsuch perfect reprints that, in your hasty examination, you can becertain of identifying them with those of the persons who will passthrough your office to undergo the test?"

Bertillon smiled:

"Oh, my dear fellow, you are of those who do not put much faith in theresults of my tests for police purposes! That, let me tell you, isbecause you are not acquainted with our procedure. The impressions Iobtained are distinct--precise as can be; if an arrest is made beforelong it will be made on sure grounds. "

Fandor bowed:

"I accept your statement, dear master!. . . But, do be kind enough to tellme what happened after my departure?"

"Oh, nothing very extraordinary. . . . Of course you know about theaffair--how the Princess Sonia Danidoff was discovered?. . . "

"What I know is that Thomery found one of his guests, Princess SoniaDanidoff, in a dead faint in a small drawing-room; that Dr. Du Marvierdeclared she had been rendered unconscious; that the theft of a pearlnecklace worn by the victim had been the motive of this criminalattempt; that Monsieur Havard, called in at once, first made sure thatno one had left the house, and then had everyone on the premisessearched . . . And that is really all I know about it!"

"Well, Havard did not find anything!"

"No one was caught with compromising jewels in their possession. Thelast guest gone, the house searched from top to bottom, not a singlepearl had been found. . . . I arrived just when the investigations hadterminated: at the moment when they were about to take the Princesshome. She had regained consciousness by this time and declared she knewnothing except that she had fallen asleep after using a perfume sprayer. This has been seized and chloroform has been found in it; but no oneseems to know who filled the sprayer with this stupefying perfume. "

"Did Monsieur Havard send for you?"

"Yes, he telephoned. You know, of course, that I am always asked tointervene now in any ticklish affair!. . . Well Dr. Du Marvier, an expertin his way, noticed that the Princess had been half strangled by thethief in his haste to secure the pearl collar, and he wished me tosearch for finger prints on the nape of the victim's neck--to discoverthe assassin's signature in fact. "

"And there were some?"

"A quantity. The Princess had been slightly wounded in the nape of theneck . . . Blood had been pressed on to the skin of her neck, and it waseasy to take a cast of one of the fingers. "

"Was that sufficient?"

"Yes, and no; such an impression is something; but there is better thanthat! The thief must have given the neck a violent squeeze with hishands, consequently there is a complete impression of the hand . . . ThatI had to get. . . . "

Fandor instinctively put his hand to his neck as if he were squeezingit. He said:

"Are such impressions imperceptible?"

"Yes; to the eye, but not to the photographing apparatus. It isthoroughly established that the pattern formed by the innumerable lineswhich furrow the fleshy part of our fingers is as peculiarlycharacteristic of each individual as the form of his nose, of his ears, or the colour of his eyes. The curves or rings, the various forms takenby these lines already exist in the newly born and never change to theday of his death. Even in case of a burn, if the skin grows again, theridges reappear exactly as they were before the accident. Look you, onecan obtain by this method--this test--such results as you would neverdream of. For example, by taking these imprints I obtained in the earlyhours of to-day, as a basis, I can tell you, with almost absoluteaccuracy, the height of the individual. . . . "

"This is marvellous!" cried Fandor. "The service your department rendersthen is to abolish legal blunders?"

"That is so. Every individual identified, is identified plainly, irrefutably. Unfortunately, we cannot always obtain perfect imprints onthe spot where the crime is committed. "

"But this night?"

"Ah, as I told you, the impressions were most satisfactory. I have thethief's hand--the whole of it! I will even go so far as to declare thatthe fellow who committed the crime has already been through my hands. Irecognise that hand! You shall see, whether or no I have made amistake!". . . 

Bertillon pressed a bell, and asked the official who answered it:

"Have you identified the imprints I sent you just now?"

"Yes, sir. This man has already been measured here. It is register9200. "

Bertillon turned to Fandor:

"You see, I was not mistaken! All I have to do is to turn up myalphabetical index, and for this very month, for the number is a recentone, and I shall know the name of the old offender--he must be one, ashe is catalogued here--who has committed this assault. "

Whilst speaking, Monsieur Bertillon was turning over the leaves of anenormous register:

"Ah! Here is the 9200 series!. . . "

Suddenly the book slipped from his hands, and he exclaimed: "The guiltyman is . . . "

"Is who?" questioned Fandor. 

"Is Jacques Dollon!. . . The hand that has robbed Princess Sonia Danidoffis the hand of Jacques Dollon!"

"But it is impossible!"

Bertillon shrugged his shoulders. 

"Impossible?. . . Why, since the proof of it is there?"

"But Jacques Dollon is dead!"

"He was the thief of yesterday's crime. "

"You are making a mistake!. . . "

"I am not making a mistake!. . . Jacques Dollon is the thief I tell you!"

This was too much for Jérôme Fandor: he could not contain himself. 

"And I tell you, Monsieur Bertillon, that I know that I amcertain--positively certain, that Jacques Dollon is dead!. . . Now, then!. . . "

The man of science shook his head. 

"I, in my turn, say, you are making a mistake! Look at the two imprintsI have here! That of Jacques Dollon taken a few days ago, and this madefrom the impressions obtained this very night, or, to be exact, in theearly morning hours of to-day! They are identical--one can be exactlysuperposed on the other!. . . "

"Coincidence!"

"There is no such coincidence possible--besides"--Monsieur Bertillontook up a powerful magnifying glass--"look at these characteristicdetails!. . . Just look at the lines of the thumb, all out of shape!. . . The presentment of the thumb itself is not normal either; it denoteshabitual movement in a certain direction: it is the thumb of a painter, of a potter!. . . Oh, it is all as clear as daylight--believe me--there isno doubt about it! Jacques Dollon is the guilty person!"

"But, " repeated Fandor obstinately: "Jacques Dollon is dead! I swear toyou he is dead!. . . "

This assertion made no impression on the man of science. 

"As to whether Jacques Dollon is alive or dead--that is for the policeto decide!. . . For my part, I can declare that the man who committed thetheft yesterday evening is the identical man who passed through my handssome days ago--and that man is certainly Jacques Dollon!"

 * * * * *

Jérôme Fandor left Monsieur Bertillon. The young journalist wasperplexed. . . . If the finger-prints on the neck of Princess SoniaDanidoff were, beyond dispute, those of Jacques Dollon--then the mysterysurrounding this affair, and not this affair only, but a series ofincidents, so far from being cleared up, was more impenetrable thanever!

But Fandor was obsessed by the idea of Fantômas, of Fantômas in thedepths of mystery, presiding over this series of dramatic occurrences. 

"Yes, Fantômas is certainly in this!" he cried. . . . But Dollon has lefttraces of himself here--has, as it were, put his signature, hisidentification mark to this crime!. . . But Dollon is not Fantômas . . . Besides Dollon is dead!. . . I have proofs of it--yes, he is dead!. . . Wellthen?. . . 

What to make of it?

Fandor could not make anything of it!

X

IDENTITY OF A NAVVY

"The Barbey-Nanteuil bank is certainly gorgeous!" thought Jérôme Fandoras he traversed the hall on the ground floor, where the massive mahoganyfurniture, the thick carpets, the deep, comfortable chairs, the soberelegance of the window curtains breathed an atmosphere of luxury andgood taste. "And decidedly banking is the best of businesses!" added ouryoung journalist. 

An attendant advanced to meet him. 

"What do you want, monsieur?"

"Will you take in my card to Monsieur Nanteuil? I should be glad to havea few minutes' talk with him. "

The attendant bowed. 

"On a personal matter, monsieur?"

"A personal matter?. . . Yes. "

Jérôme Fandor wanted to interview the Barbey-Nanteuils on the subject ofthe recent occurrences, which had roused Paris opinion to the highestdegree--mysterious occurrences on which no light seemed to have beenthrown so far. . . . Not only were the Barbey-Nanteuils the bankers of theBaroness de Vibray, but they had been present at Thomery's ball, whenthe attack on Princess Sonia Danidoff had taken place. . . . Would theyallow themselves to be interviewed? Fandor decided that they certainlywould, for they were business men, and was he not going to give them afree advertisement?

The attendant--a stately individual--returned. 

"Monsieur Nanteuil is sorry he cannot see you, he is taking the chairat an important committee meeting; but Monsieur Barbey will see you fora few minutes, that is to say, if he will do instead of MonsieurNanteuil. "

"In that case, I will see Monsieur Barbey, " said Fandor, rising. 

Following the attendant, Fandor traversed the whole length of the bank, and passing the half-open door of Monsieur Nanteuil's office--the nameon the door told him this--he noticed that it was empty. 

Monsieur Barbey received him coldly and with a solemn bow. Fandor'sreply was a pleasant smile. 

"I know, " said he, "that your time is precious, Monsieur Barbey, so Iwill come straight to the object of my call. . . . You must be aware of theprofound impression caused by the double crimes recently committed onthe persons of Madame de Vibray and the Princess Sonia Danidoff?"

"It is true, monsieur, that I have followed, in the papers, the accountof the investigations regarding them: but, in what way?. . . "

"Does it concern you?" finished Fandor. "Good heavens, monsieur, is itnot a fact that the Baroness de Vibray was your client? And were you notpresent at Monsieur Thomery's ball?"

"That is so, monsieur; but if you are hoping that I can supply you withfurther details than those already published, you will be disappointed. I myself have learned a good deal about these crimes only from readingyour articles, monsieur. "

"Can you confirm the statement that Madame de Vibray was ruined?"

"I do not think I am betraying a professional secret if I say thatMadame de Vibray had had very heavy losses quite recently. "

"And Princess Sonia Danidoff?"

"I do not think she is one of our clients. "

"You do not think so?"

"But, monsieur, you cannot suppose that we know all our clients? Ourbusiness is a very extensive one, and neither Nanteuil, nor I, couldpossibly know the names of all those who do business with us. "

"You know the name of Jacques Dollon?"

"Yes. I knew young Dollon. He was introduced to me by Madame de Vibray, who asked me to give him a helping hand, and I willingly did so. I canonly regret now that my confidence was so ill placed. "

"Do you believe him guilty then?. . . Not really?"

"I certainly do!. . . So do all your readers, monsieur. Is that not so?"

But, whilst Monsieur Barbey was regarding Fandor with some astonishmentbecause of his half-avowal, that he himself was not sure of Dollon'sguilt, the door was flung open with violence, and Monsieur Nanteuil, outof breath, looking thoroughly upset, rushed into the room, followed byfive or six men unknown to Jérôme Fandor, and showing traces of fatigueand emotion also. 

"Good Heavens! What is it?" cried Monsieur Barbey, rising to meet hispartner. . . . 

"The matter is, " cried Monsieur Nanteuil, "that an abominable robberyhas just been committed. . . . "

"Where?"

"Rue du Quatre Septembre!. . . " Still panting, he began to givedetails. . . . 

Fandor did not wait to hear more. He rushed from the Barbey-Nanteuilbank and made for the place de l'Opéra at top speed. 

In consequence of the extraordinary occurrence which Monsieur Nanteuilhad hastened to report to his partner, a considerable crowd had flockedto the scene of the accident; but barriers had been quickly erected, andthe crowd, directed by the police, were able to circulate in orderlyfashion when Fandor arrived on the scene. 

The agile young journalist had made his way to the front row of thecurious, and was bent on entering the stone and wood yards of the worksforbidden to the public; the usual palisade no longer existed owing tothe landslip. 

Just as he was searching in his pocket for the precious identificationcard, which the police grant to the reporters connected with the bignewspapers, Fandor was jostled by an individual coming out of the yards. It was a navvy all covered with mortar, white dust, and mud; he waswithout a hat and held his right hand pressed against his cheek; betweenhis fingers there filtered a few drops of blood. 

The glances of the man and the journalist met, and Fandor felt as thoughsomeone had struck him a blow on the heart! The navvy had given him sostrange a look. Fandor thought he had read in his eyes a threat and aninvitation. 

Whilst our journalist hesitated, troubled by this sudden encounter, theman moved off, forcing his way through the crowd. Then Fandor caughtsight of some of his colleagues, stumbling about amidst the ruins andrubble in the stone-yard. This reassured him; if he followed the navvy, and he had the strongest inclination to do so, he could telephone tosome reporter friend who would supply him with the necessary details forhis article on the accident. He had got some facts already: a suddencollapse of stones and mortar had buried a hand-cart, in which werelarge bars of gold belonging to the Barbey-Nanteuil bank. But theprecious vehicle had soon been rescued, and they were taking it to thebank under escort. 

Satisfied as to this, Fandor followed with his eyes this strange navvywho was going further and further away. 

Fandor had an intuition--a very strong feeling--that he must follow thetrail of this man and make him talk. It was of the utmostimportance--something told him this was so. 

The navvy was not simply going away, he had the air of a man in flight. 

Fandor, who was following now and keenly observant, noticed thehesitating movements of the man--then there was an astonishing move onthe navvy's part: he hailed a taxi and got in. Fandor had the good luckto find another taxi at once; jumping in, he said to the driver:

"Follow the 4227 G. H. Which is in front of you: don't let it outdistanceyou . . . You shall have a good tip!"

The chauffeur, a young alert fellow, understood there was a chase inquestion, and amused at the idea of pursuing a comrade through thecrowded streets of Paris, he set off. He adroitly cut through a file ofcarriages and caught up taxi 4227 G. H. He then proceeded to followclosely in its track. 

Fandor, keen as a bloodhound on the scent, kept watch over theirprogress to an unknown destination. 

They rolled along the avenue de l'Opéra: they cut across the rue deRivoli. Then, when they were going at a good pace through the place duCarrousel, Fandor felt much moved by memories of past times, those daysof great and wonderful adventures, when he would follow this very routeto keep some exciting appointment with his good friend, Juve. Howfrequent those appointments used to be, when the famous detective wasalive and so actively at work--the work of unearthing criminals--thosepests of society! Off Fandor used to set when the longed for summonscame, and would meet Juve in his little flat on the left side of theSeine. Ah, those were times, indeed!

When a lad, Fandor had been practically adopted by the famous detective. Young Jérôme Fandor had served a kind of apprenticeship with Juve, andthis had brought him into close touch with the ups and downs of a numberof crime dramas: he and Juve together had even been the voluntary, orinvoluntary, heroes of some of them! Then the tragic disappearance ofJuve had occurred, when Fandor had escaped death by a kind of miracle!

After that dreadful date, our journalist had found himself alone, isolated, with not a soul to whom he cared to confide his perplexities, his anxieties, his hopes! Fandor shuddered at the thought of this. 

The taxi had just crossed the bridge des Sainte Pères, had followed thequay for a few minutes, then rounding the Fine Arts School they enteredthe old and narrow rue Bonaparte. . . . 

What was this? Of course, it could only be a coincidence . . . But still. . . Rue Bonaparte--why that only brought the memory of Juve more vividlyto mind! For Juve had lived in this street; and now, a few yards furtheron, they would pass before the modest dwelling where, for years, thedetective had made his home, keeping jealously hidden, from all andsundry, this asylum, this secret retreat. 

Ah, what happy hours, what jolly times, what tragic moments, too, hadFandor not passed in that little flat on the fourth floor! How they hadchatted away in the detective's comfortable study! Then Fandor, full ofspirit, would come and go from room to room, unable to sit still, allfire and activity; and Juve would remain in one place, calm, full ofthought, sometimes sunk in a reverie, often silent for hours at a time, his eyes obstinately fixed on the ceiling, smoking methodically, mechanically even, his eternal cigarette. Oh, those good, good days gonefor ever!

After the disastrous disappearance of Juve, Fandor had not gone near therue Bonaparte for six months. It was all too painful, to find again thefamiliar rooms and no Juve! It was too painful. 

However, one fine day, he determined to go and see what had happened tohis friend's old home. . . . Alas, in Paris, the lapse of half a yearsuffices to alter the most familiar scene! In rue Bonaparte, the formerhouse porters had left; their place had been taken by a stout, sulkywoman who gave evasive replies to Fandor's questions. He extracted fromher the information that the tenant of the fourth floor flat had died, that his furniture had been cleared out very soon after his death, andthe flat had been let to an insurance inspector. . . . 

 * * * * *

Fandor was roused from this retrospect: he grew pale, his heart seemedto stop its beating: the taxi he was pursuing had slowed down--had drawnup beside the pavement--had stopped in front of Juve's old home!

Fandor saw the navvy descend from the taxi, pay his fare, and enter thehouse, still keeping his right hand pressed to his cheek. Without amoment's reflection, Fandor leapt from his taxi, flung a five-francpiece to his driver, and without waiting for the change he rushed intothe house, whose passages and stairs were so familiar. 

The navvy was swiftly mounting the stairs in front of our excited youngjournalist, who was close on his quarry's heels: the two men werepanting as they went up that dark staircase. 

At the fourth floor, Fandor was nearly overcome by emotion, for the manentered Juve's old flat as if he had a right to do so. 

He was on the point of shutting the door in the face of his pursuer, butFandor had foreseen this. He slipped through with a forceful push andcaught the navvy by his jacket. 

Quick as lightning the navvy turned, and the two men stood face toface. . . . The result was startling!

Speechless they stared at each other for what seemed an interminablemoment; then, with a strangled cry, Fandor fell into the man's arms, andwas crushed in a strong embrace. Two cries escaped from their lips atthe same moment:

"Juve!"

"Fandor!"

 * * * * *

When he came to himself again, Fandor found he was lying in one of thecomfortable leather arm-chairs in Juve's study. His temples and thelobes of his ears were being bathed with some refreshing liquid: thecommingled scent of ether and eau-de-Cologne was in the air. 

When he opened his eyes, it was with difficulty that he could credit thesight that met them!

Juve, his dear Juve, was bending over him, gazing at him tenderly, watching his return to consciousness with some anxiety. 

Fandor vainly strove to rise: he felt dazed. 

"Fandor!" murmured Juve, in a voice trembling with emotion. "Fandor, mylittle Fandor. My lad, my own dear lad!"

Oh, yes, this was Juve, his own Juve, whom Fandor saw before him!. . . Hehad aged a little, this dear Juve of his--had gone slightly grey at thetemples: there were some fresh lines on his forehead, at the corners ofhis mouth, too; but it was the Juve of old times, for all that!. . . Juve, alert, souple, robust, Juve in his full vigour, in the prime of life!Oh, a living, breathing, fatherly Juve: his respected master and mostintimate friend--restored to him, after mourning the irreparable loss ofhim and his incomprehensible disappearance!

While Fandor slowly came to himself, Juve had lessened the disorderedstate of his appearance; he had taken off his workman's clothes, andalso the red beard which he had worn, when he ran up against thejournalist in the place de l'Opéra. 

As soon as Fandor was himself again, not only did he feel intense joy, aquite wild joy, but he also knew the good of a keen curiosity. Now hewould know why the detective had felt obliged to disappear, officiallyat any rate, from Paris life for so long a period. 

Protestations of faithful attachment, or unalterable affection pouredfrom Fandor's excited lips, intermingled with questions: he wanted toknow everything at once. 

Juve smiled in silence, and gazed most affectionately at his dear lad. 

At last he said:

"I am not going to ask you for your news, Fandor, for I have seen yourepeatedly, and I know you are quite all right. . . . Why, I do believe youhave put on flesh a little!"

Juve was smiling that enigmatic smile of his. 

Fandor grew impatient, on fire with curiosity. Ah, this was indeed theJuve of bygone days, imperturbable, ironical, rather exasperating also!

However, Juve took pity on Fandor, who was still under the influence ofthe shock he had received. 

"Well, now, dear lad, did you recognise me, a while ago?"

Fandor pulled himself together. 

"To tell you the truth, Juve, I did not . . . But, when our glances met, Ihad an intuition, a kind of interior revelation of what I had to do, andwithout any beating about the bush--I knew I had to follow you, followyou wherever you went. "

Juve nodded his approval. 

"Very good, dear fellow; your reply gives me infinite pleasure, and ontwo counts: in the first place, I perceive that your remarkable instinctfor getting on to the right scent, strengthened by my teaching, hasimproved immensely since we parted; and, in the second place, I amdelighted to know that I made my head and face so unrecognisable thateven my old familiar friend, Fandor, did not know me when we werebrought face to face!"

"Why this disguise, Juve?" demanded Fandor, his countenance alight withcuriosity. "How was it I came across you at the very spot where theBarbey-Nanteuil load of gold had been submerged, for the moment, underbricks and mortar? And, with regard to that, Juve, how comes it . . . "

Juve cut Fandor short. 

"Gently! Fandor! Gently! You are putting the cart before the horse, oldfellow; and if we continue to talk by fits and starts, never shall wecome to the end of all we have to say to each other, and must say. Areyou aware, Fandor, that we have been drawn into a succession ofincomprehensible occurrences--a mysterious network of them?. . . But Ihave good hopes that now we shall be able to work together again; and Ilike to think that if we follow the different trails we have eachstarted on, we shall end up by. . . "

It was Fandor's turn to interrupt:

"Hang it all, Juve! I partly understand you, of course; but there's alot I don't know yet. . . . What are you after, dear Juve? Are you, as Iam, on the track of Jacques Dollon?"

There was a pause, then Juve said:

"I shall reserve the details for our leisure. What matters now is, thatI should make clear to you the principal lines my existence has followedduring the past three years or so. A few minutes will suffice to put youin possession of the main facts. Now, listen. "

The narrative went back to the time when Juve, aided by Fandor, wasclose on the heels of their mortal enemy, the mysterious and elusiveFantômas. The detective and the journalist had succeeded in cooping upthe formidable bandit in a house at Neuilly, belonging to a greatEnglish lady, known under the name of Lady Beltham. This Englishwomanwas the mistress and accomplice of the notorious Fantômas. [9] But at theprecise moment when Juve was about to arrest him, a frightful explosionoccurred, and the building, blown up by dynamite, collapsed in ruins, burying the two friends and some fifteen policemen and detectives. 

[Footnote 9: See _The Exploits of Juve_. ]

Rescuers were on the spot in a very short time, and uninterruptedly, forforty-eight hours, they searched among the ruins for the victims of thedisaster, dead or alive. 

By a miraculous piece of good fortune, Fandor had been but slightlyhurt, and at the end of a few days he was as well as ever. But the poorfellow had lost his best friend--Juve!

The search for Juve had been a useless one. Several corpses could not beidentified owing to the injuries they had sustained; and, as it seemedincredible that the detective could have escaped, they had concludedthat one of the unrecognisable bodies must be his. 

Juve, however, was not one of the dead!

Saved in as miraculous a fashion as Fandor had been, less injured even, a few seconds after the frightful crash, he had been able to rise andmake his escape. The distracted detective had raced away from the sceneof disaster in search of Fandor, and also in pursuit of Fantômas, for hebelieved that both had made their escape. 

After wandering about for some hours, he had returned to mingle with thecrowd of rescuers, and had learned that Fandor had been found, and wasnot dangerously hurt: on the other hand, there were those present whodeclared that he, Juve, was killed!

This unexpected announcement gave him an idea: for an indefinite periodhe would accept this version! For, more than ever set upon catching hisenemy, the detective said to himself, that if Fantômas could feelcertain that Juve no longer existed, the pretended dead would have a farbetter chance of catching the living bandit!

Thereupon, Juve had submitted his project to his chief, Monsieur Havard;and the head of the police secret service had consented to ignore Juve'spresence among the living. 

Juve knew that Lady Beltham had escaped to England. 

Supposing that Fantômas would rejoin her without delay, the detectiveleft Paris, crossed the Channel. He then went to America. For scarcelyhad he arrived in London when he learned that the bandits had gone offto the United States. 

Juve travelled from place to place for some months. It was a vain quest:Fantômas had vanished, leaving not a trace behind, and the disgusteddetective, now convinced that he had followed a false trail, returned toFrance. 

He determined to set himself to study anew the prison world; he was allthe more interested in it because, before his supposed death, Juve hadeffected the arrest of several members of a band of which Fantômas wasthe leader. Among these were the Cooper, the Beard, and old MotherToulouche. 

Then, at the prison connected with the asylum, Juve had come across awarder, who, some years previous to this, had been the warder in chargeof a man condemned to death, one Gurn, who had not been guillotinedbecause a substituted person had been executed in his stead. Juve wasconvinced that the condemned criminal was none other than Fantômas. Juvestrongly suspected that this warder, Nibet by name, knew a great dealabout this old affair. But soon Nibet passed to the Dépôt. Theaccomplices of Fantômas, having served the time of their respectivesentences, some at Melun, others at Clermont, all this nice collectionof criminals would meet once more on the pavements of Paris. Juve, therefore, had imperious reasons for mingling with this charmingcrowd!. . . 

Fandor had followed Juve's rapid narrative with the most intenseinterest. 

"And then, Juve, what then?" insisted Fandor. 

"And then, " said the detective, "to make an end of it--for we must notbe forever going over the past adventures--let me tell you, that aftermany and diverse happenings, a band of smugglers and false coiners, among whom are to be found individuals already known to you, notably theBeard, the Cooper, and also that wretch of a Mother Toulouche, one fineday made the acquaintance of a poor sort of creature, simple-minded, andanything but sharp-witted--an individual who goes by the name ofCranajour!"

"Cranajour?" queried Fandor, "I don't in the least understand. "

"Yes, Cranajour, " repeated Juve. "Here is how it came about. Youremember when Fantômas got an unfortunate actor named Valgrand executedin his stead? Well, our mysterious Fantômas, the better to mislead andbamboozle those who might suspect this atrocious jugglery, our bandit ofgenius--for Fantômas has genius--took the personality of Valgrand forseveral hours, and dared to go to the theatre where the real Valgrandwas playing. However, as Fantômas was not capable of playing the part toa finish, he conceived the idea of making those about Valgrand believethat he had been suddenly afflicted with loss of memory, and from thatmoment could not remember anything whatever: Fantômas, the falseValgrand, could thus pass for the true Valgrand, and be taken as such bythe true Valgrand's intimates!. . . I humbly confess, Fandor, that Icopied Fantômas by creating Cranajour. . . . "

Juve, then rapidly explained to the journalist the origin of thisnickname, and also told him how the bandits treated him as one ofthemselves; how, as soon as they were convinced that he could notremember anything he had seen or heard for two hours together, theytalked freely before him of their plans and doings!

The detective went on:

"I must add, my dear Fandor, that no very sensational revelations havecome to me, so far, through my intimacy with this set of criminals. Itseemed to me I was in the midst of common thieves, who smuggled andcirculated false coin; but one thing did puzzle me--puzzles me still:these folk succeed in selling a considerable number of pounds sterling, false coin, of course, and that without my being able to discover, sofar, where they sell them--who makes their market. They also sell lacesmuggled from Belgium; that, however, interests me but little, and I wasprepared to leave to the lower ranks of the service the duty ofclearing Paris of this common-place brood of criminals; already, indeed, the regular police had arrested one of the smugglers, the Cooper, andtwo of his subordinate confederates; I was about to turn my back on thiscrew in order to give all my attention to a new trail which might put meon the track of Fantômas once more, when the Dollon affair blazed forth;and then suddenly, I meet again my Fandor, braver than ever, moreperspicacious also, adroitly taking the affair in hand, bravelythrusting himself into the breach!

"Is there any connection between the Dollon affair and my band ofsmugglers?"

"You will appreciate the importance of this question and the reply to itin a minute, my Fandor, when you learn that the Dépôt warder, Nibet, isone of the most valuable confederates of the coiners, of MotherToulouche, of that hooligan, the Beard. . . . "

"Is it possible!" cried Fandor. "Ah, Juve, all this is so strange that Ibelieve you are really on Fantômas' track, once more!"

Juve shook his head; then he continued:

"I have still a great deal to tell you, but I must pause a moment tosay, that I ought to apologise to you for a fairly brutal act Icommitted on your behalf--in your best interests, as you will see. . . . "

And to Fandor, who opened his eyes in astonishment, the detectiverelated, in humorous fashion, the history of the famous kick he hadadministered--a kick wherewith Juve had removed his friend from theimmediate and certain danger of assassination, at the hand and by theknife of Nibet. 

Fandor could not get over it! He grasped Juve's hands and pressed themwarmly. 

"My friend! My good friend!" murmured he, moved almost to tears. "If Ihad had the least suspicion!. . . "

Juve interrupted him. 

"There are many more things, Fandor, you never suspected, things youought to know. . . . And what is more, you seem to me to be neglecting yourwork badly at this very moment, Mr. Reporter! It is already one o'clockin the afternoon; and if they are counting on you to supply them withinformation about this affair of the place de l'Opéra. . . . "

Fandor leapt to his feet. 

"It's true!" he cried. "I had quite forgotten it!. . . But it is of noimportance by the side of . . . "

Juve interrupted. 

"_The affair is serious, Fandor, attention!. . . _ Do you remember? It isthe formula I employed on two or three occasions, when warning you, after the assassination of Jacques Dollon, after the attack on SoniaDanidoff at Thomery's house. . . . "

"What! It was you, Juve!" cried Fandor. 

"Yes, it was . . . But let us pass on! Time presses. I am going todisappear anew; but you now know where to find me, in future, and underwhat form, should occasion require it. Cranajour I am; Cranajour Iremain--for the time being, at any rate. As to you, Fandor, be off withyou at once . . . And go and hatch out that article of yours!"

Our journalist rose mechanically; but Juve, thinking better of it, caught him by the arm, drew him back and pointed out the writing-table. 

"Come to think of it, you know nothing about the affair, and I do: thereare things which should be said, above all things, to be hinted at . . . Do you wish me to give you information?. . . Sit yourself there, my lad: Iam going to dictate your article to you!"

Our journalist, understanding the gravity of the situation, and wellknowing that if Juve took this course, he had important reasons for sodoing, did not say one word. He simply brought out his fountain pen, screwed it ready for action, and, with his hand resting on a pile ofwhite paper, he waited. 

Juve dictated. 

"First of all, put this as your title:

 _An Audacious Theft_

"That does not tell the reader anything, but it awakens hiscuriosity. . . . Let us continue!

"Write. "

XI

AN AUDACIOUS THEFT

Two hours after Juve had dictated his article to Fandor, our journalistwas reading it, in proof, in the offices of _La Capitale_. His articleran thus:

"By a fortunate coincidence we found ourselves, this very morning, inthe directorial office of the Barbey-Nanteuil bank, chatting withMonsieur Barbey himself, when Monsieur Nanteuil arrived, breathless, andannounced to his partner that a sensational robbery had just beencommitted in the rue du Quatre Septembre, a robbery involving a sum oftwenty millions representing a clearance recently effected by theFederated Republic. 

"It seems that at ten o'clock this morning, Monsieur Nanteuilaccompanied the little hand-cart used for transferring the bullion andpaper money to the station, from whence it was to be despatched. According to custom, six of the bank clerks and three plain clothes menwent with Monsieur Nanteuil. But, at the very moment when the hand-cartpassed out of the place de l'Opéra and turned the corner of the rue duQuatre Septembre, that is to say, at the precise moment when it waspassing the palisade, surrounding the works on the Auteuil-OpéraMetropolitan line, a formidable explosion was heard, and the hand-cart, as well as the men who were drawing it, and escorting it, includingMonsieur Nanteuil himself, disappeared in a deep excavation caused bythe explosion, whilst a water pipe which had burst at the same moment, poured out torrents of water, flooding the surrounding pavement androadway. 

"It was then about eleven o'clock in the morning, and the rue du QuatreSeptembre presented a very animated appearance. At the noise of theexplosion, the passers-by were glued to the spot, dazed, stupefied. Thenexclamations broke out on all sides. 

"'An accident?'

"'A bomb?'

"The explosion had created a veritable chasm. The first moment ofstupefaction past, policeman 326 quickly organised the rescuers, andsent notice to the nearest police station. Some minutes later, thefiremen arrived on the scene armed with ladders and ropes. Meanwhile, the crowd of curious onlookers was increasing with amazing rapidity. 

"Monsieur Nanteuil was the first to be drawn up from the pit; by amiracle he had escaped injury; unfortunately, the clerks of theBarbey-Nanteuil bank had not got off so well; bruises, contusions, casesof severe shock, more or less serious, had to be attended to byneighbouring chemists. 

"Monsieur Nanteuil, reassured as to the fate of his clerks, turned hisattention to the hand-cart and its millions of bullion, and the policein charge were given to understand that it must be drawn up withoutdelay. 

"Into the pit the firemen once more descended; at first they weresurprised not to find the hand-cart and its millions! No doubt, it hadbeen covered by the mass of fallen bricks and mortar! But fireman LeGoffic, who had advanced some yards along the railway line, caught sightof it. The cart was lying upside down; but, except for a few scratches, it was found to be unbroken. 

"It was immediately hauled up to the roadway. Monsieur Nanteuil at onceascertained that the seals were intact. He then gave orders that it wasto be taken back to the Barbey-Nanteuil bank without delay. As thetrain, which was to have borne away the bullion, had left the stationhours ago, Monsieur Nanteuil decided to break the seals, and place thebullion in one of the bank's safes for the night. 

"Monsieur Nanteuil's stupefaction can be imagined when, having unsealedand opened the hand-cart, he realised that the sacks of gold had beenreplaced by sacks of lead!

"It was at this moment that Monsieur Barbey was informed of the fact byhis half-frantic partner. We were witnesses of this dramatic scene. 

"Every second was of value: instant action was the thing! Policeheadquarters was warned at once; and, but a few minutes had elapsed, when Monsieur Havard arrived in a taxicab to take charge of theinvestigations. 

"Thanks to the courtesy of Monsieur Havard, we were allowed to accompanyhim to the stone-yards of the Metropolitan: the police were convincedthat it was hereabouts that the robbery had been accomplished. Wereached the spot about an hour after the explosion. The firstinvestigations produced no result; but Monsieur Havard pursued hissolitary search up one of the sidings, and had his reward. Hisexclamation was heard, and we hastened to the spot. . . . He had just founda second hand-cart, in all points similar to that he had recentlyexamined in the courtyard of the Barbey-Nanteuil bank!

"Monsieur Havard at once realised that he had before his eyes theoriginal hand-cart, and that the hand-cart he had seen in the bankcourtyard was a clever substitute! It need scarcely be said that thereis no trace of the stolen millions to be found in the originalhand-cart, cast away in a siding of the Metropolitan. . . . 

"Our readers know something of the appearance presented by these lines, in course of construction on the Metropolitan railway. We haverepeatedly published in _La Capitale_ details regarding the way in whichthe engineers and workmen supervise and execute the cutting of thepassageway on the underground. The operations in the place de l'Opéraare on an enormous scale, for there is a junction here, and the soil ismore undermined than elsewhere on the railway. 

"At the precise spot where the explosion occurred, there are fourgalleries in course of construction: one is the future Auteuil-Opéraline, the others either lead to existing lines, or are galleries madefor the convenience of the workmen. Hand-cart number one, that is tosay, the substituted hand-cart filled with sacks of lead, was found inthe passageway of the Auteuil-Opéra line, which is perfectly accessible, and would naturally be visited by the rescuers. 

"The original hand-cart was hidden away in one of the lateral galleries, which are small and narrow, and not likely to be visited and examined, except as a last resource. It is, therefore, clear that the affair hasbeen carefully arranged: a premeditated robbery. The presence of the twohand-carts would establish this--the hand-carts used by the bank for thetransport of bullion and other forms of money are of a particularmake--unique, in fact. Their respective positions show that the robbershad carefully prepared their drama, and it was skilfully arranged. 

"Thanks to Monsieur Havard's kindness, we were permitted to approach theoriginal hand-cart. It was in a lamentable condition: the body of it wasnearly smashed to pieces! Of course, no traces of the seals were to befound. The only remark we see fit to make in this connection is, thatMonsieur Nanteuil, his clerks, and those who witnessed the accident, must have been greatly excited and upset, otherwise they would naturallyhave been much astonished at finding the substituted hand-cartpractically uninjured after an accident of so crushing a nature. 

"We have carefully examined the soil round the original hand-cart, inthe hope of finding some clear footprints of the thieves, or theiraccomplices; but it was impossible to draw any conclusion from thisexamination--the footmarks are intermingled, superimposed, undistinguishable. It must be admitted the soil of the Metropolitan, hereabouts, has been very much trampled over and beaten down so that itis difficult to believe that researches, with the object of discoveringthe robbers' footmarks, are likely to have any clear result. 

"At the moment these lines have been written, the investigation in theMetropolitan passageways still continues, and will, in all probability, be continued late into the night. So far, the police admit that resultsare meagre. Monsieur Havard considers it certain that the deed is apremeditated one, carefully prepared, and that, consequently, theexplosion which caused the catastrophe was a deliberate act of violence. On the other hand, Monsieur Nanteuil declares that outside the partiesinterested, that is to say, the Barbey-Nanteuil bank and the Comptoird'Escomptes, who were to receive the bullion, not a soul could know ofthe transfer on that particular morning. But the staffs of the bank andof the Comptoir National d'Escomptes are absolutely trustworthy: theirhonour has never been questioned. 

"It is evident that such a daring and desperate deed, carried through sosuccessfully in the galleries of the Metropolitan, in the sight of allParis, at eleven o'clock in the morning, could only be the work of aband of criminals, numerous and perfectly organised. 

"'Are we returning to the days of--Fantômas?'

"Let us add, that owing to the number of individuals probably involved, and the daring nature of the crime, Monsieur Havard considers that itwill be extremely difficult for the guilty persons to escape from thepolice. "

Jérôme Fandor had just finished correcting this sensational article, when slips from the Havas Agency arrived at _La Capitale_. 

Our journalist cast his eyes over them, thinking he might find somepiece of news which had come to hand at the last minute. As he read hegrew pale. He struck his writing-table a violent blow with his fist. 

"For all that, I am not mad!" he cried. 

And, holding his head between his hands, spelling out each word, hereread the following telegram from the Havas Agency:

_Affair of the rue du Quatre Septembre_

 "_At the last moment of going to press, a bloody imprint has been discovered on hand-cart number 2. Monsieur Bertillon immediately identified this imprint: it was made by the hand of Jacques Dollon, the criminal who is already wanted by the police for the murder of the Baroness de Vibray, and the robbery committed on the Princess Sonia Danidoff. _"

"But I am not mad!" cried Fandor, when he had read these lines. "Ideclare I am not mad! By all that's holy, Jacques Dollon is dead!. . . Fifty persons have seen him dead! But, for all that, Bertillon cannot bemistaken!"

After a minute or two, Fandor took up his pen again, and added a note tohis article, entitled:--

 _Sensational development. The police say: "It is the late Jacques Dollon who has stolen the millions!"_

This note showed clearly that Jérôme Fandor did not believe that JacquesDollon could possibly be involved in this affair, or in either of theother crimes in connection with which his name had been mentioned. 

XII

INVESTIGATIONS

A man jumped quickly out of the Auteuil-Madeleine tram. 

It would have been difficult to guess his age, or see his face. He worea large soft hat--a Brazilian sombrero--whose edges he had turned down. The collar of his overcoat was turned up, so that the lower part of hisface was so far buried in it that his features were almost hidden. Then, during the entire journey, seated at the end of the tramcar he had kepthis back turned on the other passenger: he seemed to be absorbed inwatching the movements of the driver. At the end of the rue Mozart, where the rues La Fontaine, Poussin, des Perchamps meet, he had quittedthe tram with real satisfaction. 

Then, in the silence of the evening, the clock of Auteuil church hadslowly struck eight silvery strokes. 

The listening man murmured:

"Oh, there's no hurry after all. I've a two good hours' wait in front ofme!"

Leaving the frequented ways, he plunged into the little by-streets, newly made and not yet named, which join the end of the rue Mozart withthe boulevard Montmorency. He walked fast, at the same time taking hisbearings. 

"Rue Raffet?. . . If I don't deceive myself, it lies in this direction!"

He reached the hilly and lonely road bearing that name, which, on bothsides of its entire length, is bordered by attractive privateresidences. 

Swiftly, silently, stealthily, this individual approached one of thesehouses. He glanced through the garden railing, scrutinising the windowswhich were lighted up. 

"Good! Good! Decidedly good!" he said, in a low tone of satisfaction. . . . "But there's two hours to wait . . . They are still in the dining-room, ifI am to go by the lighted windows. "

The watcher now inspected the rue Raffet. The house which interested himso much, was situated just where the rue du Docteur Blanche opens intothe street at right angles. Auteuil is certainly not a frequented part, but, as a rule, the rue Raffet is generally more lonely than any of thestreets in Auteuil: no carriages, no pedestrians. 

From an early hour in the evening, that hilly road was, more often thannot, quite deserted, so was the rue du Docteur Blanche, still surroundedby waste land, and more especially at the rue Raffet end. 

A glance or two sufficed to show the man the lie of the land. He notedthe feeble glimmer of the street lamps; he made certain that not one ofthe neighbouring houses could perceive his actions, mark his movements. He repeated in a theatrical tone of voice with a note of amusement init. 

"Not a soul! Not a solitary soul! Well, it is no joke to wait here; but, after all, it is a quiet spot, and I can count on not being disturbed inthe job I have in hand to-night. . . . "

This individual traversed the rue Raffet, gained the rue du DocteurBlanche, and, wrapping himself up in his voluminous black cloak, ensconced himself in a break in the palisades bordering the pavement. Hestood there motionless; anyone might have passed within a few yards ofhim without suspecting his presence, so still was he, so imperceptiblydid his dark figure blend with the blackness of the night. 

He started slightly. The church clock struck nine, its notes soundingsilvery clear through the tranquil night . . . In the distance someconvent clock chimed an evening prayer, then a deeper silence fell onthe darkness of night. . . . 

Suddenly, the front door of the house, which the stranger had watchedwith scrutinising intentness, was thrown wide open, showing a large, luminous square in the darkness. Two women were speaking. 

"Are you going out, my darling?" asked the elder. 

"Don't be anxious, madame, " replied a girlish voice. "There is no needto wait for me. I am only going to the post. . . . "

"Why not give Jules your letter?"

"No, I prefer to post it myself. "

"You would not like someone to go with you? There are not many peopleabout at this hour. . . . "

The same fresh, young voice replied:

"Oh, I am not frightened . . . Besides it's only rue Raffet which isdeserted; as soon as I reach rue Mozart there will be nothing more tofear!"

The luminous square, drawn on the obscurity of the garden, disappeared. 

The mysterious stranger, who had not lost a word of this conversation, heard the door of the vestibule close, then the gravel of the gardencrunch under the feet of the girl coming down the path. Very soon thegate of the garden grated on its badly oiled hinges, and then theelegant outline of a young girl was visible on the badly lightedpavement. She was walking fast. . . . 

The stranger remained stationary until the girl had gone some way; thenpressing against the wall, concealing his movements with practisedability, he followed her at a discreet distance. . . . 

"There can be no doubt about it, " he murmured. "I recognised her voicedirectly!. . . It's the very deuce!. . . It's going to complicatematters!. . . A lover's meeting? Not likely!. . . She must be going to thepost, as she said. . . . She will return in about a quarter of an hour, andthen . . . Then!. . . "

The girl was far from suspecting that she was being followed. She hadwalked down rue Mozart, turned into rue Poussin, posted her letter, andthen walked quietly back to the house. 

The stranger had not followed her into the more frequented streets: heawaited her return in a dark and deserted side street. When she cameinto view again, he sighed a sigh of great satisfaction. 

"Ah, there is the dear child!. . . That's all right. . . . Now we shall havesome fun!. . . Or, rather, I shall!"

Anyone seeing his face, whilst making these significant exclamations, would have been frightened by his sneering chuckle, his hideous grin. 

A few minutes later, the girl re-entered the little garden of the housein the rue Raffet. A stout woman opened to her ring. 

"Ah, there you are, darling. " There was relief in her tone. 

"Yes, here I am, safe and sound, madame!"

"Nothing unpleasant--no one molested you, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth Dollon, for she it was, shook her head and smiled a smile bothsad and sweet. 

"Ah, no, madame!. . . I was sure you would be waiting for me--I am sosorry!"

"No, not at all!. . . Tell me, Elizabeth. . . . Jules has told me that youwould not be going out to-morrow. The poor fellow is so stupid that Iask myself if he has not made a mistake?"

"No, " said Elizabeth. "It is quite true. . . . I do not think I shall goout, either in the morning or the afternoon. "

"You expect a caller?"

"It is possible someone may come to see me. . . . If by any chance I haveto go out for a few minutes, to get something or other, I must warnJules: he must make the visitor wait: I shall not go far in case. . . "

"All right! That's settled then, darling. Now, good night, I am going tomy room. "

"Good evening, madame, and good night!"

Leaving stout and kindly Madame Bourrat, owner of this privateboarding-house where Elizabeth Dollon had found a refuge, the poor girl, still with a smile on her pale lips, made her way upstairs, entered herbedroom, and carefully locked the door. She lit the lamp. Her face nowwore a tragic look: its expression was wild and desperate. . . . 

"If only he would come!" she sighed. . . . "Ah, I am afraid! I amafraid!. . . I am terribly afraid!"

Elizabeth stood motionless--a frozen image of fear--all but her eyes:they were casting terrified glances about her. . . . 

And no wonder! Elizabeth was neatness personified, and her room was keptwith exquisite care--but now, everything was in the greatestdisorder. . . . The drawers of her chest of drawers were piled one on topof the other in a corner of the room; their contents were thrown down inheaps a little way off; books had been cast pell-mell on a sofa; a greatwicker trunk, wherein Elizabeth had packed numerous papers belonging toher brother, was overturned on the floor, the lid open. 

Its contents were scattered near--a confused mass of documents andcrumpled papers. 

Elizabeth stared about her for a long minute, and again she cried:

"Oh, if only he would come! What is the meaning of all this?. . . "

She regained her self-control. Her usual expression of serene gravityreturned. 

"To go to sleep, " she murmured. "That is the best thing--to-morrow willcome more quickly so--and, oh, I am so sleepy, so very, very tired!"

Soon Elizabeth blew out her lamp--darkness reigned in her room. 

 * * * * *

It was about half-past ten o'clock, and the light in Elizabeth Dollon'sroom had been extinguished for some little while, when the front doorof the little house was opened again. . . . 

Noiselessly, with infinite precautions, with searching and suspiciousglances, taking care to keep off the gravel of the paths, tip-toeing onthe grass edging the flower beds, where his steps made no sound, a manleft the house and went towards the garden gate. 

He quickly reached it; and there he commenced to whistle a soft, slow, monotonous, and continuous whistle. 

Second succeeded second; then another whistle, identical in rhythm, replied: soon a voice asked:

"It's you, Jules?"

"It is I, master!"

The man whom Jules named "master, " was the stranger, who, for two wearyhours, had kept strict watch over the goings and comings of thehouse. . . . 

"All well, Jules?"

"All well, master!"

"And nothing new?. . . "

"I don't know about that, master: she has written a letter. . . . "

"To whom?. . . "

"I couldn't say. . . . I could not see the address, master. . . . "

"You red-headed idiot!"

The servant protested. 

"No, it was not my fault!. . . She did not write in the drawing-room, butin her own room. . . . I couldn't get a squint at her paper. . . . "

"Did she not say anything?"

"Nothing. "

"Did she look upset?"

"A little. "

"No one suspects anything?"

"I hope not, master!. . . Gods and little fishes, if anyone suspected!"

The visitor's voice grew harsh, imperious. 

"Enough, " said he. "We have no time to lose!"

"How? No time. . . . "

"That's it! We must set to work. . . . "

"Work?. . . Now?. . . This very night?. . . Oh, master, surely not!"

"Don't I? Do you imagine that I arranged a meeting only for the pleasureof talking to you?. . . Come on, now!. . . March!"

"What are we to do?"

A moment's silence. 

"I cannot see the house very well, because of the branches:listen--look!. . . Isn't there a light?. . . Someone still up?"

"No. They've all gone to bed. "

"Good. And she?"

"She, too. "

"You did what I told you?"

"Yes, master. "

"You were able to pour out the narcotic?"

"Yes, master. "

"And then?"

"What do you mean by then?"

"Have you carried out all my orders . . . The last?"

"Yes, it is all right!. . . I went into her room and blew out the lamp. "

"Good! Now for it!. . . "

A slight brushing sound, along the low stone wall of the garden, wasbarely perceptible to a listening ear. The wall was topped by railings, and the gate had sheets of iron fastened to it. In a twinkling, thestranger leaped down beside Jules. 

"It's child's play to vault that gate, " he said. 

By the uncertain light of the stars, Jules could see the individual whohad just joined him. His appearance was fantastic, and the wretchedJules started and trembled in every limb. The stranger, who had thusinvaded Madame Bourrat's domain, who a short while before had beenwearing a long cloak and immense sombrero, wore them no longer. Probablyhe had rid himself of them by casting them among the bramble bushes onthe waste ground around rue Docteur Blanche. . . . Now he was clad in along black knitted garment moulded tightly to his figure, a sinistergarment, by means of which the wearer can blend with the darkness so asto be almost indistinguishable. His face was entirely concealed by along black hood, a movable mask, which prevented his features beingseen: through two slits gleamed two eyeballs: they might have burned away through like glowing coals. 

"Master!. . . Master!" murmured Jules. "What are you going to do now?"

This spectral figure replied in a low tone:

"Fool!. . . Go on in front--or no--better follow me! And not a sound--it'sas much as your skin is worth!. . . Take care--great care!"

The two men advanced in silence. But, while Jules seemed to takeexaggerated precautions to prevent being heard, his companion seemednaturally shod with silence. 

He advanced noiselessly, almost invisible in his black garment. 

The two accomplices were soon at the front-door steps of the house. 

"Open, " commanded the master. 

Jules slipped a key into the lock: noiselessly the door turned on itshinges. 

"Listen, " whispered the cloaked man. "Half-way up the stairs, you muststop: I do not wish you to go right up. . . . "

"But. . . "

"Do as I say! You must keep watch. . . . If, by chance, you should hear anoise, if I were to be taken by surprise, you must go downstairs, makinga great noise and shouting at the top of your voice: 'Stop him!. . . Stophim!. . . ' Thus, in the first moment of confusion, everyone will rushafter you, and that will give me time to choose my way of escape. "

Jules, whatever his fears, did not dare to question his instructions. 

"Very good, master, " he breathed. "I'll do as you say. "

"I should think you would, " scoffed his master, almost inaudibly. 

Leaving his accomplice on the stairs, the masked man went forward. Heseemed to know the ins and outs of the house, for he turned into thecorridor and, without a moment's hesitation, walked towards the door ofElizabeth Dollon's room. He put his ear against it. 

"She sleeps, " he murmured. 

He had inserted a key in the lock: there was an obstacle to its easyentrance. 

"Confound it! The girl has left her own key in the lock!" he saidsoftly. . . . "What the deuce am I to do now? What did Jules do when he gotin and put out the lamp?. . . Why, of course, he took off the screw thatfixes the staple--a simple push will suffice. " With a push of hisshoulder the door yielded. The stranger entered and carefully closed thedoor. He walked to the window and drew the curtains, muttering:

"That fool should have thought of this just now. "

Taking a small electric torch from his pocket he turned on the light. Calmly, collectedly, he approached a couch at one side of the room. . . . On it lay Elizabeth Dollon in a deep sleep. She looked white as death. 

"An excellent narcotic, " he muttered, bending over the unconscious girl. "When one thinks that she took it at dinner, then went out, and thatthen it produced its effect!. . . "

Moving away from Elizabeth, he crossed the room to where the contents ofthe overturned trunk lay. 

"Damnable papers!" he growled low. "To think!. . . It is too late now tocontinue the search. . . . Bah! By shutting the mouth of an informant . . . That's the way to settle it . . . The best way too!. . . Now for it!. . . "

Without apparent effort, the man in the hooded mask seized ElizabethDollon in his muscular arms. 

"Come, mademoiselle, " he said in a jeering tone. "Come to bye-bye! Sleepbetter than on this sofa! You will sleep a longer sleep, that'scertain!" An evil smile punctuated these sinister remarks. 

He laid the poor girl's body on the floor in the middle of the room;then, approaching a little gas stove, he detached the india-rubber tubeand slipped the end of it between his victim's teeth. 

He turned the gas tap. . . . 

"Perfect!" he said, as he straightened himself. 

"To-morrow morning, early, at eight o'clock, or at nine, the excellentMadame Bourrat will open the meter. The narcotic this child has takenwill prevent her from waking, so that, without suffering, without cries, quite gently--pfuit!. . . Sweet Elizabeth will pass from life to death!. . . But it will not do to linger here . . . Let us find Jules and give him thenecessary instructions!"

The stranger went out into the corridor closing the door. The thing hadbeen well managed; the screws keeping the bolt case in position were putback in their holes--the key remained inside--no one would suspect thatonly a slight push was necessary to get into the room. 

With a chuckle, the stranger bent down and pushed a tassel under thedoor. 

The servant must not discover the trick when she is sweeping thepassage: now with this wedge, the door cannot be opened without aviolent push. 

With a last glance up and down the passage, illuminated for a moment byhis electric torch, the stranger made sure that there was no one aboutto see him; then, with silent tread, he began to go downstairs. . . . 

Half-way down, his accomplice awaited him. 

"Well, master?" questioned Jules in a low, trembling voice. 

In a calm, quiet voice, the man in the hood mask replied:

"It is done--is successful. . . . I have wedged the door to. You will becareful when you are sweeping to-morrow. "

Jules lowered his head. 

"Yes . . . Yes. . . . Have you?. . . "

The stranger put his hand on the servant's shoulder. 

"Listen, " whispered the stranger, "I do not repeat my orders twentytimes over, . . . Have I not already told you that I do not allow myself tobe questioned?. . . Try to remember that!. . . You wish to know whether Ihave killed her?. . . Well, I will tell you this: I have not killed her. But I have so managed things that she will kill herself!. . . A suicide, you understand. . . . One piece of advice: to-morrow, keep anyone fromgoing to her room as long as you can . . . If Madame Bourrat, or anyoneelse asks for her, you must say that you saw her leave the house--thatshe has gone out. . . . "

"But, " protested Jules, "it is impossible, what you tell me to say, master! It just happens that she is expecting visitors to-morrow!. . . Shetold me that, on this account, she meant to stay indoors all day!"

The man with the hood mask ground his teeth. 

"You idiot! What does that matter?. . . You are to say: MademoiselleElizabeth has just gone out, but she told me that she was not going far, and that she would return in about twenty minutes. . . . If anyone shouldask for her again, you are to answer that she has not come in yet!. . . "

"But . . . Master . . . When they find out what's happened really?. . . "

"Ho! When it is discovered, it will seem quite natural that a person whomeans to commit suicide--for she will have committed suicide, youunderstand--should have taken precautions not to be disturbed . . . Yougrasp this?"

"Yes, master . . . Yes!. . . "

They had returned to the garden: the man in the hooded mask waspreparing to get over the gate. . . . 

"Farewell! Be faithful! Be intelligent!. . . You know what you have togain?. . . You also know what risks you run?. . . Eh!. . . Now go!"

"You will return to-morrow, master?"

The man with the hooded mask looked his accomplice up and down. 

"I shall return when it pleases me to do so. "

Then, with marvellous agility, without making a spring for it, with aquite extraordinary muscular flexibility and power, the stranger leapedon to the little wall, cleared the gate, and disappeared into thenight. . . . 

Jules, with bent head, much moved, terribly anxious, slowly walked backto the house. . . . 

XIII

RUE RAFFET

Maray, second reporter of _La Capitale_, shook hands with Fandor. 

"Are you in a good humour, dear boy?"

"So--so. . . . "

"Ah! Well, here is something which will cheer you up, I'm sure!. . . Here's a letter from a lady for you. . . . I found it in my pigeon-hole bymistake!"

Fandor smiled. 

"From a lady?. . . You must be mistaken!. . . How do you know it is?"

"By the handwriting, the paper, and so on--I'm not mistaken--am Iever?. . . " Laughing, Maray threw down on Fandor's table a small envelopewith a deep black border. 

"Yes, it is a letter from a woman, " said Fandor, as he picked it up:"from whom?. . . Ah, . . . Why yes!. . . "

With a hasty finger, he tore open the envelope whilst his colleaguewithdrew making a joking remark. 

"Dear boy, I leave you to this tender missive: I should be annoyed withmyself were I to interrupt your reflections!"

Fandor's friend would have been surprised, if he could have seen thegloomy expression which the perusal of this so-called love-letterproduced. Jérôme had turned to the signature--_Elizabeth Dollon_. 

"What does she want with me?" he asked himself. "After the extraordinaryaffair of rue du Quatre Septembre, one must suppose that she has arrivedat some conclusion regarding the possible guilt of her brother . . . Solong as she does not let her imagination run away with her, and, likethe police, fancy that Jacques Dollon is still in the land of theliving? The position the poor thing is in is a very cruel one!"

Fandor had met Jacques Dollon's young sister repeatedly; and, everytime, he had been more and more troubled by the poor girl's touchinggrief, as well as by her pathetic beauty, which had made a greatimpression on him. . . . He began to read her letter. 

 _"Dear Sir, _

 _You have been so good to me in all my troubles, you have shown me such true sympathy, that I do not hesitate to ask your help once more. _

 _Such an extraordinary thing has happened to me which I cannot account for at all, which, nevertheless, makes me think, more than ever, that my poor brother is living, innocent, and kept prisoner, perhaps by those who compel him to accept the responsibility for all those horrible crimes you know about. _

 _To-day, whilst I was in Paris on business, some people, of whom I know nothing, I need hardly say, whom not a soul in the private boarding-house where I am saw, these persons entered my room!_

 _I found all my belongings turned upside down; my papers scattered over the floor, every drawer and trunk and box ransacked from top to bottom!_

 _You can guess how frightened I was. . . . _

 _I do not think they had come to do me any personal harm, not even to rob me, for I had left my modest jewellery on the mantelpiece and found them still there: those who entered my room did not covet valuables. _

 _Then, why did they come?_

 _You are perhaps going to say that my imagination is playing me tricks!. . . Nevertheless, I assure you that I try to keep calm, but I cannot keep control of myself, and I am terribly afraid!_

 _I have just said that nothing was stolen from me; I think, however, it right to mention one strange coincidence. _

 _I was convinced that I had left, in a little red pocket-book, the list I spoke to you of, which had been retrieved at my brother's house on the day of Madame de Vibray's death. It was, as I have told you, written in green ink by a person whose handwriting I do not know. I can hardly tell why, but amidst all the disorders in my room I immediately searched for this list. The little pocket-book was on the floor amongst other papers, but the list was not to be found in it. _

 _Am I mistaken? Have I packed it in somewhere else, or, allowing for the fact that everything had been turned upside down, has this paper slipped among other papers, which would explain why I had not come across it again?_

 _In spite of myself, I must confess to you that the thieves, I fancy, had only one aim in view when they entered my room, and that was to get hold of this list. _

 _What is your opinion?_

 _I feel that perhaps I am about to show myself both inconsiderate and injudicious, but you know how miserable I am, and you will understand how the position I am in gives me grounds for being distracted. I am bent on talking this over with you, on knowing what you think of it. Perhaps even, knowing how clever you are, you might be able to find something, an indication, some detail, in my room? I have not touched anything. _

 _I shall stay indoors all to-morrow in the hope of seeing you; do come if you possibly can. It seems to me that I am forsaken by everyone, and I trust only you. . . . "_

Jérôme Fandor read and reread this letter, which had been written with atrembling hand. 

"Poor little soul!" he murmured. "Here is something more to add to hertroubles! It is really terrible! It seems to me as if we should nevercome to the end of it; and I ask myself, whether the police will everfind the key to all these mysteries!. . . 

"Did someone really break into Elizabeth Dollon's room to steal thispaper? It is rather improbable. Judging from what she told me, there isnothing compromising in it. But then, why this search?. . . She is rightso far: if the intruders had been merely thieves, they would havecarried off her jewellery!. . . Then it is for that paper they came?Besides, ordinary burglars would have had considerable difficulty ingetting into her room, where she is remarkably well guarded, by the veryfact of there being other boarders in the house. . . . 

"No, the very audacity of this attempted theft seems to prove, that itis connected with the other affairs which have brought the name ofJacques Dollon into such prominence!

"I see in this the same extraordinary audacity, the same certainty ofescape, the same long and careful preparation, for it is a by no meansconvenient place for a burglary in open day: comings and goings areperpetual, and the guilty persons ran a hundred risks of beingcaught. . . . "

Fandor interrupted his reflections to read Elizabeth's letter once more. 

"She is dying of fright! That is evident!. . . In any case she calls to mefor help. Her letter was posted yesterday evening. . . . I will go and seeher--and at once. . . . Who knows but I might find some clue which wouldput me on the right track?"

 * * * * *

Jérôme Fandor did not feel very hopeful. 

After having gone carefully over every point connected with, andpertaining to, the affair of rue du Quatre Septembre, he had almost cometo the conclusion, optimistic as he was regarding the police, thatchance alone would bring about the arrest of the guilty parties. 

"To lay these criminals by the heels, " he had frankly declared, "requires the aid of very favourable circumstances, and without them, neither I nor the police will get at the truth of it all. "

Fandor made a definite distinction between the opinion of the police andhis own, because two different theories now obtained with regard to thetwo affairs: that of the attack on the Princess Sonia Danidoff, and thatof the robbery of rue du Quatre Septembre, where the imprints of JacquesDollon's fingers had been found. 

The police and Fandor coupled Monsieur Havard with Monsieur Bertillonunder this definition; the police held it for certain that JacquesDollon was alive, very much alive, and the probabilities were great thathe was guilty of the different crimes attributed to him. 

In an interview granted to a press rival of _La Capitale_ MonsieurBertillon had stated:

"We base our assertion that Dollon is alive, and consequently guilty, onmaterial facts: we have found his signature attached to each of thecrimes, and it is a signature which cannot be imitated by anyone. . . . "

For his part, Fandor held it as certain that Jacques was dead. 

"I maintain that, since fifty persons have seen Jacques Dollon dead, itis infinitely more likely that he is dead than that he is alive! Theimprints of his fingers, his hand, are equally visible, it is true, andseem to prove that he is alive. But the conclusive nature of this testis nullified by the fact that, before the discovery of these imprints, before these imprints had been made, Jacques Dollon was dead!"

And in his articles in _La Capitale_, Jérôme Fandor, with a persistencywhich finished by disconcerting even the most convinced partisans of thepolice contention, continued to maintain that Jacques Dollon was dead, dead as dead, and, to use his own expression, "as dead as it waspossible for anyone to be dead!"

Jérôme Fandor had just rung the bell at the garden gate of MadameBourrat's private boarding-house in Auteuil. 

Jules hastened to answer this ring, and was met by the question:

"Is Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon at home?"

"No, monsieur. She went out not an hour ago!"

"And you are certain she has not returned?"

"Absolutely, monsieur. . . . There are two visitors waiting for heralready. "

"She will be in soon, then?"

"Certainly, monsieur: she will not be long. . . . "

Fandor looked at his watch. 

"A quarter past ten!. . . Very well, I will wait for her. "

"If monsieur will kindly follow me?"

Fandor was shown into the drawing-room. He had advanced only a step ortwo when he was greeted with:

"Why! Monsieur Fandor!"

"I am delighted to see you!" cried Fandor, shaking hands with MonsieurBarbey and Monsieur Nanteuil. Both gave him a pleasant smile of welcome. 

"You have come to see Mademoiselle Dollon, I suppose?"

"Yes. We have come to assure her that we will do all in our power tohelp her out of her terrible difficulties. She wrote to us a few daysago to ask if we would act as intermediaries regarding the sale of someof her unfortunate brother's productions, also to see if we could gether a situation in some dressmaking establishment. . . . We have come toassure her of our entire sympathy. "

"That is most kind of you! They told you, did they not, that she hadgone out? I think she will not be absent long, for I have an appointmentwith her. But, if you will allow me, I will go to the office and ask ifthey have the least idea of which way she has gone, for I have littletime to spare, and if we could go to meet her, it would save, at least, a few minutes. . . . "

Jérôme Fandor rose and went towards one of the drawing-room doors. 

"You are making a mistake, " said Monsieur Nanteuil, "the office is thisway, " and he pointed to another door. 

"Bah! All roads lead to Rome!" With that, Fandor went out by the door hehad approached first. . . . 

"They are nice fellows, " said Fandor to himself. "If Elizabeth Dollon isreally not in!. . . But. . . Is she really not in the house? I am by nomeans sure. . . . If she feels timid at the idea of seeing thebankers--their visit may have made her nervous, considering the stateshe is in . . . She might have sent to say she was not at home in order tohave time to add some finishing touches to her toilette. "

Fandor, who knew the house, mounted the little staircase leading to thefirst floor. Elizabeth's room was on this floor. Before her door hestopped and sniffed. 

"Queer smell!" he murmured. "It smells like gas!"

He knocked boldly, calling:

"Mademoiselle Elizabeth! It is I, Fandor!"

The smell of gas became more pronounced as he waited. 

A horrible idea, an agonising fear, flashed through his mind. 

He knocked as hard as he could on the door. 

"Mademoiselle Elizabeth! Mademoiselle!"

No answer. 

He called down the stairs:

"Waiter!. . . Porter!"

But apparently the one and only manservant the house boasted wasoccupied elsewhere, for no one answered. 

Fandor returned to the door of Elizabeth's room, knelt down and tried tolook through the keyhole. The inside key was there, which seemed toconfirm his agonising fear. 

"She has not gone out then?"

He took a deep breath. 

"What a horrible smell of gas!"

This time he did not hesitate. He rose, stepped back, sprang forward, and with a vigorous push from the shoulder, he drove the door off itshinges. 

"My God!" he shouted. 

In the centre of the room, Fandor had just seen Elizabeth Dollon lyingunconscious. A tube, detached from a portable gas stove, was between hertightly closed lips! The tap was turned full on. He flung himself on hisknees near the poor girl, pulled away the deadly tube, and put his earto her heart. 

What joy, what happiness, he felt when he heard, very feeble but quiteunmistakable beatings of Elizabeth's heart!

"She lives!" What unspeakable relief Jérôme Fandor felt! Whatthankfulness!

The noise he had made breaking the door off its hinges brought the wholehousehold running to the spot. As the manservant, followed by MadameBourrat, followed in turn by Monsieur Barbey and Nanteuil, appeared inthe doorway uttering cries of terror, Jérôme called out:

"No one is to come in!. . . It is an accident!"

Then lifting Elizabeth in his strong arms, he carried her out of theroom. 

"What she needs is air!"

He hurried downstairs and out into the garden with his precious burden, followed by the terrified witnesses of the scene. 

"You have saved her life, monsieur!" cried Madame Bourrat in a tragicvoice. She groaned. "Oh, what a scandal!"

"Yes, I have saved her, " replied Fandor as, panting with his exertions, he laid Elizabeth Dollon flat on a garden seat. . . . "But from whom?. . . Itis certainly not attempted suicide! There is some mystery behind thisbusiness: it's a regular theatrical performance arranged simply foreffect, and to mislead us, " declared Fandor. Then, turning to thebankers, he said courteously but with an air of command:

"Please lay information with the superintendent of police at once . . . The nearest police station, you understand!"

"Madame, " he said, addressing the overwhelmed Madame Bourrat, "you willbe good enough to look after Mademoiselle Dollon, will you not?. . . Takeevery care of her. There is not much to be done, however! I have seenmany cases of commencing asphyxia: she will regain consciousness now, ina few minutes. "

Then, looking at the manservant, he said in a sharp tone:

"Come with me! You will mount guard at the door of MademoiselleElizabeth's room, whilst I try to discover some clues, before the policearrive on the scene. "

To tell the truth, our young journalist felt embarrassed at the ideathat Elizabeth Dollon was about to regain consciousness, and that hewould have to submit to being thanked by her, when she knew who hadsaved her. 

Accompanied by the manservant, he went quickly upstairs and intoElizabeth's room. 

"You must not enter Mademoiselle Dollon's room on any account!" saidFandor sternly. "It is quite enough that I should run the risk ofeffacing the, probably very slight, clues which the delinquents haveleft behind them. . . . "

"But, monsieur, if the young lady put the tubing between her lips, itmust have been because she wished to destroy herself!"

"On the face of it you are right, my good fellow. But, when one isright, one is often wrong!"

Without more ado, Fandor started on a minute inspection of the room. Elizabeth had but stated the truth when she wrote that it had beenthoroughly ransacked. Only her toilet things had been spared; but somebooks had been taken from their shelves and thrown about the floor, their pages crumpled and spoilt. He noticed the emptied trunk: itscontents--copy books, letters, pieces of music--had been roughly dealtwith. On the mantelpiece, in full view, lay Elizabeth's jewellery--somerings and brooches, a small gold watch, a purse. 

"A very queer affair, " murmured Fandor, who was kneeling in the middleof the room, rummaging, searching, and not finding any clue. He rose, carefully examined all the woodwork, but found nothing incriminating. Heexamined the lock of the unhinged door, which had subsided on the floor. The lock was intact, the bolt moved freely: the screws only of thestaple had given way. 

"That, " thought Fandor, "is probably owing to the force of my thrust!"

The window fastening was intact: the window closed. 

"If the robbers, " reflected Fandor, "got into a closed room, they musthave used false keys. "

Having examined the means of access to the room, Fandor started on astill more minute examination of the interior. He scrutinised thefurniture and the slight powdering of dust on each article: in vain!. . . Then the washstand had its turn: nothing!. . . He scrutinised the soap. 

"Ah! This is interesting!" he cried. The manservant had made himselfscarce; and Fandor, unobserved, could wrap up the piece of soap in hishandkerchief and hide it in the lowest drawer of the chest of drawers, under a pile of linen. He was whistling now. 

"That bit of soap is interesting--very!" he cried. "Let the police come!I am not afraid of their blundering!. . . Now to see how Elizabeth isgetting on!"

When he reached her side, he found she had recovered full consciousness, and was preparing to answer the questions of a police superintendent, who, summoned by the bankers, had hastened to the scene of action. Hewas a stout, apoplectic man, very full of his own importance. 

"Come now, mademoiselle, tell us just how things happened from beginningto end! We ask nothing better than to believe you, but do not concealany detail--not the slightest. . . . "

Poor Elizabeth Dollon, when she heard this speech, stared at the pompouspolice official, astonished. What had she to conceal? What had she togain by lying? What did he think, this fat policeman, who took it uponhimself to issue orders, when he should rather have tried to comforther! Nevertheless, she at once began telling him all that she knew withregard to the affair. She told him of her letter to Fandor: that herroom had been visited the evening before: by whom she did not know . . . That she had not said a word about it to anyone, fearing vengeance wouldfall on her, frightened, not understanding what it all meant. . . . 

Then she came to what the police dignitary called "her suicide. " As shefinished her recital with a reference to her rescue by Fandor, shelooked at the young journalist. It was a look of great gratitude and akind of ardent tenderness, with a touch of fear in it. 

"Strange, very strange!" pronounced the superintendent of police, whohad been taking notes with an air of great gravity. "So very strange, mademoiselle, that it is very difficult to credit your statements!. . . Very difficult indeed!. . . "

Whilst he was speaking, Fandor was saying to himself:

"Decidedly, it is that!. . . Just what I was thinking! It is quite clear, clear as the sun in the sky, evident, indisputable!" And he refused, very politely of course--for one has to respect the authorities--toaccompany the superintendent, who, in his turn, went upstairs toElizabeth's room, in order to carry out the necessary legalverification. . . . 

XIV

SOMEONE TELEPHONED

The nuns of the order of Saint Augustin were not expelled in consequenceof the Decrees. This was a special favour, but one fully justified, because of the incalculable benefits this community conferred onsuffering humanity. The vast convent of rue de la Glacière continues toserve as a shelter for these holy women, and as a sort of hospital forthe sick. For close on a hundred years, generation after generation ofthose living near its walls have heard the convent clock sound the hoursin solemn tones; so, too, the convent chapel's shrill-voiced bells havenever failed to remind the faithful that the daily offices of theirchurch are being said and sung by the holy sisters within the hallowedwalls. 

In the vast quarter of Paris, peopled with hospitals and prisons, theconvent shows a stern front in the shape of a high, blackened wall. Agreat courtyard gate, in which a window with iron bars and grating isthe only visible opening to the exterior world. 

About half-past six in the morning, slightly out of breath with hisrapid walk from the Metropolitan station, Jérôme Fandor rang the conventdoor bell. The sound could be heard echoing and re-echoing in thevaulted corridors, till it died away in the stony distance. There was asilence: then the iron-barred window was half opened, and Fandor heard avoice asking:

"What do you want, monsieur?"

"I wish to speak to Madame the Superior, " replied Fandor. 

The window was closed again and a lengthy silence followed. Then, slowly, the heavy entrance gate swung half open. Fandor entered theconvent. Under the arched doorway, a nun received him with a slightsalutation, and turned her back. 

"Kindly follow me, " she murmured. 

Fandor followed along a narrow passage, on one side of which were cells, whilst on the other, it opened by means of large bays, on a vastrectangular cloister quite deserted. A door-window in the passage wasajar: the nun stopped here and said:

"Kindly wait in this parlour, and be good enough to let me have yourcard. I will inform our Mother Superior that you wish to see her. "

The room in which our journalist found himself was severely furnished:its walls were white, on them hung a great ivory crucifix, and here andthere, a simple religious picture framed in ebony. A few chairs wereranged in a circle about an oval table: on the floor, polished till itshone like a mirror, were a few small mats, which gave a touch ofcommon-place comfort to the icy regularity of this parlour, set apartfor official visits. 

What emotions, what dramas, what joys, have had this parlour for asetting! It is there that the life of the cloister touches mundaneexistence; it is there the nuns receive their future companions in thereligious life and their weeping families; it is there the parents ofthose in the convent infirmary come to hear from the doctor's lips thedecrees of life or death; for the convent is not only a retreat, it isan asylum for the sick, the ailing, recommended to their patients by themost eminent doctors, the most prominent surgeons. 

Accustomed though he was to every kind of human misery, Fandor shudderedat the thought of all these walls had seen and heard. His reflectionswere broken by the arrival of a little old lady, whose eyes shonestrangely luminous in her pale and wrinkled face--a face showing thehighest distinction. 

Fandor made a deep bow: it might have expressed the reverence of theworld to religion. 

"Madame la Supérieure, " murmured he, "I have come to pay my respects toyou and to ask for news of your boarder. "

The Mother Superior, in a gay tone, which contrasted with her cold andreserved appearance, replied at once:

"Ah, you preferred to come yourself! You had not the patience to wait atthe telephone? I quite understand. Would you believe it, while thesister, who has charge of this young girl, was being sent for, thecommunication was cut off. That is why we could not give you anyinformation. "

Fandor stared. 

"But I do not understand, madame?"

The Mother Superior replied:

"Was it not you then who telephoned this morning to ask for news ofMademoiselle Dollon?"

"I certainly did not do so!"

"In that case, I do not understand what it means, either! But it doesnot matter much: you shall see your protégée now. "

The Mother Superior rang: a sister appeared. 

"Sister, will you take this gentleman to Mademoiselle Dollon! She waswalking in the park a short while ago, and is probably there now. . . . Monsieur, I bid you good day. "

Gliding swiftly and noiselessly over the polished floor, the MotherSuperior disappeared. The nun led the way and Fandor followed: he wasvery much upset by what the Mother Superior had just told him. 

"How had Elizabeth's place of refuge been so quickly discovered?. . . Whocould have telephoned to get news of her?"

The nun had led Fandor across the great rectangular courtyard; then bycorridors, and many winding, vaulted passages, they had come out on to aterrace, overlooking an immense park, which extended further than theeye could see. Here were bosky dells, ancient trees, bowers and grooves, meadows where milky mothers chewed the cud in the shade of blossomingapple trees. It might have been in Normandy, a hundred leagues fromParis!

The nun turned to the admiring Fandor. 

"The young lady you seek, monsieur, is coming along this path: there sheis!. . . I will leave you. "

Fandor had seen Elizabeth's graceful figure moving towards him, throwninto charming relief by the country landscape flooded with sunshine. Inher modest mourning dress, with her fair shining hair, she appearedprettier than ever: a touching figure of sorrowing beauty!

Elizabeth pressed Fandor's hands warmly. 

"Oh, thank you, monsieur, thank you!" she cried, "for having come to seeme this morning. I know how little spare time you have! I feel vexedwith myself for putting you out so . . . But you see"--Elizabeth could notrepress a sob--"I am so alone . . . So desolate . . . I have lost everythingI cared for . . . And you are the only person I can trust and confide innow!. . . I feel like a bit of wreckage at the mercy of wind and wave; Ifeel as though I were surrounded by enemies: I live in a nightmare. . . . What should I do without you to turn to?. . . "

Our young journalist, moved by such great misfortune so simply, socandidly expressed, returned the pressure of Elizabeth's hands. 

"You know, mademoiselle, " he said softly, but in a voice vibrating withsympathetic emotion--the only sign of feeling he permitted himself toshow--"you know that you can count absolutely on me. In getting you totake a few days' rest in this retreat, I felt I was doing what was bestfor you. You are not solitary; but your surroundings are peaceful andfriendly, and should you have enemies, though I am loath to think it, you are sheltered here beyond their reach. With reference to that, haveyou given your address to anyone, since yesterday?"

"To no one, " replied Elizabeth. "Has anyone by chance?. . . "

She looked troubled, and gave an anxious questioning glance at Fandor. 

He did not want to frighten the much-tried girl, but he wished to solvethe mystery of the unaccountable telephone call. 

"Oh, I just wished to know, mademoiselle. . . . Now, tell me, have youquite recovered from . . . Your experience of the other day?"

"Ah, monsieur, I owe my life to you!" cried Elizabeth. "For, I amcertain that someone wished to get rid of me . . . Don't you agree withme?. . . I must have been dosed with some narcotic, just as they dosed mypoor brother, for I am now absolutely convinced that he also was sent tosleep and poisoned. . . . "

"And that he is dead! Is that not so?" asked Fandor in a low voice. 

Without hesitation, in a tearful voice, Elizabeth repeated:

"And that he is dead. You have given me so many proofs that it is so, that I can no longer doubt it, alas! But I will take courage, as Ipromised you I would. I ought to live, that I may strive to rehabilitatehis memory, and restore to him his reputation as a man of probity, ofhonour, to which he is entitled. But directly I begin to think about thehorrible mystery in which I am involved, my very reason seems tototter--you can understand that, can you not? I don't understand, Idon't know, I can't guess . . . Oh!. . . "

"But, " interrupted Fandor, "we must seriously consider the situation inall its bearings. It may cause you atrocious suffering, but you mustsummon all your courage, mademoiselle. We must discuss it. "

Fandor and Elizabeth had moved away from the terrace, and were now inthe leafy solitudes of the park. 

Fandor began:

"There is that paper with its list of names, written in green ink, mademoiselle! It was a mistake on your part not to attach any importanceto it until you fancied, and perhaps rightly, that someone had tried tosteal it from you. Come now, can you tell me whether this list is stillin your possession, or not?"

Elizabeth shook her head sadly. 

"I do not know, I cannot tell! My poor head is so bewildered, and I findit all the trouble in the world to collect my thoughts. I told you, theother day, that this list had disappeared from a little red pocket book, that I had put on the chimney piece of my room at Auteuil. But the moreI think it over, the more doubtful I am. . . . It seems to me now, thatthis list ought to be, must be still--unless it has been stolensince--in the big trunk, into which I threw, pell-mell, the papers andbooks my brother left scattered about his writing table. To be quitesure about this, we must return to Auteuil. . . . But perhaps it isuseless; because when I wanted to send it to you some forty-eight hoursago, I searched everywhere for the wretched thing, and in vain!. . . I amnot even sure now that I brought it away with me from rue Norvins!"

Fandor gently comforted the distracted girl whose eyes were full oftears. 

"Do not be disheartened. Try rather to put together in your memory whatwas written in this paper! You told me, surely, that there were names inthis list of persons you knew, or had heard of? Search your memory alittle, mademoiselle. "

"I don't know! I cannot remember!" cried Elizabeth nervously. 

"Come now, " said Fandor encouragingly, "I know an excellent way ofassisting the memory. The eyes are like a sensitive photographic plate:what the brain does not always retain, the mirror of the eye registers:do not try to remember, but try, as it were, to read on white paper whatyour eyes saw!. . . "

"Let us sit down a minute and I will help you to do it!" Fandor pointedout a rustic seat, under the trees, in front of which was a gardentable. They sat down together and Fandor drew from his pocket a sheet ofwhite paper and his fountain pen. 

Elizabeth's arm touched his shoulder. 

As though electrified by this contact, the two young people trembled, their eyes met in a glance full of troubled emotion--a feeling new toboth--whose immense significance neither understood. Fandor remainedspeechless, and Elizabeth blushed. 

They gazed at each other, embarrassed, not knowing what to say forthemselves; and their embarrassment was only relieved by the appearanceof the sister who attended to the turning box at the entrance gate. Shestood at the top of the steps leading down to the park and calledElizabeth. 

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! There is someone on the telephone whowishes to speak to you!"

Fandor rose. 

"Will you allow me to accompany you, mademoiselle? I am very curious toknow whether the person now asking for you is identical with the personwho asked for you a little while ago?"

The young couple hurried to the big parlour, and Elizabeth went to thetelephone. 

"Hullo?. . . "

Elizabeth had handed one of the receivers to Fandor. He heard avoice--an unknown voice, but beyond question masculine--who said, overthe wire:

"Hullo!. . . Is it really Mademoiselle Dollon to whom I have the honour ofspeaking?"

"Yes, monsieur. Who is speaking to me?"

But just as Elizabeth was about to repeat her question, Fandor thoughthe heard whoever had called up Elizabeth, hang up the receivers. Noreply reached them!. . . 

Elizabeth cried impatiently:

"Hullo!. . . Hullo!. . . Who is speaking to me?"

But there was no one at the end of the line!

Fandor swore softly to himself, then seizing the two receivers hecalled:

"Hullo! Come, monsieur, reply!. . . Whom do you want? Who are you?"

He could not obtain any reply. 

Fandor rang up the central office. When the telephone girl answered, hecalled:

"Mademoiselle, why have you cut me off?"

"But I have done nothing of the kind, monsieur!"

"But I cannot get any reply!"

"It is because the receivers have been hung up by whoever called you. Iassure you that is so. "

"What was my caller's number?"

"I cannot tell you that, monsieur--the rules forbid it. "

Fandor knew this quite well, so he did not insist further. But, as heturned away from the telephone, a dull anger smouldered within him. 

"Who was this mysterious individual who had called Elizabeth twice overthe telephone, and then, no sooner put into communication with her, hadrefused to talk to her?"

Fandor felt nervous, anxious, exasperated by this incident; but it wouldnever do to trouble his young friend to no good purpose. He led her backto the garden. 

"Where were we in our talk, monsieur?" asked Elizabeth. 

With a considerable effort, the journalist collected his thoughts. 

"We were discussing the mysterious paper found at your brother's, mademoiselle. "

In agreement with Elizabeth, Jérôme Fandor determined the approximatesize of this list of addresses. He tore from his note-book a sheet ofwhite paper. 

Elizabeth looked fixedly at the white sheet for a long time, as though, by concentrated will power, she could force the mysterious names whichshe read some days before on the original paper, to rise up in front ofher eyes. Certainly it seemed to her that on this list figured the nameof her brother, that of the Baroness de Vibray, lawyer Gérin's also:then she remembered a double name, a name not unknown to her, which hadappeared in the list. 

"Barbey-Nanteuil!" she suddenly cried. "Yes, I do believe those twonames were on it!"

Fandor smiled. Encouraged by his smile and the results of thissemi-clairvoyant attempt, Elizabeth allowed her thoughts free play. 

"I am sure of it: there was even a mistake in spelling: _Nanteuil_ wasspelled _Nauteuil_: the bankers were third or fourth on the list, and Iam certain now that the Baroness de Vibray's name headed the list. . . . There was also a date, composed of two figures--a 1 . . . Then--wait aminute!. . . A figure with a tail to it . . . That is to say, it could onlyhave been a 5, a 7, or a 9. . . . I cannot remember which. Then there wereother names I had never heard of. "

"Try, mademoiselle, to remember. . . . "

There was a silence. Fandor was puzzling over the figureshe had written down in the order Elizabeth had mentionedthem--fifteen--seventeen--nineteen--but what could he deduce fromthem?. . . Ah!. . . The mysterious robbery of rue du Quatre Septembre wascommitted on May 15th! There may be a clue there! The thread of Fandor'sreflections were abruptly broken by a cry from Elizabeth. 

"I have recalled a name--something like . . . Thomas!. . . Does that tellyou anything?"

"Thomas?" repeated Jérôme Fandor slowly. . . . "I don't see. . . . "

But suddenly he saw light!

He jumped up:

"Isn't it Thomery?" cried he, intensely excited. "Are you notconfounding Thomas with Thomery?"

Elizabeth, taken aback, confused, tried hard to remember: she threshedher memory with knitted brows. 

"It may be so, " she declared. "I see quite clearly the first letters ofthe word--Thom . . . Written in a large hand, . . . Then the rest isindistinct . . . But I have the impression that the end of the word islonger than the last syllable of Thomas. "

"Perhaps you are right!"

Fandor was no longer listening to her. He had left the rustic bench, andwithout paying any attention to Elizabeth, he began walking up and downthe shady path, talking to himself in a low tone, as was his habit whenhe wished to reduce his thoughts to order. 

"Thomas--that is Thomery; Jacques Dollon, the Baroness de Vibray, Barbey-Nanteuil, lawyer Gérin--but they are all the victims of themysterious band that plots and plans in the shade!. . . It isincomprehensible--but we shall find a way to get to the bottom of itall!"

Fandor returned to Elizabeth. 

"We shall get to the bottom of these mysteries, " cried he, with sotriumphant an air, his face shining with joy, that Elizabeth, in spiteof her torturing anxieties, could not help smiling. 

They were alone in these green and flowery spaces. A great peace was allabout them. The birds were singing, the breeze lightly stirred the treesand bushes with caressing breaths. . . . Fandor gazed tenderly atElizabeth, very tenderly. . . . The young girl smiled tremulously, as shemet this glance of lover-like tenderness. 

"We shall get to the bottom of it, " repeated Fandor. "You will see, Ipromise you. . . . "

Their glances mingled in a mute communion of thought and feeling. . . . Spontaneously, their hands met and clasped. . . . They were standing closetogether, and theirs the consciousness of living through anunforgettable moment: they felt most vividly alive together. How youngthey were! How intoxicating, a moment!. . . The world of outside thingsceased to exist for them. . . . They were enwrapt in a glowing world oftheir own!. . . Fandor's hand slid to Elizabeth's shoulder; he leanedtowards the unresisting girl, and with closed eyes, their lips met in along kiss--a kiss all ecstasy. . . . 

It was a moment's mutual madness!. . . The instant past, both knew it. Torn from this momentary dream of bliss, they gazed at each other, embarrassed, greatly moved: for that very reason they wished to part. Ah, this was not the moment to speak of love, to dream of happiness andmutual joy! Dark, dreadful mysteries enclosed them: it was a sinisternet they struggled in: as yet they could see no clear way out!. . . Theyhad no right to be themselves until the mysteries were cleared away. . . . They could not belong to each other now!

 * * * * *

Fandor, when taking leave of Elizabeth, expressed a wish that she shouldnot accompany him to the convent; and she, still shaken with emotion, had not insisted on doing so. 

As he was on the point of stepping into the street, a sister came up tohim. 

"You are Monsieur Jérôme Fandor?"

"Yes, sister. "

"Our Mother Superior wishes to speak to you. "

Our journalist bowed acquiescence. 

Some minutes later, the Mother Superior joined him in the large parlour. 

"Monsieur, " she began, "I must apologise for having sent for you, but Iwished to have a necessary talk with you. "

Fandor interrupted the saintly nun. 

"And I must apologise, reverend Mother, for not having come to pay myrespects to you before leaving. Had I not been much troubled, I shouldnever have dreamt of leaving without thanking you for the help you havebeen good enough to give me. "

The nun looked at him questioningly. Fandor continued:

"In agreeing to receive Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon as a boarder, youhave done a deed of true charity: this poor girl is so unhappy, sotried, so unfortunate, that I really do not know where she could havefound a better refuge than in this convent under your shelteringcare. . . . I . . . "

But the nun would not allow Fandor to continue. 

"It is precisely about Mademoiselle Dollon that I wish to speak toyou. . . . Of course, I should be glad to help and comfort one sufferingfrom a real misfortune; but I must confess, that when MademoiselleDollon presented herself here as a boarder, I was ignorant of the exactnature of the scandal in which she is involved. "

Fandor was taken aback at the harsh tone of the nun's speech. 

"Good Heavens, madame, what do you mean to insinuate?"

"I have just been informed, monsieur, of the exact nature of therelations which existed between the criminal, Jacques Dollon, and Madamede Vibray. "

Fandor stiffened with indignation. 

"It is false!" he cried. "Utterly false! You have been misinformed!"

He stopped short. The nun signified by a movement of her hand thatfurther protests were useless. 

"In any case, whether false or not, it is quite certain that we cannotkeep this girl here any longer, for her name will, in the end, do harmto the respectability of this house. "

Fandor was astounded at this extraordinary statement. 

"In other words, " said he, "you refuse to keep Mademoiselle here anylonger as a boarder?"

"Yes, monsieur!"

The journalist moved a step or two, then, with bent head, seemed to beturning something over in his mind. 

"It comes to this, madame, you are not giving me your true reasonsfor . . . "

Again the nun interrupted the young man with a gesture. 

"True, monsieur, I should have preferred not to mention my real and verydefinite reasons which make it an imperative duty that I should requestMademoiselle Dollon to seek another refuge. Nevertheless, since youinsist, I will tell you that Mademoiselle Dollon's attitude justnow--her behaviour--is what we cannot possibly allow. . . . "

"Good Heavens! What do you wish to insinuate now, madame?"

"You kissed her, monsieur. I regret that you have forced me to go intodetails. I regret that you have compelled me to put into words this--Iwill not allow you to turn this religious house into a lover's meetingplace! Am I clear?"

Before Fandor had time to protest, the nun gave him a curt bow, andprepared to leave him. 

The young journalist recalled her. He was angry; all the more so, because he knew that the Mother Superior had some justification for theattitude she had taken up. Alas! All his protestations were vain!

"Very well, madame, " he said at last. "You are utterly mistaken; but Irecognise that your attitude has some colour of justification, and I bowto your decision, based on misinformation and a mistake though it be. Kindly allow me two days' grace, that I may find another refuge forMademoiselle Dollon!"

With a movement of her head the nun signified her assent; then, with afinal bow, she left the parlour. 

Crestfallen, but full of angry resolve, Jérôme Fandor turned his back onthe convent. 

XV

VAGUE SUSPICIONS

Fandor was talking to himself--an inveterate habit of his--as he sat inthe cab which was carrying him to the Palais de Justice. 

"Beyond question, I ought to have examined that paper they have stolenfrom Mademoiselle Elizabeth. I should have looked through it at thefirst opportunity. That sequence of names; those dates, which seem toalmost coincide with the different criminal attempts, probably relate tothe mysterious plan which the assassins are carrying outsystematically. . . . But, that means there are to be more victims, and weshall witness fresh tragedies!. . . I am not at all easy about Elizabetheither!. . . Who the deuce could have telephoned to her at the convent?. . . Perhaps what I am going to do is stupid, but no chance must beneglected. . . . I wonder if I shall learn anything worth knowing at thecourt to-day?. . . 

"When they arrested these smugglers, five months ago, I recollectperfectly that Monsieur Thomery's name was mentioned in connection withthe business. . . . If I only held the connecting link of interest in myhands, which would make it clear why all these people--Jacques Dollon, the Baroness de Vibray, Princess Sonia Danidoff, Barbey-Nanteuil, andeven Elizabeth Dollon--have been the victims of the horrible band I ampursuing. . . . The motive? Evidently robbery! But there must be some otherreason, for--and it is a significant fact--all these people know oneanother, meet one another, or at least are either clients of theBarbey-Nanteuil bank, or are friends of Monsieur Thomery. . . . It's thedevil's own mystery!"

 * * * * *

Jérôme Fandor had arrived at the Palais de Justice. He crossed the greathall des Pas-Perdus and entered the Assize Court. 

 * * * * *

The trial of the Cooper and his accomplices was a small affair, and hadnot attracted many listeners, for these smuggling and coining cases wereapt to be dull. As a matter of fact, there would not have been a soulpresent, if the accused had not had the most popular of counsels todefend them--Maître Henri Robart!

Fandor joined a group who were on familiar terms evidently, and, although he had not seen her for many a day, he at once recognisedMother Toulouche by her remarkable appearance and grotesque get up. Hehad had so many other irons in the fire, that he had not followed thissmuggling case at all closely: he was surprised, therefore, to seeMother Toulouche in the little passage adjoining the court, for he hadthe impression that the old receiver of stolen goods had been under lockand key for some weeks. . . . She was now being interviewed by one of hiscolleagues. Fandor went up to them. 

Though she had not been accused of anything so far, the old storekeeperwas vehemently protesting her innocence. 

"Yes, " she declared to her interviewer, "it is abominable, when suchthings are discovered all of a sudden!"

Mother Toulouche went on to explain that on Clock Quay she rented asmall shop for the sale of curiosities: that she was an honest woman, who had never wronged a soul by as much as a farthing: all she asked wasto be left in peace to earn a decent living, so that she could retirefrom business some day or other. . . . Everyone had a right to ask as muchas that!. . . Her store consisted of two rooms and an underground cellar, in which she had put a quantity of old odds and ends, when she had movedto her present abode. . . . She never descended to this cellar, never atall: she was far too much afraid of rats to venture down there! Not she!But, one day, if you please, when she was quietly engaged in mendingsome old clothes, the police had suddenly burst into her store!. . . Andthey had accused her of receiving smuggled goods and false money, andshe didn't know what more besides!. . . 

The police, not content with this, had made her go down to the cellar tofind out whether or no there were such things in the second cellarbelonging to her store!. . . Who had been most surprised then? Why who butMother Toulouche, who, until that very minute, had not known that thissecond cellar existed! How then was she to know that it communicatedwith the sewer, still less that the sewer opened on to the Seine, andthat by the Seine arrived bales of smuggled goods, which were concealedin her cellar by the smugglers?. . . Fortunately, the judges hadunderstood this, and after twenty-four hours' detention on suspicion, Mother Toulouche had been set at liberty!

At first, she had declared that she did not know the accused personssummoned to appear that day, the Cooper in particular; to tell thetruth, she had made a mistake; she did know them, through having metthem a long time ago, when she lived near la Capelle; so long ago was itthat she had forgotten all about it! Anyhow, she wanted to have donewith the business!

From the very beginning of the trial, Mother Toulouche had beendisagreeably struck by the inquisitorial glances and pointed questionsof the Public Prosecutor throughout the proceedings. Now, in her turn, the old storekeeper was questioning her audience, trying hard to findout what would be the probable attitude of the magistrate, when sheherself should be summoned to the witness-box. 

"Witness!. . . Mother Toulouche!"

Fandor smiled as he listened to the loquacious old storekeeper, for he knew how much faith was to be put in her veracity andrespectability!. . . It was pretty clear that she was every whit as guiltyas the handcuffed individuals now in the dock. As she had not beenarrested, it simply meant that, in Juve's opinion, this was not anopportune moment to put a stopper on the nefarious activities of thisbad old woman. 

At this precise moment, Fandor recognised Juve. He was leaving a groupof barristers and officials, who had been hugely entertained by hisstupid answers and remarks. Yes, it was Juve, so admirably made up anddisguised that Fandor had difficulty in recognising him. Here wasCranajour on the scene! He approached Mother Toulouche and stoodthere--a Cranajour who was the picture of gaping imbecility!

"You, too?" cried Mother Toulouche, looking askance at him. "Are you oneof the witnesses?"

Cranajour's reply was a comical grimace. He scratched his beard, remarking finally:

"I have forgotten! I don't know!"

His audience burst into roars of laughter: Fandor laughed loudest ofall!

One of Maître Henri Robart's juniors whispered in Fandor's ear, with anair of giving the journalist a piece of information worth having. 

"A simple-minded soul, that!--a kind of idiot! You can guess that, atthe preliminary inquiry, they soon found that out!. . . He may beheard--or he may not?"

Fandor nodded. He found it difficult not to laugh. 

"Thanks many for the information, " he stammered. The young barrister didnot understand the ironical tone of our journalist. 

Mother Toulouche was envying Cranajour. 

"You're in luck, you are--to be too silly to go and talk to thoseinquisitive fellows in there! Eh?"

Conversations stopped. The little low door, giving entrance to thecourt, had just opened: an usher announced:

"The case is resumed!. . . Witnesses this way!. . . The woman Toulouche?. . . It is your turn!. . . "

They jostled and pushed their way through the narrow entrance in orderto get into the court room quickly. 

Fandor, however, instead of following the crowd, had grasped the simpleCranajour by the shoulder, and shouted loud enough to be heard by thosewho might have been surprised at his action. 

"You duffer of a Cranajour! Go along with you! You're the man for mymoney, old fellow! Here's something for a glass--but come with me forfive minutes: I want to interview you and make a jolly good article outof it!"

Fandor went off, followed by the detective. When they were quite awayfrom everyone, Fandor turned quickly to his friend. 

"Well, Juve?"

"Nothing, so far. . . . "

"You have not run in the whole gang?"

"Not I!" replied Juve. "These are only the supernumeraries, and thereare some of them out of my reach!. . . Look here, Fandor, " continued Juvein a low tone. "You will see someone in court presently whose presencewill astonish you--it is an aviator--the aviator Emilet. . . . Well, myboy, I have a notion that this fellow is no stranger to all thesegoings-on!. . . But patience!. . . Besides, you know, Fandor, it's not myway of doing things to put the bracelets on mediocrities such as he: Ifly higher!. . . Good-bye. Shall see you later on!"

Fandor asked, in a low tone:

"Shall I remain for the sitting?"

"Yes, " said Juve. "It is quite likely that I shall not be present; andit would be a good thing if you were to get a general idea of thisaffair: you may pick up some useful information. "

"Juve, I very much wish to have a longer talk with you--there are thingsI want to say--to tell you!"

Steps could be heard coming in their direction: the two men separated atonce; but Juve had just time to say:

"This evening then, at eight, I shall come to your place, Fandor. Expectme!"

Half an hour later, Fandor entered the court room. . . . 

The speech for the Crown had just been concluded. 

The arrest of these smugglers, now on their trial, had made some stir, about five months ago. Public opinion had been aroused almost to feverpitch, when it became known that the accused had, for nearly two yearspast, succeeded in getting through into Paris, without having paid towndues, quantities of the most highly taxed articles, and thus hadaccumulated a large store of riches in contraband goods and money. Theyowed their arrest to the betrayal of a wretched dealer, who wasdissatisfied with his remuneration. 

The journalists had, after their manner, amplified all the details, hadexaggerated the realities, and had given a romantic colouring to thevarious incidents in the varied lives and adventures of this daring bandof smugglers. 

They had been represented as perfect gentlemen, who had formedthemselves into a marvellously organised Black Band, led by a chiefhaving right of life or death over them: a band fertile in tricks andextraordinary stratagems, who massed their plunder in immense vaults andcellars under the very heart of Paris, in the Isle of the Cité, andcommunicating with the river, which, under the eyes of the police, served to bear the barges laden with their booty. 

Cellars and vaults in the Isle of the Cité!

"Well, " thought Fandor, "men organised into such a powerful associationin this part of Paris might well put one on the track of strangediscoveries regarding the mysterious events connected with the JacquesDollon affair!"

Then, having spoken to his colleagues on the press, Fandor turned in thedirection of the jury and set himself to follow attentively Maître HenriRobart's speech for the defence. 

XVI

DISCUSSIONS

The portress rang up Fandor on the telephone. 

"Monsieur Fandor! There is a stout little lady down here! She wants tosee you! Should I let her go up?"

Fandor's first impulse was to say "no. " He glanced at the timepiece: itwas exactly two minutes past eight and Juve might be here at any minute. He was sure to keep his appointment. 

After an instant's hesitation, Fandor decided on a "yes. " He called downto the portress:

"Let her come up!"

Fandor had an idea: perhaps this person knew something about theappointment made that afternoon at the Palais de Justice! It would bewell to find out the why and wherefore of this call. In any case, it wasbest for a journalist to see all comers, if possible. 

There was a discreet ring, announcing that the stout little lady hadalready mounted the five flights of stairs and was now on Fandor'slanding. 

Our journalist went to open the door, standing well back in the shadow, so that his visitor might show herself first, as she passed into thelittle hall. 

Yes, she was certainly stout, short, and also elderly. She wore a bonnetwith strings, perched on a thick crop of grey curls, yellowish at thetips. This elderly dame wore glasses; she was wrapped in a large brownshawl, and she supported herself, as she walked, with a crook-handledstick. 

Whilst the puzzled Fandor closed his front door, the visitor madestraight for the little sitting-room, where our journalist usually sat, surrounded by his books and papers. 

"Ah, she seems to know my flat!" thought Fandor. The next moment hejumped back; for, no sooner had the visitor got well into the room, thanshe straightened her bent back, threw off her shawl, and dropped herstick! Then, tearing off her grey curls and her spectacles, the visitorrevealed herself as--Juve!

Fandor burst out laughing. 

"Juve! Well, I never!"

"It's Juve, all right, my boy!" cried the smiling detective, as he ridhimself of the feminine get-up which impeded his movements. "I waspleased to see, my lad, that you did not suspect my identity until I hadthrown off this second-hand wardrobe I bulked myself out with!"

"Oh!" cried Fandor, "that's only because I hardly looked at you. If Ihad, Juve, you may be sure I should have recognised you!"

"Possibly! But what do you think of the disguise?"

"Not so bad, Juve; but why did you change your sex this evening?"

"Oh, for the fun of it, and to keep my hand in . . . Besides, the moreprecautions we take when we meet, the better. Admit for a moment thatour enemies are keeping a watch on you here: what will they recollectabout your doings this evening? Why, that Fandor, the journalist, had acall from a lady, and that she did not leave in a hurry either!"

"Hang it all! I've no objection to a Don Juan reputation, but I may say, without offence, that, as a woman, there's nothing particularlyattractive about you, Juve, in the garb you've just discarded!"

"Bah!" replied Juve. "You mustn't be so particular, my dear boy--as ifdress mattered--or appearance either!"

Juve was lighting a cigarette as he walked about the room, examining thebooks and other objects with which Fandor had surrounded himself. 

"A charming home!" murmured the detective. . . . 

Then, he inspected the contents of a little show-case, in which Fandorhad collected what he called his "Circumstantial Evidence"; in otherwords, various objects relating to cases he had been engaged on, such asscraps of clothing, blood-stained weapons, broken locks: these recordsof crimes, new and old, were carefully labelled. Juve began questioningFandor about these sinister relics. Five minutes of jokes and laughter, then Fandor became serious. He drew his friend to a corner settee. 

"Juve, " said he, in an impressive tone, "I have found the connectinglink!"

"By Jove! You have, have you!" cried Juve in a bantering tone, and witha quizzical look. "Let us see it!. . . Explain!. . . "

Regardless of his friend's scepticism, Fandor proceeded to expound histheory. 

"I did as you suggested. I was present at the trial of the smugglers: Ilistened to Counsel's speech for the defence, but judged it useless tostay to the end. When Maître Henri Robart began a disquisition on thefacts, I left. Here is what I have noted:

"Someone owns a house in the Isle of the Cité; a house which is ameeting place for receivers of stolen goods, ruffians, robbers, andvagabonds: a house possessing underground cellars of no ordinary kind. Now, this Someone never mentions this strange house of his, though hemust be aware of its existence; then this Someone knows intimatelyseveral, at least, of the people more or less involved in the JacquesDollon affair, and--one may boldly assert it--the Dollon plot washatched in a cellar, in a sewer of the Cité. 

"One of two things!. . . 

"Either this personage is timorous, is afraid of being compromised, and does not consider in what an awkward position this coincidenceplaces him--if that be so, he is a singularly thick-headedindividual--or--well--Monsieur Thomery . . . You are the most rascallyscoundrel it has been my lot to admire, up to now! But I assure you, weknow how to get even with you! From the moment we have established, inthe first place, a connection between all these affairs--that theyindubitably hang together; secondly, that you, Monsieur Thomery, are theconnecting link. . . . "

"No, " interrupted Juve, sharply. . . . 

"What is that you say?. . . "

"I say--_no_. "

"What?" cried Fandor, taken aback. He stared at Juve, who continued tosmoke his cigarette, unmoved. But Fandor was obstinately set on statinghis point of view. 

"The primary cause of the Dollon affair seems to be the suicideof the Baroness de Vibray, a suicide probably owing to a lovedisappointment--the old lady had been forsaken by her lover--MonsieurThomery!. . . "

"No. "

Juve's denial slightly annoyed Fandor, but did not stop him. 

"I ask: was the man who robbed Sonia Danidoff one of the guests? It isvery unlikely; for, not only were the clothes of all those presentsearched, but all Thomery's guests were known, well known!. . . "

"No!"

Fandor bit his lip. 

"It's true, Juve! You were there yourself, and no one penetrated yourdisguise, and discovered who you really were! My last argument is, therefore, worthless . . . But I fancy your attitude, your way ofreceiving my deductions, hides something. Have you got new information!Fresh facts to go on? You know who stole the jewels?"

"No. "

"Good Heavens! How aggravating you are, Juve!. . . But this time you willsimply have to agree with me! Listen!. . . When we first met, after ourlong separation, you admitted that one thing bothered you--the ease withwhich your nefarious band of villains of the Isle of the Cité were ableto get rid of considerable sums of false money; and you were trying tofind their market--by what means these wretches were able to ridthemselves of the coin; when, apparently, they were not acquainted withany influential people in the business world, or in the circles of highfinance. . . . Well, I have discovered their channel of distribution--it isnone other than the proprietor of this house properly, the ground floorand basement of which are occupied by Mother Toulouche--obviously, it isThomery!. . . "

"No!"

Fandor lifted hands to heaven in despairing fashion and sat silent. Hewas deeply mortified. There was a long pause, during which Juve calmlysmoked on. At last, Fandor asked in a hopeless sort of tone:

"Well?. . . What do you think?"

Slowly, as if awakening from a dream, Juve began to speak. 

"We know nothing for certain so far, my lad, except that the Baroness deVibray has committed suicide; that Princess Sonia Danidoff has recoveredfrom the shock of her jewel robbery, and is to marry Thomery next month. . . There is nothing extraordinary in that . . . Just as there is, perhaps, nothing surprising or extraordinary in the series of robberies, nor even in the crimes occupying our attention at the present moment!"

Fandor jumped up. "Nothing!" he shouted. "You are joking, Juve! It isabsurd what you say! Do just think a minute, my dear fellow! Why, allthese affairs are closely connected, from the Jacques Dollon affair, upto . . . Up to . . . "

Fandor stopped short. Juve, who had been listening to him with seeminginattention, now appeared wholly anxious to hear the end of thesentence: he stared hard at Fandor. 

"Go on! Go on! I want to make you say it!. . . "

And Fandor, as though in spite of himself, finished with:

"Up to Fantômas!"

"Yes, at last we have got it!" cried Juve. 

The two men gazed at each other; once more the logic of deductions, thechain of circumstances had inevitably led him to pronounce the name ofthe formidable bandit, of whom they could not think without a shudder;whose memory they could not evoke without immediately feeling themselvessurrounded by sinister gloom, lost in a thick fog of mystery, of whatwas strange, hidden, occult!

Fandor's countenance cleared suddenly as he gave utterance to the ideawhich had just crossed his mind. 

"Juve, do you not think that this mysterious prison warder, calledNibet, might very well be an incarnation of Fantômas, because in so manycircumstances . . . "

Juve interrupted Fandor with a gesture of denial. 

"No, old fellow, " said he gravely. "Don't start on that trail, it isassuredly a bad one: Nibet is not Fantômas. Nibet does not count formuch, one might say, for nothing at all; he can scarcely be called atiny wheel even in the great machine driven on its diabolical course byour fiendish enemy . . . We must look higher than that!"

"Thomery?" insisted Fandor, who still held to his idea, and wasdetermined to turn Juve to his way of thinking. . . . 

But Juve still said "no!" to that. 

"Let us drop Thomery, my lad! As to Fantômas, how do you think we canidentify him in this haphazard fashion, basing our idea on puresupposition? . . . For, who is Fantômas--the real Fantômas, among so manyprobable Fantômas?

"Can you tell me that, Fandor?" continued Juve, who was getting excitedat last. . . . "I grant you that we have seen, in the course of ourchequered existence, an old gentleman, like Etienne Rambert, a thicksetEnglishman like Gurn, a robust fellow like Loupart, a weak and sicklyindividual like Chaleck. We have identified each one of them, in turn, as Fantômas--and that is all. 

"As for seeing Fantômas himself, just as he is, without artificial aid, without paint and powder, without a false beard, without a wig, Fantômasas his face really is under his hooded mask of black--that we have notyet done. It is that fact which makes our hunt for the villainceaselessly difficult, often dangerous!. . . Fantômas is always someone, sometimes two persons, never himself!"

Juve, once started on this subject, could go on for ever, and Fandor didnot try to stop him: when the course of conversation led them to talk ofFantômas the two men were as though hypnotised by this mysteriouscreature, so well named, for he was really "Fantômatic, " a spectralentity: the two friends could not turn their minds to any other subject. They discussed Fantômas up and down, in and out, and round about!. . . 

 * * * * *

It was getting on towards one o'clock when Fandor saw Juve off as far asthe staircase. The detective had resumed his disguise, but neither manwas in a joking mood now. Fandor had given Juve an account of theannoying, yet rather absurd incident at the convent, when he andElizabeth were unsuspectingly bidding each other a passionate farewellunder the watchful and scandalised eye of a nun! Fandor had thought itbetter to take Juve into his confidence on the point, though it wentagainst the grain, for he was bashful with regard to his feelings. 

Juve had openly laughed at first, but when he understood that Elizabeth, requested to leave the convent, would again be without a safe shelter, he became serious, reflected for a minute or two, then gave his dear lada piece of advice, advice which Fandor had seemingly taken objection to, and had finished by agreeing to. . . . 

They parted with these words:

"The more you think it over, dear lad, the better you will like myidea, " said Juve. 

Fandor had not said "No" to it!

XVII

AN ARREST

The day after his memorable talk with Juve, Fandor was summoned toappear before the police magistrate, because he could give evidenceregarding the rue Raffet affair, and had saved Elizabeth Dollon's life. 

It was about four in the afternoon, and he had just entered the passageleading to the offices so familiar to him, when he met Elizabeth. Behindher came several persons whom he recognised: among them were theBarbey-Nanteuil partners, Madame Bourrat, and the servant, Jules. Theywere together and were talking. The moment she saw him, Elizabeth wentup to him. 

"Ah, monsieur!" she cried, with a reproachful look. "We had given up allhope of seeing you. . . . Just imagine, the magistrate has finished hisenquiry already! Twice he asked if you had come!"

Fandor seemed surprised. 

"The summons was for four this afternoon, was it not?" he asked, takingfrom his pocket the summoning letter. A glance showed that he was notmistaken: he gave Elizabeth the letter to read. She smiled. 

"You were summoned for four o'clock, I see; but we had to appearearlier: I was examined as soon as I arrived, and I was summoned toappear at half-past two. "

Fandor was annoyed with himself: he might have guessed it! He was vexedbecause he had not been on the watch in the passage whilst thisexamination was proceeding. He was moving towards Monsieur Fuselier'sroom, the magistrate in charge of the Auteuil affair, and he must havelooked his vexation, for Elizabeth said:

"I am a little to blame, perhaps, that you had not due notice, but whatcould I do! Yesterday evening when you telephoned to the convent to askfor news of me, I was just going to tell you at what time I wassummoned, but when I went to the telephone. . . . "

"What's this you are telling me?" asked Fandor, staring hard atElizabeth. "I never telephoned to you yesterday evening. Who told you Ihad been asking for you on the telephone?"

"Nobody said so; but I supposed it was you! Who else would be so kindlyinterested in my doings?"

Fandor made no reply to this. Here was the telephone mystery again--analarming mystery. Elizabeth had not given her address to anyone: Fandorhad been careful not to give it to a soul. . . . Clearly, this poor girl, even in the heart of this peaceful convent, was not secure from someunknown, outside interference; and Fandor, optimist though he was, couldnot help shuddering at the thought of these mysterious adversaries, implacable and formidable, who might work harm to this unfortunate girl, whose devoted protector he now was. . . . Besides . . . Did he not feel forJacques Dollon's pretty sister something sweeter and more tender thanpure sympathy?. . . Whenever he was near her, did he not experience athrill of emotion? Fandor did not analyse his feelings, but theyinfluenced him unconsciously. 

He turned to Elizabeth. 

"Since you cannot remain any longer at the convent, where do you thinkof staying?"

"Well, monsieur, I shall go back to the convent this evening, though itis painful to me--very, very painful--to be obliged to accept their icyhospitality . . . As for to-morrow!"

Fandor was about to make a suggestion, when the door of MonsieurFuselier's room opened half-way. The magistrate's clerk appeared, and, glancing round the passage over his spectacles, called, in a dull tone:

"Monsieur Jérôme Fandor!"

"Here!" replied our journalist. "I am coming!"

Then, taking a hasty farewell of Elizabeth as he went towards themagistrate's room, he whispered:

"Wait for me, mademoiselle; and, for the love of Heaven, rememberthis--whatever I may say, whatever happens, whether we are alone, together, or in the presence of others, whether it be in a few minutes, or later on, do not be astonished at what may befall you, even though itbe my fault--be absolutely convinced of this--whatever I may do will befor your good--more than that I must not say!"

Elizabeth had not a word to say, but his words were humming and buzzingin her ears when Fandor was in the magistrate's room. 

With a cordial handshake, Monsieur Fuselier began by congratulating himon having saved Elizabeth Dollon's life. 

"Ah, " said he, smiling, "you journalists have all the luck; and, betweenyourselves, I envy you a little, for your lucky star has led you to thediscovery of a drama, and has enabled you to prevent a fatal ending toit. Now, do you not think, as I do, that this Auteuil affair is not acase of suicide, but of attempted assassination?"

"There is no doubt about it, " replied Fandor quietly. 

The magistrate drew himself up with a satisfied air. 

"That is also my opinion--has been so from the start. "

The clerk now interrupted the two men, who were talking as friendsrather than as magistrate and witness, asking, in nasal tone:

"Does His Honour wish to take the evidence of Monsieur Jérôme Fandor?"

"In four lines then. I do not think Monsieur Fandor has anything more totell us than what he has already told us in the columns of _LaCapitale_. That is so, is it not?" asked the magistrate, looking atFandor. 

"That is correct, " replied our journalist. 

The clerk rapidly drew up the deposition of Monsieur Jérôme Fandor, indue form, and read it aloud in a monotonous voice. 

Fandor signed it. It did not compromise him at all. He was about toleave when Monsieur Fuselier caught him by the arm. 

"Please wait a minute! There are one or two points to be cleared up: Iam going to ask the witnesses a few questions: we will have a generalconfrontation--we will compare evidence!"

Then, the journalist's friend, now all the magistrate, asked theassembled witnesses certain questions, in an emphatic and professionaltone. 

Fandor, seated a little apart, had leisure to examine the faces of thedifferent persons whom circumstances had brought together in this room. 

His first look was for Elizabeth: energy and courage were plainly markedon her pretty, sad face. Then there was the proprietor of the Auteuilboarding-house: an honest, vulgar creature, red-faced, perpetuallymopping her brow and raising her hands to heaven; ready to bewail herposition, deploring the untimely publicity given to this affair, apublicity which threatened discredit to her boarding-house. 

As he was seated directly behind the manservant, Jules, Fandor had aview of his broad back, surmounted by a big bullet head and ruffledhair. This witness spoke with a strong Picardy accent, and there wasnothing remarkable about his answers: he seemed the conventionalsecond-rate type of servant. He did not seem to have understood much ofwhat occurred on the famous day: when questioned as to the order ofevents, his answers were vague, uncertain. 

Then, seated beside Fandor were the bankers: Barbey, a grave-lookingman, no longer young, judging by his beard, which was going grey; he wasdecorated with the Legion of Honour: the other, Nanteuil, looked aboutthirty, elegant, distinguished, lively. These two were well known in thehighest Parisian society as representing finance of the best kind. Theywere highly thought of. 

The magistrate asked the bankers a question. 

"Why, " asked he, "did Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil call on MademoiselleDollon? Was it to bring her some help, as has been stated?"

Elizabeth blushed with humiliation at the magistrate's question. Monsieur Nanteuil answered:

"There is a slight distinction to be made, your Honour, and MademoiselleDollon certainly will not object to our mentioning it. It never enteredour minds to offer Mademoiselle Dollon charity--charity she never askedof us, be it clearly understood. Mademoiselle Dollon, with whom we hadpreviously been acquainted, whose misfortunes have inspired us with deepsympathy, wrote to ask us if we could find her some employment. Hopingto find some post for her, we came to see her, to talk with her, to findout what her capabilities were. That is all. We were very glad it sohappened, that we were able to aid Monsieur Fandor in restoring her tolife. "

"Can you tell me, Monsieur Fandor, did you notice anything suspicious inMademoiselle Dollon's room when you entered it? You wrote, in yourarticle, that at first you had thought it simply an attempted burglary, followed by an attempted murder?"

"That is so, " replied Fandor. "Directly the window was opened, I leanedout: I wanted to see if there was anything suspicious on the wall of thehouse. I also looked behind the shutters. "

"Why?" asked the examining magistrate. 

"Because I had not forgotten the close of the Thomery drama--the sameMonsieur Thomery mentioned in the Assize Court yesterday--oh, in allhonour, of course; but you have not forgotten--although that examinationwas not in your hands, and I regret it, because I am of the opinion thatthere are points of connection interlinking all these mysteriousaffairs--you have not forgotten, I am sure, that when the investigationswere over and Monsieur Thomery's guests had been allowed to leave thehouse, that a thread of flax was discovered hanging to the windowfastening of the room in which Princess Danidoff had been foundunconscious. This flax thread was very strong, and was broken at theend: it is easy to conclude that the stolen pearls had been temporarilyfastened to it. This led me to think that the aggressor, or aggressors, had remained in the reception rooms during the whole course of theinvestigations, since it is proved that no one left the house. . . . 

". . . But, after all, we are not here to investigate the Thomeryaffair. . . . I wished to explain why I had examined the window andshutters Of Mademoiselle Dollon's room: I wanted to ascertain whetherthe procedure of the would-be murderer of Mademoiselle Dollon wassimilar to that of the robber in the Danidoff-Thomery case. "

"And what conclusion did you come to?" asked the magistrate. 

"Window and shutters bore no traces that I could see, " said Fandor. "Icould not come to any conclusion. "

Here Monsieur Barbey intervened. 

"If I may be allowed to say so"--he glanced at the magistrate for therequired permission, which was given with a smile and gesture ofassent--"I quite agree with Monsieur Jérôme Fandor. I also am convincedthat, even if there is not a close connection between the Thomery affairand the Auteuil affair, at least there exists such a connection betweenthe Auteuil affair and the terrible drama of rue Norvins. "

"I would go even further than that, " declared Monsieur Nanteuil. "Therobbery of rue du Quatre Septembre, of which we are the victims, is alsoconnected with this same series of mysterious cases. "

The magistrate asked a question. 

"It is a matter of twenty millions, is it not? It must have been aterrible blow to you?"

"Fearful, monsieur, " replied Monsieur Nanteuil. "Our credit was shaken:it affected a considerable number of our clients, Monsieur Thomeryamong them, and we consider him one of our most important clients. Youare aware, of course, that in financial matters confidence is almosteverything!. . . Our losses have just been covered by an insurance, but wehave suffered other than direct material losses. Still"--the bankerturned towards Elizabeth, who was wiping tears from her eyes--"still, what are our troubles compared with those which have struck MademoiselleDollon blow upon blow? Assassination of the Baroness de Vibray, mysterious death----"

"The Baroness de Vibray was not assassinated, she committed suicide, "interrupted Fandor sharply. "Most certainly, I do not wish to make youresponsible for that, gentlemen; but when you wrote, announcing herruin, you dealt her a very hard blow!"

"Could we have done otherwise?" replied Monsieur Barbey, with hiscustomary gravity of manner and tone. "In our matter of fact business, where all must be clear and definite, we do not mince our words: we arebound to state things as they actually are. What is more, we do notshare your point of view, and are convinced that the Baroness de Vibraywas certainly murdered. "

Monsieur Fuselier now expressed his opinion, or at least, what he wishedto be considered as his opinion:

"Gentlemen, consider yourselves for the moment as not in the presence ofthe examining magistrate, but as being in the drawing-room of MonsieurFuselier. In my private capacity, I will give you my opinion regardingthe rue Norvins affair. I am decidedly less and less in agreement withMonsieur Fandor, though I recognise with pleasure his fine detectivegifts. "

"Thanks, " interrupted Fandor ironically. "That is a poor compliment!"

Smiling, the magistrate continued:

"I am of the same opinion as Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil: I believe Madamede Vibray was murdered. "

Fandor could not control his impatience. 

"Be logical, messieurs, I beg of you!" he cried. "The Baroness deVibray committed suicide. Her letter states her intention. Theauthenticity of this letter has not been disputed. The disastrousrevelations, contained in Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil's communication, proved too severe a shock for the poor lady's unbalanced brain: the newsof her ruin, abruptly conveyed, drove her to desperation. The death ofthe Baroness de Vibray was voluntary and self-inflicted. "

There was a dead silence. Then Monsieur Barbey asked a question. 

"Well, then, Monsieur Fandor, will you explain to us how it happenedthat the Baroness de Vibray was found dead in the studio of the painter, Jacques Dollon?"

Fandor seemed to expect this question from the banker. 

"There are two hypotheses, " he declared. "The first, and, in my humbleopinion, the more improbable, is this: Madame de Vibray at the same timethat she decided to put an end to her life, wished to pay her protégé alast visit; all the more so, because he had asked her to come and seehis work before it was sent in to the Salon. Perhaps the Baronessintended to perform an act of charity, in this instance, before hersupreme hour struck. Perhaps she miscalculated the effect of the poisonshe had taken, and so died in the house of the friend she had come tosee and help: her death there could not have been her choice, for shemust have known what serious trouble it would involve the artist in, were her dead body found in his studio. 

"Here is the second hypothesis, which seems the more plausible. TheBaroness de Vibray learns that she is ruined, she decides to die, and bychance or coincidence, which remains to be explained, for I have not thekey to it yet, some third parties interested in her fate, learn herdecision. They let her write to her lawyer; they do not prevent herpoisoning herself; but, as soon as she is dead, they straightway takepossession of her dead body and hasten to carry it to Jacques Dollon'sstudio. To the painter himself they administered either with his consentor by force--probably by force--a powerful narcotic, so that when thepolice are called in next day they not only find the Baroness lying deadin the studio, but they also find the painter unconscious, close by hisvisitor. When Jacques Dollon is restored to consciousness, he is quiteunable to give any sort of explanation of the tragedy; naturally enough, the police look upon him as the murderer of her who was well known tohave been his patroness. . . . How does that strike you?"

It was now Monsieur Fuselier's turn to hold forth. 

"You forget a detail which has its importance! I do not pretend to judgeas to whether she was poisoned by her own free act or not; but, in anycase, we have this proof--an uncorked phial of cyanide of potassium wasfound in Jacques Dollon's studio. It seemed to have been recentlyopened; but, when the painter was questioned about it, he declared thathe had not made use of this ingredient for a very long time. "

Fandor replied:

"I can turn your argument against you, monsieur. If the Baroness deVibray had been poisoned, voluntarily or not, with the cyanide ofpotassium in Dollon's studio, he would have taken the precaution tobanish all traces of the poison in question. It would have been hisfirst care! When questioned by the police inspector, he would not havedeclared that he had not made use of this poison for a very long time!the contradiction involved is proof that Dollon was sincere; therefore, we are faced by a fact which, if not inexplicable, is, at least, unexplained. "

Monsieur Barbey now had something to say:

"You criticise and hair-split in a remarkable fashion, monsieur, and arean adept in the science of induction; but, let me say without offencemeant, that you give me the impression of being rather a romancingjournalist than a judicial investigator!. . . Admitting that the Baronessde Vibray was carried to the painter Dollon's studio after her death, and that seems to be your opinion, what advantage would it be to thecriminals to act in such a fashion?"

Jérôme Fandor had risen, his eyes shining, his body vibrating withexcitement. 

"I expected your question, monsieur, " he cried; "and the answer issimple. The mysterious criminals seized the Baroness de Vibray's bodyand brought it to Dollon's studio to create an alibi, and to castsuspicion on an innocent man. As you know, the stratagem was successful:two hours after the discovery of the crime, the police arrestedMademoiselle Dollon's unfortunate brother!"

With a dramatic gesture Fandor pointed to Elizabeth, who, no longer ableto contain her grief, was weeping bitterly. 

The audience had risen, moved, troubled, subjugated, in spite ofthemselves, by the journalist's eloquent and persuasive tones. EvenMonsieur Fuselier had quitted his classic green leather arm-chair andhad approached the two bankers: Madame Bourrat was behind them, and theservant, Jules, with his smooth face and staring eyes. 

Fandor continued:

"This is not all, messieurs!. . . There is still something that must besaid, and I beg of you to listen with all your attention, for what theresult of my declarations will be, I do not know! It is no longer myreason that speaks, instinct dictates my words! Listen!. . . "

It was a poignant moment! All the witnesses, the magistrate included, were thrilled with the certainty that the journalist was about to make asensational revelation. 

Taking his time, Jérôme Fandor walked slowly, quietly up to Elizabethwho, distraught with grief, was in floods of tears. 

"Mademoiselle, " he said, in a clear level voice, which was in strangecontrast with his recent persuasive and authoritative tones. "Mademoiselle, you must tell us everything!. . . You are here, not in thepresence of a judge, and of enemies, but amidst friends who wish younothing but good. . . . I understand your affectionate feelings, I knowwhat an unreasoning, but quite natural, attachment you have for yourunfortunate brother--but, mademoiselle, it is now imperatively necessarythat you should do violence to yourself--you must tell us the truth, thewhole truth!"

Interrupting his appeal to Elizabeth, Fandor turned to the magistratewith a smile so enigmatic that his audience could not tell whether hewas speaking sincerely or was acting a part. 

"I have contended in my articles up to now that Jacques Dollon was dead, dead beyond recall; but when confronted with recent facts my theoryseems to fall to the ground. " Fandor turned once more to Elizabeth, resuming his authoritative tone and manner: "Since the affair of theDépôt, the legal authorities have recognised indelible traces of JacquesDollon's hand in the series of crimes which have been recentlyperpetrated. Up to the present, I have determinedly denied such apossibility. But, mademoiselle, I put it to you: you have forgotten totell us something of the very utmost importance, something quite out ofthe range of ordinary happenings, something phenomenal. Now here is thestaggering fact I am faced with! The other day, between two and three inthe afternoon, at the Auteuil boarding-house where you are staying, youreceived a visit from your brother, Jacques Dollon, the supposed robberof the Princess Sonia Danidoff's pearls, the suspected author of therobbery of rue du Quatre Septembre; and, lastly, the fratricide, forwhat other explanation of the attack on you can be given--an attemptedmurder beyond question--and I add . . . " Fandor could not continue. Hiseyes were fixed on those of Elizabeth who, at the first words addressedto her by the journalist, had started up, trembling from head tofoot. . . . Their glances met, challenging, each seeking to quell, tosubjugate the other. . . . It seemed to the onlookers that they werewitnessing an intense struggle between two very strong natures separatedby a deep, a fathomless gulf; that a veil, dark as night, hangingbetween them had been rent asunder, giving passage to an illuminatingflash; that this luminous ray carried with it all the revelations andthe key to the fantastic mystery!

But to a calm, perspicacious observer of the two beings standing face toface, it would have been clear that Jérôme Fandor's real attitude wasboth suppliant and persuasive, and that Elizabeth Dollon's was one ofoverwhelming surprise. 

Monsieur Fuselier, carried away by the journalist's startling andextraordinary statements, did not perceive this. Suddenly, he saw inJérôme Fandor the denunciator, and in Elizabeth Dollon, the accompliceunmasked. Nevertheless, he said quietly:

"Monsieur Fandor, you have just uttered words of such gravity that youare bound to confirm them by indisputable evidence. Do you mean topersist on these lines?"

Fandor looked away from the stupefied Elizabeth and her questioningglance: he answered the magistrate at once. 

"The proof of what I advance, you will find by searching MademoiselleDollon's room. . . . I would rather not say more than that. . . . "

"Allow me to state, monsieur, that I cannot arrange for such aninvestigation until to-morrow morning!"

Then, addressing the astounded Madame Bourrat, the two bankers, and themanservant, Jules. 

"Madame, messieurs, will you be kind enough to withdraw? Madame, Iadvise you, under pain of the most serious consequences, not to allowanyone whatever to enter your premises, nor go into MademoiselleDollon's room, before this matter has been fully sifted by the legalauthorities. Be good enough to wait in the passage--all of you!"

Having witnessed their exit, the magistrate walked up to Fandor, andlooking him straight in the eyes said:

"Well!. . . Out with it!"

"Well, " replied the journalist, "if you institute a search in the placeI have indicated, you will find, in the chest of drawers, under a pileof Mademoiselle Dollon's personal linen a piece of soap wrapped up in acambric handkerchief. Take this soap to Monsieur Bertillon's department, and after the scientific tests have been applied to it, you will be ableto say that it bears distinct impressions of Dollon's hand!"

"Dollon's?"

The magistrate gasped. 

Elizabeth Dollon had fallen back into the arm-chair, from which she hadrisen all trembling. Her tears had ceased. She stared at the two menwith wide open, terrified eyes. All the time, the clerk in spectacleswrote steadily on at his table, noting down the details of the scenes hewas witnessing. 

There was a palpitating silence. 

Monsieur Fuselier had returned to his writing table. 

Jérôme Fandor seemed to have recovered his composure, an ironic smilecurved his lips beneath his small moustache, whilst his hand sought thatof Elizabeth: it was the only way he could, at the moment, express thesympathy he had never ceased to feel for her. 

Monsieur Fuselier filled in a printed paper and pressed an electricbell. 

Two municipal guards appeared. 

Monsieur Fuselier rose and signing to the soldiers to wait, he facedElizabeth Dollon. 

"Mademoiselle, have you any objections to make to the statements ofMonsieur Jérôme Fandor? Will you say whether or no you received a visitfrom your brother?"

Elizabeth, tortured by intense emotion, her throat contracted, strove invain to pronounce a word; at last, by a supreme effort, she murmured ina strangled voice:

"Oh! Why, you are all mad here!"

As she gave no direct reply to his question, Monsieur Fuselier, after apause, announced in a grave voice:

"Mademoiselle! Until I have more ample information, I am under the cruelnecessity of ordering your arrest!. . . Guards, arrest the accused!" criedthe magistrate sternly. 

Elizabeth Dollon made a movement of revolt, when she saw herselfsurrounded and felt her arms seized by the two representatives ofauthority. She was about to cry out in protest, but a glance--it seemedto her a tender glance--from Fandor restrained her. . . . She stoodspeechless, inert. After all, had she not confidence in him, althoughshe could not understand his attitude! Had he not been her staunchdefender up to now? Had he not warned her that she must not beastonished at anything that occurred--that she must be prepared foranything?. . . Nevertheless, Elizabeth Dollon felt her brain reeling--shewas astounded beyond words. . . . The surprise was too strong for her. . . . 

 * * * * *

About a quarter of an hour after this tragic scene, Fandor was pacing upand down the asphalt of the boulevard du Palais, plunged in thought, when someone clapped him on the shoulder. He turned. It was MonsieurFuselier. 

"Well, my dear fellow!" cried the magistrate, resuming his customarytone of good fellowship. "Well, what an adventure! You have been playingsome fine tricks! I never expected such a stroke as that, the deuce if Idid!"

"Ho, ho!" laughed Fandor, "I think that a week from to-day we shall knowa good many things!"

"Well, " replied the magistrate, "I have had the girl placed in solitaryconfinement--that makes them willing to speak out!. . . . "

Fandor looked the magistrate up and down. 

"Ah!" murmured he, with a scarcely perceptible note of contempt in hisvoice:

"You think you will extract information from that quarter, do you?"

"But why not? Why not?" interrupted the dapper Monsieur Fuselier, in asprightly tone; and, leaving Fandor abruptly, he leapt into a passingtramcar. 

Fandor watched Fuselier cross the road and climb to an outside seat. Whilst the magistrate waved a friendly farewell from the top of thedisappearing car, Fandor shrugged disdainful shoulders, and, withpitying lips, muttered one word:

"Fool!"

XVIII

AT THE BOTTOM OF THE TRUNK

After Monsieur Fuselier's departure, Fandor rejoined Madame Bourrat onthe boulevard. The good woman was very much upset by the dramatic sceneshe had witnessed. She had sent off her manservant, and was preparing totake the tram back to Auteuil. Fandor asked if he might accompany her, and Madame Bourrat was only too delighted to have a chance of furthertalk with the journalist, for she had a lively desire to learn all shecould about the extraordinary drama in which she found herself involved. 

When they arrived at Auteuil, Madame Bourrat had learned nothingdefinite, for the journalist had given only evasive answers to herquestions. Still, one point was obvious: Madame Bourrat consideredMonsieur Jérôme Fandor as the most amiable man in the world, and she wasdisposed to help him to the utmost of her powers, in defence of anyinterests he wished to safeguard. . . . 

Madame Bourrat was absolutely set on receiving Monsieur Fandor in herprivate apartments. She then seized the opportunity to complain of thetrouble this affair had brought into her regular and peaceful existence. Certainly, in summer, her boarders were less numerous; their numbersbeing, in fact, reduced to two or three. 

This season there had been fewer than usual; but the accident, orattempted assassination of Mademoiselle Dollon, had undoubtedly broughtdiscredit on the house. An old paralysed gentleman, who had been inresidence on the day of the drama, had departed the day after. Therewas not a single boarder in the house: it was empty. 

 * * * * *

Having made certain that her manservant, Jules, and her cook, Marianne, had retired to their respective rooms, Madame Bourrat conducted Fandoras far as the door of her dwelling. They had been so interested in theirtalk, that they had forgotten all about dinner: their experiences of thepast few hours had left them with little appetite. It was about nineo'clock; night had fallen: house and garden were wrapped in a mantle ofdarkness. 

"Can you find your way?" asked Madame Bourrat. If she accompanied thejournalist to her garden gate she would have to grope back to the housein the dark, and alone! Her nerves were shaken by recent events. She didnot wish to venture forth and back in the mysterious gloom of night, even on the familiar path of her garden. What might that darkness nothide! What robbers, what murderers might there not be lurking near!

Fandor laughed. 

"Why, of course I can, madame! To find the points of the compass, tocultivate the sense of locality, is part of a journalist's profession. "

"Do not forget to draw to behind you--it needs a strong pull--the gatewhich separates us from the street: once shut, no one can open it fromoutside. "

Fandor, shaking hands with the boarding-house keeper, promised to closethe gate. As the sound of his steps on the gravel grew less and less, asthe gate fell to with a loud noise, and an absolute silence followed, Madame Bourrat felt sure that her guest had left the garden--had goneaway. 

But he had done nothing of the sort!

Fandor had shut the gate noiselessly, but he had remained inside thegrounds. He stood motionless, holding his breath, wishing neither to beseen nor heard. He remained so for a long twenty minutes. Then, beingassured that Madame Bourrat had retired for the night--she had closedher shutters and put out her light--he rubbed his hands, murmuring:

"Now we shall see!"

Stepping gingerly along by the side of the wall, he reached the mainbuilding of the boarding-house: luckily, it was empty as far as boarderswere concerned. He recognised Elizabeth Dollon's window on the firstfloor and was glad to see that it was half open. Chance favouredhim--there was even a gutter pipe running down the wall and passingclose to the window. Providence had favoured him with a fine staircase;there would not be much difficulty in climbing that!

No sooner thought than done! Accustomed as he was to exercise and games, Fandor, agile as a young man in good training can be, squirmed up thepipe as far as Elizabeth's window. He caught hold of the sill, recoveredhis balance, jerked himself up, and, two seconds after, had landed inthe room. 

Dared he strike a light! He remembered pretty accurately the position ofthe various pieces of furniture, but he would like to study the roommore in detail. His luck still held, for a ray of moonlight suddenlyshone out from behind a cloud. He saw the moon sailing in a clear sky. There would be sufficient light from the moon rays to enable him topursue his investigations. 

It was an essentially modern room; the white walls were painted withripolin, and were as bare of ornament as a nun's cell. An iron bedsteadstood in the middle of the room: a wardrobe, with a mirror panel infront, and locked, occupied one of the corners; behind a folding screenwas a toilette table, a Louis XV bureau, two chairs, an arm-chair: thatwas all. 

After making this rapid inventory, Fandor considered:

"The situation is growing complicated, " said he to himself. "I am quitepersuaded that this room will shortly receive a visit from someindividuals who will not court recognition--their interests are allagainst that--and they certainly will not be anxious to meet me here!These individuals assuredly know, at this minute, that the examiningmagistrate is going to make a thorough investigation here to-morrowmorning. . . . How do they know it? It's very simple. The prime mover inthe attempted murder, or one of his accomplices, was assuredly among thewitnesses this afternoon. Is it the amiable Madame Bourrat? Is it thatdoltish Jules, who looks an absolute fool, but may be masking his game!Suppose the serious Barbey pops up? Or the elegant Nanteuil? But I donot think so--they are rather victims than attackers--everything leadsme to that opinion. But--all this does not tell me whether the place hasalready been visited or not!"

Fandor unlocked the drawer, searched for the piece of soap under thepile of Elizabeth's linen, and had the extreme satisfaction of findingthe soap had not been moved. 

"Good! I am here first! Ah, we shall see our men presently! Which, andhow many?"

Fandor seated himself and let his imagination work. He tried to picturethe faces of the mysterious individuals he was determined to trackdown--but, so far, in vain!. . . Then with strange, uncanny persistence, one face rose again and again before his mental vision, clear, vital--the face of the enigmatic Thomery, with his silver white hair, his red face, his light blue eyes, that Yankee head of his, well set onhis robust torso. . . . 

"Thomery!" cried Fandor almost aloud. "The fact is, everything leads meto think . . . But don't let us anticipate! Concealment is the next itemon the programme!"

Fandor realised that to hide under the bed was impossible: he would bediscovered immediately. . . . The screen was no better!. . . There wasElizabeth's trunk!. . . Why, it was a kind of monument in wicker work! Thevery thing! It was quite big enough to hold him--it was one of thoseenormous trunks beloved of women!. . . To hide in it would be anexcellent trick--a real joke! Let me burrow in there, and see thestupefaction of these estimable characters when they open it to rummageabout among Elizabeth's belongings and find themselves face to face withme! They will see besides my sympathetic countenance the stern mouth ofmy revolver!. . . Let us see whether it is a possible hiding place!

Fandor raised the cover and lifted out a top compartment, in which werescattered, among objects of feminine apparel, papers, books, and allsorts of things which had evidently belonged to the unfortunate painter. The distracted Elizabeth, in the hurry of departure from rue Norvins, must have thrust them in pell-mell. The lower division of the trunk wasempty. 

"Another bit of luck!" thought Fandor. "Now to sample my littlehide-hole!"

Fandor found he could get into a fairly comfortable position. Then hecalculated, that with the compartment back in its place and the coveropen, all he had to do to close it was to shake the trunk transversely. He could certainly remain inside for several hours without intolerablediscomfort. 

Raising the cover, Fandor slipped out. 

The interminable hours crawled by. To smoke was out of the question. Fandor's pride in his exploit was sinking to zero: was he passing awretched night to no purpose? A violent ring sounded. Someone wasringing at the garden gate--ringing loudly, insistently--an imperativesummons!

Instantly Fandor was on the alert. Useless to slip to the window andpeer cautiously out, for Elizabeth's window did not face the gate: evenby leaning out he could not catch any glimpse of any visitors, eithercoming to the house or passing along towards Madame Bourrat's apartmentsin the annex. . . . Besides, Fandor feared to make a noise, and thepolished boards of the floor cracked and creaked at the least movement!

"The one thing for me to do, " thought he, "is to creep back into myretreat and wait. Now who can it be at this time of night?"

Fandor's curiosity was rapidly satisfied--after a fashion! The call ofthe bell had been answered by noises and hurried footsteps, whisperings, an outburst of voices, then silence. . . . A few minutes after, Fandorclearly heard some persons entering the ground floor of the house. 

He listened intently: he could hear his own heartbeats. 

Then a voice said:

"In Heaven's name! Is it possible? Why do you come to upset people atthis time of night? As if we had not had enough to put up with duringthe day! It is a dreadful business! There's no doubt about it! Are wenever to be left in peace?"

"Why, it's Madame Bourrat's voice!" said Fandor. "Poor woman! What'sup?" He listened. Someone said:

"The law is the law, madame, and we are it's humble executors. As theexamining judge has ordered me to make an investigating distraint, weare compelled to carry out his instructions to the letter. Be goodenough to tell your servant to lead us to the actual spot where thecrime was attempted. "

"Now what is all this?" asked Fandor. "And from whence comes this policeinspector? It only wanted that! He won't know what to make of it when Itell him who I am--and how am I to explain my presence here? Anyhow, wait, and see what happens!"

"Someone was coming upstairs--more than one!"

"This way, messieurs!" said a hoarse voice. "The room the young ladyoccupied is at the end of this passage!"

"This time I recognise my fine fellow!" thought Fandor. "It is thatimbecile of a Jules. But what a triumphant tone! And how different hisvoice sounds to what it did, this afternoon, at the examination!"

Then Fandor all but jumped from his hiding place. 

"Oh! What an egregious fool I am! Why, there is not a police inspectorin France who would come at this hour to carry out an investigation--anda distraint to boot! What the devil does it mean? Can they be the finefellows I am lying in wait to meet?"

The dubious individuals who had roused the house at such an unholy hourentered the room. Someone turned on the electric light. 

Though Fandor could obtain a sufficient supply of air through theopenings in the wickerwork, he could not see what was going on: he couldonly listen with all his ears. 

Madame Bourrat accompanied her strange visitors. 

"It is here, " she exclaimed, "that the journalist, Jérôme Fandor, foundmy boarder stretched out on the floor. . . . You see, in this corner, isthe gas stove with its tubing! They have forgotten to refix it to thepipe; but there is no danger, the tap is turned off and so is themeter. "

The personage who had given out that he was a police inspector, whosevoice was probably an assumed one, replied only by monosyllables. Fandordid not recognise his voice. But there was another speaker, who also hadvery little to say for himself; and Fandor thought he recognised certaintones as belonging to a man who had been much in his thoughts of late. 

"Thomery!" thought he. "Is it Thomery?"

But he only knew the sugar refiner by sight, and had heard him speak butonce or twice at the ball: that was not enough to go on, for Fandor hadnot paid special attention to the distinguishing tone and quality of hishost's voice. Nevertheless, he could not get out of his head the ideathat the celebrated sugar refiner, honoured by all Paris, esteemed byeverybody, was standing only a step or two away from him now in thishouse of strange happenings, and under very peculiar circumstances. "Washe a burglar--an assassin? One of a nefarious band?"

For Fandor was now convinced that these were not police emissariesbearing a legal mandate to search and distrain: no, they were robbers, criminals! He was preparing to rise from his hiding place and appearbefore the bandits: he would fire a few shots and make the deuce of arow and rouse the neighbourhood. He would also save poor Madame Bourrat, who was certainly not their accomplice. Just then he heard the pretendedpolice inspector say:

"Will you provide us with writing materials, madame? We must write anofficial report. "

"Why, certainly, monsieur, " replied Madame Bourrat. "I will godownstairs and get what you require. "

Fandor heard her leave the room. No sooner had she gone than a hurriedconversation began in low tones. Clearly Jules was guilty, for thepretended police inspector asked:

"No one this evening? Nothing happened?"

"No, " replied Jules in a servile tone. "The journalist brought themistress back and then went off at nine o'clock. . . . "

"No news of Alfred?" asked the voice. 

The third person answered:

"Why, no. You know very well he is always at the Dépôt. "

"Let us set to work!" said voice number one. 

Fandor felt that the decisive moment had arrived: someone opened thecover of the trunk and feverish hands were turning over the confusedmass of objects in the top compartment. 

"Didn't you find anything?" asked the voice of Jules. 

"No, no, monsieur! I searched everywhere; but as I do not read easily, it's difficult for me. . . . "

"Imbecile!" murmured the voice. 

"Ah!" said Fandor to himself. "This fellow pleases me! He has the sameopinion of this dolt of a Jules as I have!"

Revolver in hand, Fandor was on the alert. The moment they lifted up thecompartment out he would jump. Just then, Madame Bourrat could be heardapproaching. 

"Confound it! We shall not have time to go through everything!"muttered a voice. The trunk cover was hastily closed. 

Fandor heard Madame Bourrat enter the room with slow, heavy step. 

"Here are ink and paper, messieurs!" she said. 

Then the pretended police inspector made a statement that startled theconcealed Fandor. 

"Madame, we have no time, nor are we able to make a minute investigationnow. Besides, with one exception, there does not seem to be anythingsuspicious about the room; but here is a trunk which contains papers ofgreat importance. We are going to take it to the police station. "

"As you please, " replied Madame Bourrat. "I ask only one thing and thatis to be left in peace. I do not want to hear anything more about thisabominable affair!"

A rapid turn of the key given to each of the locks and Fandor knew thathe was now a prisoner! Brave as he was, he felt a rush of blood to hisheart and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. 

"Dash it all! I am in an awful position! Impossible to move! If thesebrutes suspected they had me tight in here they would pitch me into theriver as sure as Fate! Then good-bye to _La Capitale_!"

Then, before Fandor's mental vision rose a sweet consoling figure, thefigure of the girl for whom he was braving danger, for love of whom--hecertainly did love her--he had placed himself in such a seriousposition. . . . Then all that was optimistic in his nature--and that wasmuch--rose to the surface, and declared the dilemma was not as seriousas it seemed. . . . How could the bandits know of his presence in thetrunk? They never would think Jérôme Fandor so stupid as to shut himselfup in the trap!

"Jules and I might shake hands as equals in folly!" concluded Fandor. . . . Just then the trunk began to move. They were trying to lift it. Whilsttrying to preserve an unstable equilibrium, he said to himself in asatisfied way:

"And just to think now that they have not rummaged in the chest ofdrawers, nor have they seized the tell-tale piece of soap!. . . It's truethat Fuselier alone knows of its being there--I was careful not to tellanyone else. . . . But, where the deuce are they going? It's the stairs, ofcourse! It might be a rough precipice by the shaking up they're givingme!"

XIX

CRIMINAL OR VICTIM?

At the bottom of his trunk Jérôme Fandor was foaming with rage, furiousat being caught in the trap and uneasy as to how this adventure wouldend. 

Whilst he was realising that his unknown porters were carrying theirheavy weight with difficulty to the pavement of rue Raffet, he made uphis mind to a definite course of action: regardless of consequences, hewas going to shout, move about, make a regular disturbance, rouse theattention of the passers-by--if there happened to be any--but, at allcosts, he meant to get out of the trap!. . . He saw a ray of hope: MadameBourrat had accompanied her visitors as far as the gate. In presence ofsuch a witness, they would, at least, hesitate to do him serious bodilyharm when he made his presence unmistakably known, furious though theywould be. He would take every advantage of the situation. . . . 

Fandor was about to act: a second more and he would have started, whenhe heard them speaking. He kept quiet. 

"We must have a taxi, or at the very least a cab to transport this bigtrunk. Do you know where one is likely to be found?"

"I doubt if one will be passing at this hour, monsieur. We retire earlyin these parts; but, if you like, Jules can go to the station. "

"That's settled. Let him go as fast as he can!"

"Well, that is reassuring, " thought Fandor. "If these fine fellows takea cab, it is not with the intention of chucking my cage and me into theriver--and that is what I feared most. They may be going to leave me ina cloak-room till called for; or they may pack us off as luggage to somedestination unknown! . . . Oh, well, I shall only be a traveller without aticket and I shall be sure to find some way out of the difficulty! Andthen, what stuff for an article I shall have when I get back to _LaCapitale_!. . . What must they be thinking at the offices! It'sforty-eight hours since I put foot in them! Never mind! When theyknow!. . . "

Fandor was listening with all his ears; but the bandits had little tosay; and, when they did speak, their voices were plainly disguised. Wasit as a general precaution, or was it on account of Madame Bourrat?. . . But, unless they were known to her, why the necessity? If, however, sheknew one or more of them personally, why, they must have disguised theirfaces and figures as well as their voices!. . . If only he could have apeep at them!

The sound of wheels made him suppose that Jules had succeeded in gettinga cab at the Auteuil station. Then the trot-trot-trot of a horse becameaudible: a few moments later a cab drew up at the edge of the pavement. 

A hoarse voice was heard. 

"It's not a long journey, I hope!" said the hoarse, grumbling voice ofthe cabman. 

"To Police Headquarters, " replied the pretended police inspector. 

"We shall see about that!" thought Fandor. "That address is to throwdust in Madame Bourrat's eyes. They will change their destination on theway. I bet on it!. . . "

"The brutes! Are they going to jam my cage and me on to the seat?"Fandor asked himself, for they had seized the trunk and were beginningto lift it up. . . . "Am I to be stuck upside down beside the driver? Idon't fancy so!. . . We must weigh at least ninety kilos, as I weighseventy myself!"

Fandor's mind was soon made easy on that score. After a fruitlessattempt to hoist the trunk to the box seat, they decided to put it on tothe back seat of the Victoria. One of the bandits planted himself on thelittle folding seat opposite the trunk: the other bandit mounted to thebox seat next the driver. 

The two bandits took leave of Madame Bourrat. The rickety old vehiclestarted off. Presently, Fandor heard what he had expected to hear: oneof his captors told the driver to take them to some other address thanPolice Headquarters. Owing to the rattling of the ramshackle cab--itlacked rubber tyres--Fandor, though listening with ears astretch, couldnot hear one word distinctly. 

Soon pale gleams of light began to filter through the wickerwork: dawnwas near. 

"Ah, we shall soon reach our destination, " thought Fandor. "I don'tfancy my trunk lifters will wish to be seen with this turnout in broaddaylight! Now, where the deuce are we going?"

In vain did Fandor strive to follow the route taken by the bandits! Hehad noted each shock and counter-shock produced by cobbled streets andsmooth roads, by bumping against pavements, by crossed tram lines andsharp turnings!. . . 

The cab stopped with a jolt and a jerk. The two men got out. The trunkwas lifted down to the pavement. The driver was paid. He rattled off. 

"Now trunk and I are in for it!" thought Fandor. 

A bell pealed. A courtyard entrance gate was thrown open. The two menlifted the trunk, cursing under their breath at its weight. 

In passing under the archway they called some name unknown to Fandor andso unintelligible that he could not remember it; then it was a painfulascension: up a staircase they went with prodigious effort, stopping ontwo landings. 

"Two floors, " counted Fandor. "We are coming to the end, and, all saidand done, I would rather be in a house than at the bottom of the river!"

A key turned in a lock; the trunk was pushed rapidly inside; then thenoise of a door being shut. 

Fandor was in a room; no doubt, alone with the two bandits, and at theirmercy! He was plunged into complete darkness. Evidently the shutterswere still closed. The noise made by footsteps on the floor showed thatit was uncarpeted. Judging from the sound, there seemed to be littlefurniture and no hangings in the room. 

"Am I and my cage in an ordinary room, in a studio, or in a hall?"wondered Fandor. In any case, the fellows who had brought him thereseemed anxious to avoid making a noise. 

Then he felt the cover of the wickerwork trunk bend slightly and heardit creak. For a moment, he thought the two men were about to open hisprison. He had his revolver ready: every inch of him was on thedefensive! Then he realised that his captors had merely seatedthemselves on the trunk to rest!

They began to talk. 

"This, " thought Fandor, "is splendid! I shall hear everything they say. Why, it is a conversation in my honour! What luck!"

Fandor was delighted: thanks to his position he would hear someinteresting secrets. He listened. Alas! He could hear every word theyuttered, but he could not understand what they were saying! Fandor sworestrictly to himself. The two wretches were conversing in German. 

To the best of his judgment, a good hour had passed since the falsepolice inspector and his acolyte had left the room. They had simplydrawn to the door behind them, not troubling to lock it, much to the joyof Jérôme Fandor. 

Absolute silence reigned. 

Fandor attempted some discreet movements as a test. The wickerworkcreaked as he gently shook the trunk at short intervals. Not ananswering sound came from outside! Menaced with cramp, Fandor felt thatthe moment of escape had arrived. 

He was, certainly, the only living soul in the place: listen as hemight, and his sense of hearing was acute, he could not hear any soundof breathing. Yes, the time to quit his prison had come!

Fandor had with him, besides his revolver, a box of matches, and ahunter's knife consisting of several blades, and a little saw. Gettingout his knife with some difficulty, he began to hack at the wickerwork. Dry and pliant, the interlaced rods did not long resist the saw's steelteeth. It took him a bare ten minutes to make an opening, sufficientlylarge to push his head and shoulders through: the rest of his bodyfollowed easily. Such was his haste to be free, that he tore, not onlyhis clothes, but his elbows and hands, on the jagged ends of the brokenwickerwork: large drops of blood fell on the flooring. 

"Bah! I've got off cheaply!" cried Fandor, standing up to relax hiscramped muscles and stretching his aching legs and arms. 

"Unless I am jolly well mistaken, I am lord of all I survey. I am alonein my glory! There's not a soul in the place! Good luck indeed!"

He turned for a last look at his broken prison house, the cage in whichhe had spent such exciting hours. He suddenly stiffened and drew back: anervous trembling seized him--the nervous trembling due to sudden shock. Between the trunk which had been dumped down in the centre of a largesquare room, without a scrap of furniture in it, and the window, throughwhose shutters the rays of morning sunshine shone, Fandor had caughtsight of a body lying on the floor--a man's body! Fandor leapt forward. Was this same cunning criminal feigning sleep for some evil purpose?Standing over that motionless figure, Fandor bent and touched one of theman's hands: it was ice-cold and rigid. The man was dead!

To see his face was imperative: it was turned towards the floor. Withdifficulty Fandor raised the head and shoulders, for they were unusuallylarge and strongly built. Fandor glanced at the face and suddenlywithdrew his hand: the corpse fell back on the floor with a thud!

"Thomery!" murmured Fandor. "Why, it's Thomery!"

It was the well-known sugar refiner's body. The face was purple, thetongue protruding. Round his neck was tied a tricoloured scarf, thescarf of a police inspector! Was this the murderer's ironic touch?

Fandor sank down quite overcome. He tried to collect his thoughts. 

"A disgusting joke this! If someone should take into his head to enterthe room at this moment, what kind of explanation could I give? Here Iam, alone with the dead body of a man I know, and in a room I don'tknow, in a neighbourhood whose whereabouts I know no more than the manin the moon. "

"Where am I?. . . In whose house?. . . For what purpose?. . . Have thosebeauties of last night no suspicion of the truth?. . . Did they leave mein this lair of theirs of set purpose, knowing I was cooped up insidethe trunk?"

Just then, Fandor felt a slight moisture on the palm of his hand: it wasall red: the scratches, made by the jagged edges of the wickerwork, werestill bleeding. 

"Better and better I declare!" murmured Fandor. "If I don't look like alittle holy Saint John! A corpse, and a man with blood on his handsseated beside the dead body of this murdered man! Nothing more isrequired to jail me with all the power of the law!. . . To go to prisonunder such suspicious circumstances is serious!. . . The police, who arefloundering about in a maze of investigations, without any result sofar, will be only too delighted to kill two birds with one stone--tosuppress a journalist and discover a criminal!. . . I have got to get outof here; that is plain as a pikestaff!. . . Get away? Yes, but with thehonour of war!. . . I must establish an alibi--that is absolutelynecessary. . . . I like to think that my false police inspector and hisaccomplice have cut and run for some time; at any rate, that they willbe in no hurry to come back to see what is happening where they have soneatly and nicely left the corpse of this Thomery. . . . What part did thisfellow play in the drama?. . . Criminal or victim?"

Fandor had reached the door of the hall opening on to the mainstaircase. He was listening. . . . He had explored the flat. It was empty. He had found water in the kitchen, had washed his face, and removedevery trace of blood from his person. It was a flat suitable for amiddle-class household. There were three large rooms, decorated with acertain amount of luxury. 

Fandor looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. He stood listening. Someone, a man, was coming downstairs: someone, a woman, was coming up. They met on the landing just outside. 

"Monsieur Mercadier, here are your letters! I was bringing them up toyou!"

"It was hardly worth while, my good lady. I have to come down, you see, so you can save yourself five flights of stairs!"

"Oh, no, monsieur! I have to come up to go down my stairs. "

Monsieur Mercadier continued to descend, and the portress continued tomount. 

Fandor's heart beat faster when he realised that she was approaching thedoor. Would she come in and find him there? Had the new tenants left akey of the flat with her? No, the portress dusted the landing quicklyand continued her ascent: he heard her going up and up. . . . 

He made up his mind to slip out on to the landing. Despite his efforts, he could not prevent his shoes creaking: it was spring-time, and alreadythe stair carpet had been taken up. He was on the point of goingdownstairs, when he heard the portress calling from above:

"Who's there?. . . What do you want?"

Had she heard him leave the flat? Was he to be stupidly caught, just ashe was escaping?. . . He must act at once. He went up a step or two of thenext flight of stairs and called out:

"Is Monsieur Mercadier at home?"

"Ah, no, monsieur! He has just this minute gone out! I am surprised youdid not meet him!. . . "

"Very good, madame. I will come another time!"

Fandor turned on his heel, and, whistling, with hands in pockets, hegained the ground floor, passed the entrance gate, and found himself inthe street. He mingled with the passers-by, and learned from the firstplaque he came to with the name of the street on it, that he was in rueLecourbe, Vaugirard. . . . 

XX

UNDER THE HOODED MASK

What had happened? By way of what mysterious adventures had the corpseof sugar refiner Thomery reached that empty room in rue Lecourbe, whereJérôme Fandor had come across it?

Two days previous, on the afternoon of Elizabeth Dollon's arrest, Monsieur Thomery was working in his study, when a servant came to tellhim that a lady wished to speak to him. 

"Did she give you her name?" asked Thomery. 

"No, monsieur, this person said her name would tell you nothing; but shewas sure monsieur would see her, for she would only detain him a minuteor two. . . . "

Piles of papers were stacked on the great sugar refiner's study table:typists were laying numerous letters before him, which awaited hissignature. Thomery thought to himself:

"I have still a good half-hour's work before me . . . Deuce take thisimportunate visitor!" He was on the point of saying he could not see anyone, when the servant added:

"This person declares she comes with reference to Madame the PrincessDanidoff. "

Though he was a man of business, Thomery was a gallant man also; andvery much in love; his approaching marriage with the Princess, which hadbeen kept secret, was now known. The name of Princess Danidoff settledthe question. 

"Very well, let her come in!"

The manservant disappeared a minute, then ushered into the study a veryunassuming woman of uncertain age and quite ordinary looking. 

Thomery rose to meet her, pointing pleasantly to one of the largearm-chairs in the room. The visitor was profusely apologetic. 

"I am so exceedingly sorry, Monsieur Thomery, to disturb you at such anhour, when you must certainly have a great deal to occupy yourattention; but the matter I have come about will not wait, and I am sureit will interest you. . . . "

This little person seemed very intelligent, and Thomery was favourablyimpressed by her manner, which was both simple and decided. 

"Madame, I am listening to you. In what way can I be of service to you?"

"I am not here, monsieur, " she protested, "to pester you with any wantsand wishes for myself. I am a diamond broker and . . . "

She had not finished her sentence when Thomery, smiling but firm, rose, and said sharply:

"In that case, madame, I can guess the motive of your call. . . . "

"But, monsieur . . . "

"Yes!. . . That is so!. . . Ever since my approaching marriage has beenannounced, I have received, every day, a dozen visits from jewellers, goldsmiths, upholsterers, and so on . . . I regret to have to tell youthat you will not be able to persuade me to buy . . . That my betrothedhas received so many wedding presents that there is no room for more. . . . I do not require one single thing. . . . "

Although Thomery had spoken in a tone which did not admit of any reply, although he had risen the better to mark his intention of cutting shortthe call, the diamond broker had remained seated, leaning back in herarm-chair. . . . She gave no sign of being ready to go away. 

"Consequently, madame, " continued Thomery. . . . 

His visitor laughed. 

"Monsieur, you have very quickly made up your mind that I have nothinginteresting to offer you! I have not come to offer you ordinaryjewels. . . . "

It was Thomery's turn to smile slightly. 

"I quite understand, madame, that you should think your merchandiseexceptional. . . . But once more . . . "

The broker interrupted the sugar refiner with a movement of her hand. 

"Do listen to me a moment, monsieur!. . . Though I am a diamond broker, diamonds are not what I have come to ask you to purchase . . . It is aquestion of something quite different. . . . "

She paused deliberately: Thomery gazed at her without saying a word. 

"You know, monsieur, " continued the broker, "that in such a business asmine, one is obliged to see a great many jewellers every day; well, inthe course of my peregrinations, I found at a jeweller's--you must allowme to withhold his name--some pearls, which I am certain you will findare a wonderful bargain. . . . "

"For the last time, madame, I do not want a wonderful bargain!"

The agent smiled curiously. 

"There are some things which simply do not allow themselves to berefused, " she declared. . . . She now drew from her pocket a littlejewel-case; and, notwithstanding Thomery's unconcealed impatience, opened it, and selected two pearls which she held out to him. 

"Do examine these jewels! You are going to tell me that they areperfectly beautiful, are you not, Monsieur Thomery?"

The diamond broker offered them so naturally that Thomery gave way. Heexamined the pearls: he was a connoisseur. 

"In truth, madame, these pearls are superb; unfortunately I am notenough of an expert to buy them without taking competent advice, that isif I thought of acquiring them eventually, but I repeat, I have no wishto acquire such things!"

"Deuce take it!" thought Thomery. "This broker won't take 'no' for ananswer! Since I cannot rid myself of her by being pleasant, I shall makemyself disagreeable!"

But the would-be seller still insisted. 

"Monsieur, you really cannot be a connoisseur, otherwise I am sure youwould not return these pearls to me. "

"But, madame!. . . "

"And I am convinced that if Princess Sonia Danidoff had had them in herhand instead of you, she would have been greatly taken with them!"

The broker had emphasised her words so strangely that, suddenly, Thomeryhesitated. 

What did this mysterious visitor mean? What was it she considered so"extraordinary" about the jewels she had just submitted to him?. . . Asuspicion flashed across his mind. 

"Whence come these pearls, madame?"

But, at this question, the broker got up. 

"Monsieur Thomery, " declared she, "I should be very vexed with myselfwere I to make you lose your evening . . . Your time is precious; besides, in order to give you a proper answer to your question, I should have tomake certain of facts I only now guess at. . . . Still, I think thatwithout having told you anything definite, I have made you sufficientlyunderstand what is in my mind, . . . You will not now doubt the interestthat the Princess Sonia Danidoff would have, were she able to examinethese jewels. . . . "

"Is that so?"

"Consequently, Monsieur Thomery, I am going to ask you if you willkindly show these pearls to the Princess; and then if you will be goodenough to let me know what decision you come to, jointly with her. . . . Ifyou were a buyer, I fancy I might let you have these jewels on quiteexceptional terms. "

Thomery visibly hesitated. . . . He was looking at the pearls, which he wasstill holding in his hand, and he thought. 

"One might swear that these are two of the pearls stolen from Sonia atmy ball!"

Thomery did not reply at once. The broker was looking at him with asmile; she seemed to guess his thoughts. Thomery, on his side, wasexamining the woman. 

"Is she simply a police informer?" he asked himself. "One of these womenwho apparently are dealers, but are really in the pay of the police, andfrequent jewellers for the purpose of tracing stolen jewels?"

He was on the verge of asking her who she was, but he refrained. 

If this woman had not presented herself under her true colours, evidently she wished to pass for an ordinary dealer. It was possiblethat she was really a receiver of stolen goods!

Thomery came to a decision. 

"I shall have the privilege of seeing the Princess Danidoff to-morrowafternoon; will you therefore leave the pearls with me?. . . I will showthem to her. Should she express the slightest wish to possess them, Imight possibly come to terms with you. . . . "

 * * * * *

"Dearest, it is sweet of you to make no objection to the way in which Iobtained this jewel for you to see, and to choose for your own, if youwill. . . . The correct thing would have been to ask you to accompany me tosome well-known jeweller, instead of which, I frankly confess, thatthese pearls were offered to me on very advantageous terms. If theyplease you, it will give me the greatest pleasure to see them adorningyour graceful neck. "

Princess Sonia laughed. 

"My dear, for Heaven's sake, don't worry about such a thing as that!. . . A pearl is not less beautiful because it comes from some unpretentiousjeweller's shop. I am too fond of jewels for their own sake, to troubleabout the casket that enshrines them!"

Thomery bowed, well pleased. 

"Here then, dear Sonia, are the two pearls entrusted to me as samples. . . Please, dearest, examine them carefully, very carefully . . . And ifyou like them, tell me so frankly. . . . "

The Princess took the two pearls from the betrothed, and, crossing thegreat drawing-room, she approached one of the bay windows, lifting thethin hangings that she might the better examine the pearls. 

"They are marvellous!" she cried. 

"Dear Sonia, you think these gems rarely beautiful?"

"Indeed I do! Their lustre is superb; their quality, their shape, perfect!. . . Why, my dear, these are the most splendid pearls I have everseen--with one exception--the only pearls to equal them are those thatwere stolen from me!. . . The loss of them has been a bitter grief . . . They came to me, you know, from my dear mother!. . . I never thought tofind pearls of such quality again. . . . "

"You consider these to be of as pure a quality then, dear?"

Sonia Danidoff continued to examine the two pearls. 

"It is really extraordinary, " she cried suddenly. "Do you know, my dear, there are certain peculiarities about their lustre, . . . Yes . . . I couldswear that these very pearls you are offering me are two of those stolenfrom me!. . . "

Thomery appeared to have been impatiently awaiting these very words. 

"You really, truly believe, Sonia, that they resemble the pearls stolenfrom you that unlucky evening?"

"I repeat--they are identical!"

Thomery looked smilingly at Sonia. 

"Well, then, my dear one, I do not think you are mistaken!. . . I have allsorts of reasons for supposing that they really are two of your ownpearls you are now holding in your hand. . . . " And, then and there, Thomery told his fiancée all about the strange visit he had received theevening before, as well as his hope that he would be able to recoverthe stolen triple collar in its entirety. 

"That intriguing dealer, " said he finally, "must be a policeinformer. . . . In any case, I am persuaded that, before long, she willtake me to some receiver or other who is in possession of your pearlcollar. "

"Oh, tell me you are not going among such people, all alone?" criedSonia, with a note of sharp anxiety in her voice. 

"But, why not?"

"If they are, as you think, thieves?"

"Well?"

"Well! Don't you see, my dear, that if you go to buy the pearls, theywill count on your bringing a large sum of money with you!. . . Why, itwould be a most imprudent thing to do!. . . "

Thomery shrugged his shoulders. 

"Really, that's nonsense, Sonia! If these assassins meant to set a trapfor me, they have a thousand other means of doing so . . . Besides, itwould be remarkably daring of them to advise me to show you thesepearls, and draw my attention to the question of their being stolenones!. . . No, Sonia, this dealer is not the emissary of a band of robbersand assassins: she is a police informer, who has taken precautions. Irun no dangerous risks by accompanying her! Reassure yourself on thatpoint!. . . "

But Sonia Danidoff was not reassured by Thomery's arguments. 

"All that only frightens me!" said she. . . . "If you do not really thinkyou are running any risk, will you let me go with you?. . . My dear, wewill go together to identify those pearls, will we not?"

Thomery rose to take his leave, laughing and protesting. 

"Why, dear Sonia, it would be in the highest degree improper on my part, were I to agree to such a proposition!. . . One of two things: eitherthere is no danger, and I should be very sorry that I had let you go outin such shocking weather; or, if there is danger, I should be stillmore distressed were I to drag you into it with me. . . . I do beg of you, Sonia, do not insist on it. . . . I am not a child!. . . And I will be verycareful--very wary!. . . "

 * * * * *

Shortly after this, Thomery took leave of Sonia Danidoff. He wentstraight to the Café de la Paix, where he had arranged to meet thediamond broker. . . . 

She was punctual. She greeted Thomery with her most winning smile. 

"I am persuaded, monsieur, that Madame Sonia Danidoff was interested bythe offer you made her?"

"Quite so, " replied Thomery. . . . "Should we go to your jeweller's, without further loss of time?"

"If you really wish to do so, monsieur! Indeed it would be the bestthing to do. . . . "

Thomery hailed a cab. He and the diamond agent entered it together, andshe gave the driver an address. Twenty minutes later they left the caband were standing before the house where the present possessor of thepearls was to be found. Thomery knew no more now about the person he hadcome to interview, than he did when he started: that is to say, practically nothing. 

The diamond broker had cleverly evaded giving any direct answers to thesugar refiner's questions: she had confined herself to stating whatwould be the probable price demanded for the pearl collar--whichquestion interested Thomery least of all!

They mounted, in single file, a rather poor sort of staircase: on thesecond floor the woman stopped. A narrow door faced them. . . . The womanrang. . . . They waited. . . . 

"Someone is coming!" said the woman. "I hear footsteps. "

The door was opened half-way. 

"Who is it?" asked a man's voice. 

"I, dear friend, " answered the woman. 

The door opened wide: the same voice said:

"Come in, monsieur. "

Thomery had barely stepped inside the room, when the diamond broker, whowas close behind, flung a long silk scarf round his neck, and, pushinghis knee into his victim's back for a support, he attempted to give, with Herculean force, the famous stroke of Father Francis Vigozous;energetic, Thomery did not lose his presence of mind. . . . He knew that toresist such a pull by simple force was impossible. . . . Quickly he threwhimself backwards, thus giving to the strangling pull and falling on topof the woman, who had played this dastardly trick on him. From hisconstricted throat came a hoarse "Ah!" like a death rattle. 

As he was falling, for one flashing second, it seemed as though he weregoing to escape from the vise which was crushing in his throat. . . Then, out of the shadow, there had appeared the fantastic vision of a man in atight fitting sort of black jersey, which covered him from head tofoot. . . . His face was concealed by a hooded mask. . . . 

This man had leapt out of the shadow. 

He held a dagger in his hand. 

Before Thomery had time to make a movement, the masked man had piercedhis chest with a single stroke!. . . The sugar refiner was naught but aconvulsive corpse. 

"Ah, well!" declared the so-called diamond broker, who had got to hisfeet and was kicking Thomery's body aside. "Ah, well, he is a deadweight this fellow!. . . By Jove, master, I fancied he was going to crushme, and that I should have to let him free!. . . You did well to come tothe rescue!"

The masked man remarked in an indifferent tone:

"It really does not matter in the slightest!. . . Tell me, does anyonesuspect?"

"No one, master. He came like a sheep to the slaughter. "

"Princess Danidoff?"

"Ah, as for her--she must be waiting for the return of her belovedfriend. . . . I do not advise you to pay her a visit!"

"Be silent, chatter-box!" ordered the masked assassin sharply. "Get ridof your clothes. . . . We must hurry!. . . We have work to do!"

"This evening?"

"This evening!"

And, whilst the diamond broker rid himself rapidly of skirt and bodiceand regained his masculine appearance--for this diamond broker was aman--the masked assassin added:

"Nibet, you have played your part perfectly, and I will pay youto-morrow the sum we agreed on; but, I repeat, we have work before usthis evening--so, be quick!"

There was a short silence, then the bandit asked:

"You have arranged to put among this fool's papers the rent receipts, which will enable the police to find this flat?"

"Yes, master!"

"Good! Now all we have to do, is to get away from this room, which weshall not see again . . . Until this evening at any rate!"

XXI

IN A PRISON VAN

In one of the rooms reserved for readers of _La Capitale_, Jérôme Fandorwas gravely listening to Madame Bourrat's account of what had occurredat her boarding-house during the night. She had rushed off to tell himand to ask his advice. 

"What you tell me, madame, is truly extraordinary!" said Fandor, with anair of profound astonishment. . . . 

"How did you discover that the police inspector who seized the trunk andcarried it away was not a genuine policeman?"

"Why, through the arrival of Monsieur Xavié, the police inspector of ourdistrict! I know him. . . . There was no mistaking who and what he was; andwhen I told him that the trunk had been carried off the precedingevening, rather in the dead of night, he guessed everything. . . . "

"And what did he say?. . . "

"Oh, he made us all come to the police station; and I can assure youthat he looked far from pleased!"

"You must admit, dear madame, that his annoyance was not withoutreason!. . . The police were made fine fools of in this affair. . . . Butafterwards?. . . Whom did he take back with him to the police station?"

"He took me and my manservant. "

"And when you got to the police station?"

"Well, Monsieur Fandor, when we reached the police station, he made uscome into his office, and there he put us through a regularexamination, . . . Just as though he suspected us!"

"But there must have been an accomplice in your house who let therobbers in, " said Fandor. "I do not suppose the false police inspectorforced the door open!"

"Ah, but, Monsieur Fandor, here is something I do not understand, nordoes anybody else!. . . No, they did not try to hide themselves--not theleast in the world! They rang the bell; they asked to see me; they toldme what they had come for; and, accompanied by my manservant, carriedaway the trunk, and had it put on the cab--all in the most open andbare-faced manner!"

"It was your manservant who accompanied them?"

"But most certainly . . . And that very fact turned against Jules, in avery nasty manner. . . . Poor Jules! Just imagine, the police inspectorfinished by ordering my house to be thoroughly searched from top tobottom! And when the policemen returned, without a why or wherefore, they took Jules away to another part of the police station!"

"I say! I say!"

"Oh, it was all explained! As soon as Jules had gone, the policeinspector told me that they had found keys in his rooms, keys whichcould be made to fit any kind of lock whatever. Monsieur Xavié wasconvinced that my poor Jules was a burglar--imagine it!"

"And you, yourself, madame, are convinced of the contrary?"

"Oh, assuredly! Why, I have known Jules a very long time! And in manylittle ways on many occasions, he has shown himself to be strictlyhonest. "

"But those false keys?"

"Those false keys, Monsieur Fandor, why I myself made Jules buy them, hoping to find among them one that would open my coach-house. "

"So that?. . . "

"So that, Monsieur Fandor, the police inspector was obliged to agreewith me that Jules was honest!"

"And he released this servant of yours?" asked Fandor. 

His tone expressed annoyance. 

"No, and that is why I am so distressed. He said, that provisionally, atleast, my servant, Jules, was to be considered as under arrest! Whatought to be done to get him let out?"

"But, madame!. . . He will be set free to-morrow, you may be certain ofit!. . . "

"No doubt he will!. . . All the same, there is my house turned upsidedown, and I need Jules to help me to-night!. . . I really do not know whatI shall do without him! Poor fellow!. . . I simply cannot imagine how itis they suspect him!"

Fandor said, with mock gravity:

"Ah, madame, Justice is sometimes so stupid--so wrongheaded!. . . Lookhere now, would you like a bit of good advice?. . . Telephone to MessieursBarbey-Nanteuil. They are well known and powerful--perhaps they wouldexert their influence in your servant's favour? He might be set freethis evening! I, you see, am but a journalist, and without a scrap ofinfluence!"

Madame Bourrat thought this a good idea. Fandor rang for an attendant. 

"Take madame to the telephone!"

Left to himself, the reporter could not help rubbing his hands. 

"I must get rid of this excellent woman, who is certainly the mostfoolish person it has ever been my lot to meet. Good hearing! Thatservant of hers is under lock and key--things are going in the rightdirection . . . But they are not going well for me!. . . If he confesses, to-morrow, when he is had up for examination, then the police will havethe information before me!. . . Then, too, they are such duffers--suchbunglers--that they are quite capable of giving that Jules hisliberty!. . . What the deuce must I do to prevent his being let loose, andhow am I to stop the judicial interrogation?. . . What a dog's life ajournalist's is!"

Madame Bourrat reappeared. 

"Monsieur Nanteuil is not there, " she said. "But I got intocommunication with Monsieur Barbey. . . . He advised me to wait tillto-morrow: he said it was too late in the day to do anything. . . . "

"But, will he not intervene to-morrow?"

"I don't know. To tell the truth, I am sure Monsieur Barbey thought itvery inconsiderate of me to disturb him about a matter in which he takesnot the slightest interest. "

"That's a fact. What possible interest can the bankers take in such amatter?. . . My advice was absurd!"

Fandor rose. As he was seeing his visitor out, he said:

"In any case, dear madame, count on me to-morrow morning. I shall callat your house about eleven. If there is anything fresh, we can talk itover!. . . "

 * * * * *

"Oh, here's Janson-de-Sailly College!. . . Oh, what detestableremembrances you conjure up!. . . But--this won't do!. . . Go it, my boy!. . . I must play the part!"

The plumber, who had just given utterance to these remarks, glancedsharply about him. When he had made sure that there was no one close onhis heels, he stepped into the roadway, and started on a zigzag coursewhich seemed likely to upset his balance. Crossing the avenueHenri-Martin, going straight, towards the town hall at the corner of therue de la Pompe, the good plumber, who was staggering more than alittle, began to stutter and stammer in a drunken voice:

"_It is the final struggle!_"

The passers-by looked round. 

"They sing the _Internationale_ in the streets now, it seems!" remarkeda severe-looking gentleman. 

The workman turned to this correct personage. 

"What of it?. . . Don't you think it a jolly fine thing then?"

In a thick voice he continued to sing:

"_Let us gather, and on the morrow. . . _"

The severe and correct personage spoke. 

"My friend, you would do better to hold your tongue!. . . You forget thatthere is a police station close by!. . . "

But the incorrigible plumber caught the correct personage by his coattails. 

"If I sing the _Internationale_, it's because I'm a free man--ain'tI?. . . A free man can sing if he likes, can't he? Eh!. . . Why don't yousing then?. . . Eh!. . . "

The correct personage drew himself up stiffly: tried to push theobnoxious plumber away. . . . The workman had now reached that stage ofdrunkenness when discussions tend to become interminable. 

The gentleman pushed the drunken man aside, saying:

"Come! Come! Go away!. . . Leave me alone!"

But the maudlin plumber was attracting the attention of the passers byhis gestures. He addressed the world at large. 

"Would you believe it--that fellow there don't want me to sing!. . . No!Well, I'm going to!" and he started triumphantly. 

"_It is the--the--final . . . Strug-gle!_"

A policeman came out of the station with a solemn air. He put his handon the tipsy plumber's shoulder in paternal fashion. 

"Go along with you, my friend!. . . Come now--pass along--pass along!" Buthe could not make the plumber budge before he had finished his verse, any more than he could teach him to walk straight on the spur of themoment!. . . Leaving hold of the gentleman's coat tails, the worthyplumber seized the policeman's arm. '

"Oh, you, you're a brother!. . . I have education, I have! You're aworkman too, I know!. . . "

As the police inspector pushed him off, trying to make him go on hisway, the plumber put his arm round him. 

"No! No!. . . Show you're a workman! Sing with me!"

"_It is the final . . . _"

The scandal could no longer be tolerated! Street-corner idlers weregathering, people were laughing at the policeman: strong measures werenecessary. 

"Come now, " said the policeman. "Yes, or no! Will you be off, and gohome?. . . Eh!. . . Or shall I take you to the station?. . . "

"You take me?. . . You take me?. . . Why, it would take four of you to takeme!. . . "

There was no shilly-shallying after this! Wounded in his vanity, theservant of the law did not hesitate. 

"All right!" said he; and seizing the plumber by the collar, althoughthere was no attempt at resistance, he dragged his prisoner towards thetown hall of the district, for the police station was there also. 

"Some more game for the Dépôt!" said the policeman as he passed theguard. . . . "A fellow I can't get rid of! Are the cells full up?"

Other policemen came up. An arrest in a peaceful district gives interestto the dull routine of the men on duty. 

"The cells full? Go along with you! There's only a small shopkeeper whohad no papers. "

Thereupon the unfortunate singer, who continued to stagger about, wasquickly pushed into the dark room called "the detention room. "

An ordinary every day incident of the streets, this arrest of adrunkard!

"I shall have to write out a report for this fellow!" said thepoliceman, who had arrested the songster. . . "and the 'Salad Basket'[10]passes in an hour's time! . . . I shall just do it!"

[Footnote 10: Prison van. ]

 * * * * *

"Have you anyone for the Dépôt to-day?" asked the driver from his highseat on the prison van. He was on a collecting journey as is usual everyevening, when the Salad Baskets, as they are vulgarly called, pass tothe various police stations of Paris to pick up the individuals arrestedduring the day. 

"Two of 'em, " answered the police sergeant on duty. Whilst officialpapers were being interchanged and forms were being filled in accordingto rule, policemen went to the cells to bring out the two prisoners tobe despatched to the Dépôt. 

The first to pass out was the costermonger. He was straightway put intoone of the narrow compartments in the Salad Basket. Then it was the turnof the tipsy and obstreperous workman, who was now silent, moody, andapparently sober. 

"Hop it now!" cried the policeman. "Come along with you, you miserabledrunk!. . . March now!. . . Foot it!"

As the "drunk" hit against the partition of the narrow passagewayrunning up the middle of the Salad Basket, the policeman, with a shove, pushed him into one of the compartments, carefully shutting the littledoor on him and fastening it. 

"My word!" he exclaimed. "That fellow wouldn't have been capable ofwalking three steps in an hour's time!"

As the driver climbed to his seat on the van, the policeman called out, with a laugh:

"You have a traveller inside who doesn't detest wine!. . . It's a pity tosee a man in such a hoggish state!"

This same policeman would have been surprised, could he have seen thebibulous one's face when the Salad Basket cast loose from her mooringsand started off in the direction of the Point-du-Jour police station, the last on the round to be visited!

The "drunk" whom one push had sufficed to plant on his seat, had brisklydrawn himself upright and was smiling broadly, a wide, noiseless smile!

"What a joke!. . . And what a jolly good actor I should have made!"thought Jérôme Fandor, giving himself a mental hug of satisfaction. . . . "Ah! They arrest the individuals I want to set talking!. . . The policeimagine they are going to push in first and find out the answer to theriddle!. . . We shall see!"

Fandor was listening intensely and trying to discover from the movementsof the Salad Basket what street they were passing along. 

"Smooth going . . . Evidently we are still in the rue de la Pompe, so Ihave about a quarter of an hour more of it!"

Fandor examined the tiny cell in which he had been imprisoned of his ownfree will. 

"Not much to be said for it!" ran his thoughts. "There is scarcely roomto sit . . . Impossible to stand up or turn around . . . Nearly dark . . . Andprecious little air comes in through those wooden shutters!. . . Ishouldn't think there ever had been an escape from these vans!. . . "

Fandor smiled broadly. 

"Even if I don't succeed, it is worth while making the attempt!. . . But Ishall succeed--see if I don't!. . . I settled it in my mind that I was toleave the cells after this costermonger: he is in front of me, thereforethe cell behind me is empty. It will be deucedly queer if, at Auteuilpolice station, they don't put that confounded Jules in it, whom Iintend to interview under the nose of the police!. . . I shall starttalking to him by tapping on the partition in prisoner's language. Thefellow is pretty sure to be an old offender, so he will know thesystem. . . . If he doesn't, when we get to the Dépôt, I will push up tohim somehow and get a few words with him. . . . If the Dépôt is full, weshall be stuck into the common cell until morning. . . . So, I take it ascertain that my interview with this true and faithful servant will comeoff, and I shall get to know a good deal about the mystery!. . . "

As an afterthought, it occurred to Fandor that probably there had neverbeen such a light-hearted occupant of this cell as he. . . . 

"Ah, that's the sound of the trams!. . . One jolt! Two jolts! Good!. . . Therails!. . . We are crossing rue Mozart! We are going faster--in fiveminutes we shall be at the Auteuil police station, and there we canstart our little operations!"

There was one thing that attracted Fandor's attention, which was keenlyon the alert. There was a violent jolt, and he had a distinct impressionthat the vehicle turned to the right. 

"Why, where the deuce are they taking us?" Fandor asked himself. "To theboulevard Exelmans station?. . . We had not reached the end of the rueMozart, surely!. . . Where did we turn then? Rue du Ranelagh?. . . No, thereis a channel stone at the entrance, and I should have felt it!. . . Rue del'Assomption!. . . Again no. The roadway is up: I should be knocked aboutmore than this on my wooden seat. We are going over a perfectly keptroad, which cannot have much traffic!. . . Why, of course, it is rue duDocteur-Blanche!. . . Isn't rue Mozart barred at the end? Yes. The drivermust be going round by the boulevard Montmorency. . . . Ah, well! I am inno hurry! There will be time enough for me to pay my respects to theillustrious Jules!"

Just as Fandor was thus congratulating himself, he was thrown againstthe side of his cell! The van seemed to have come into violent collisionwith some object and had tilted over to a considerable extent. 

Muffled oaths came from neighbouring cells; a stifled exclamationreached Fandor's ears; then louder still, came the intermittent hummingand snorting of a motor-car. 

"Confound you!. . . Can't you pay attention to where you are going?. . . Keep to your right!"

Slightly stunned, Fandor heard some one knocking. 

A voice asked:

"Are you hurt?"

"No, but . . . "

Already the questioner had moved away. 

"Evidently, " thought Fandor, "the driver wants to know whether his humanpackages are damaged or not! We have collided with another vehicle!. . . Cheerful!"

Fandor's cell was now at such an angle that he could only suppose thatthe Salad Basket had had one of its wheels broken. 

"What a nuisance!" he murmured. "Before they have finished their palaveras to how the accident happened and have repaired the damage, we shallhave been here a full half-hour. . . . Jules will be in a temper!"

Minute succeeded minute, long, interminable minutes, and Fandor couldnot hear clearly what was said, what was being done to put the SaladBasket on its legs again. . . . The atmosphere in the little cell wasbecoming intolerable; for the movement of the vehicle had driven freshair inside the shutter, and now that the Salad Basket was stationary, the air was becoming almost unbreathable. 

Fandor's nerves were on edge. 

"It cannot be that they are going to leave us stranded here!" thoughthe. . . . "Ah, now they have started repairs!" Fandor noticed that his cellwas gradually regaining its ordinary level. . . . A lifting-jack must havebeen slipped under the vehicle, for there was a melancholy creakingsound. They must be putting the wheel on again!. . . 

"No, " thought Fandor, after some time had passed. "Never would I havesupposed that it could have taken so much time to repair a SaladBasket!. . . Why we shall soon have been stuck here for two mortalhours!. . . I hope it won't make any difference to our going to the Dépôt, nor stop my getting into close touch with that villain Jules!"

There was a further period of waiting. Then our exasperated journalistheard the driver pass down the centre of the van. The van doorslammed. . . . Once more the Salad Basket was loosed from its moorings. 

"Something queer is going on!" said Fandor suddenly. He felt certain thevan had turned completely round and was going in the direction it camefrom. 

"Now where in the world are we going?. . . By what kind of a route are wemaking for that blessed police station?"

There were spaces of asphalt, succeeded by wood pavement, then by hardstones, then asphalt and wood again, and turning succeeded turning, whilst a new Tom Thumb was doing his possible to guess the route theSalad Basket was taking. Presently Fandor gave it up. He had to admitthat he was completely lost. . . . Which way the Salad Basket was going heknew no more than the Man in the Moon!

"We have been trotting along for more than half an hour; therefore wecannot be going to the boulevard Exelmans police station . . . Thedistance from the rue du Docteur-Blanche to the Point-du-Jour is notgreat. . . . "

As Fandor was murmuring these words, the van slowed down, turned round;then, with a bump and a jolt, it mounted the footpath. 

"Now for it, " said Fandor. "This is certainly not the Point-du-Jourstation!. . . We are passing under an archway--now we are turningagain. . . . Ah, we draw up, at last!. . . Not too soon!"

The van did stop. 

Again a wait. Fandor cocked both ears; he wondered who was going toenter the cell next his. Then a man approached the door of his littlecell, where he was indeed "cribbed, cabined and confined"; inserted akey in the lock, opened, and shouted in a brutal tone:

"Out with you!. . . March! Quick now!"

Fandor had no choice but to obey the orders hurled at him. But no soonerhad he descended the steps of the prison van than he exclaimed:

"By Jove! The Dépôt!"

This was not the moment to express all the surprise he felt at beinglanded at Police Headquarters in this fashion. . . . All round the SaladBasket the police were ranged in irregular order. They shouted to him tobe quick. 

"Come on with you! Hurry there!"

Fandor, followed by the costermonger, was pushed towards a little opendoor in the grey wall which led into a kind of office, where an oldfrowning man was already looking through the papers, which had beenrespectfully handed to him by a warder. 

"So you have brought only two of the birds?" remarked the frowningofficial. 

"Yes, superintendent. "

"Good, that will do!. . . "

Turning to the warders, the frowning little superintendent ordered:"Take them away!. . . Cell 14. . . . Useless to rouse the whole place!"

Once more the warders pushed Fandor before them, as well as the poorcostermonger: they were driven into a dark corridor on to which a row ofcells opened. 

The head warder opened a door. 

"In with you, my merry men! You will be put through your pacesto-morrow!"

As the door fell to with a resounding clang, Jérôme had inspected theplace by the light of a lantern. 

"Empty!. . . No luck!. . . My plan has been spoiled: I shall not be able tointerview Jules!"

Philosophically, Jérôme Fandor was preparing to go to sleep on the plankbed which decorated one end of the cell, when the little costermonger, roused from his torpid condition, began to moan and groan. 

"Oh, what a misfortune!. . . To think I am innocent! Innocent as an unbornbabe!. . . What's to be done!. . . Oh, what's to be done!"

The last thing Fandor wished to do was to start a conversation with hislamenting companion. He tapped the costermonger on the shoulder. 

"Good Heavens, man, the best thing you can do is to go to sleep! Take myword for it!"

Without puzzling his brains any further over the enigmas he wished toget to the bottom of, Fandor stretched himself on his plank bed, and wassoon sleeping the sleep of the innocent. 

 * * * * *

Monsieur Fuselier looked perplexed. 

"You, Fandor! You arrested!. . . But am I going mad?"

Our journalist had been taken from his cell at eight in the morning, andhad been conducted to the office of the Public Prosecutor. Here, theacting magistrate, in conformity with the law, wished to put him throughthe examination which would establish his identity. All arrested personshave to submit to this interrogation within twenty-four hours of theirarrival at the Dépôt. 

Jérôme Fandor had given his name at once, and, in order to prove thetruth of his statements, he had asked that Monsieur Fuselier should besent for, so that the magistrate might vouch for his identity and say aword in his favour. 

Monsieur Fuselier had hastened to the Dépôt, had taken Fandor to hisoffice, and had anxiously questioned him. Why, he asked, had the policebeen obliged to arrest him for drunkenness in the open thoroughfare?

When Fandor had concluded his statement, the magistrate exclaimed:

"Your ruse is inconceivable!. . . I must compliment you highly on yourability and your detective gifts!"

"I wish I could agree with you, " replied Fandor in a depressed tone. "Inspite of everything, I have not got into communication with Jules. But, Monsieur Fuselier, have you interrogated him yet?"

The magistrate shook his head. 

"Alas, my poor friend, you have no idea of the extraordinary events ofthe past night; evidently, notwithstanding the fact that you played apassive part in them!"

"I played a part?. . . Extraordinary events?. . . What the deuce do youmean?"

"I mean, dear Fandor, that all Paris is laughing over it. The policehave been tricked! You have been tricked! Did you not tell me, just now, that your prison van had had an accident? Do you know what reallyhappened?"

"I ask you to tell me. "

"Your vehicle was run into by a motor-car. The driver was extremelyclumsy . . . Or very capable!"

"What's that?" Fandor leaned forward, keen as a pointer on the scent. 

"It was like this, " replied Monsieur Fuselier. "Your Salad Basket wasvery badly knocked about by the collision. The driver could not possiblyrepair it single-handed. He telephoned to Headquarters. Help was sent atonce, and he had orders to drive to the Dépôt as soon as he could: hewas not to trouble about the boulevard Exelmans station; that, for once, could be cleared the following morning. Unfortunately the telephonemessages and replies had taken up a certain amount of time. When theytelephoned to the boulevard Exelmans station, from Headquarters, to warnthem not to expect the injured Salad Basket, the Dépôt man who wastelephoning was extremely surprised to hear that the Salad Basket hadalready passed on to the Auteuil station and had taken away the arrestedindividuals there, notably this famous Jules!. . . "

"I never calculated on this!" cried Fandor. 

"The truth is, my dear fellow, that Salad Basket of yours was notknocked out of action by an unlucky accident--the knock-out wasintentional--was carefully planned! It was done to stop your van fromreaching the Auteuil station!. . . While your Basket was being repaired, another Basket appeared at the Auteuil clearing station! This, if youplease, had been stolen! It was standing before the Palais de Justice. Two accomplices took possession of it and drove away. The daring rascalswere suitably disguised, of course! They produced false papers atAuteuil, got them endorsed, went through the regular forms, and carriedoff the men from the detention cells, under the very nose and eyes ofthe superintendent himself!"

"What became of the stolen Basket?" snapped Fandor. 

"It was found at dawn near the fortifications, and, need I say--empty!"

"So that Jules has escaped?"

"As you say!. . . "

"And the car which intentionally knocked my Salad Basket out ofaction--whose was it?"

Monsieur Fuselier smiled. 

"Oh, it's a queer affair, in fact, it may lead to the wind-up of all theDollon business--we may now get to the bottom of that series ofcrimes!. . . You will never guess who is the owner of that car, Fandor?. . . "

"No, I am no good at guessing riddles just now . . . Besides, I hatethem!" Fandor was nettled, exasperated!

"We got the number of the car from a witness of the smash-up; and wehave verified its correctness. Well, my dear fellow, the owner of thatcar is--Thomery!"

"Thomery!" gasped Fandor. 

"Yes. I have summoned him to appear before me--the summons has just beenissued. Between you and me, I think Thomery is guilty. When he appearshere, in, say an hour from now, I shall issue a writ of arrest againstthis sugar refiner financier, and we don't know what else!"

But, no sooner had Monsieur Fuselier finished his statement--a statementwhich he fully expected would strike his young reporter friend dumb withamazement--than Fandor threw himself back in his chair and roared withlaughter. 

The magistrate was taken aback!. . . 

"But . . . What the devil do you find to laugh at in that?"

Fandor had already checked his hilarity. 

"Oh, it's nothing! Only, Fuselier, I ask myself, if really and truly, Monsieur Thomery, who is a very big fellow solidly built, has been ableto discover a dodge, by means of which he can leave Jacques Dollon'simprints here, there and everywhere!"

"But he does not leave Jacques Dollon's imprints, because Dollon isliving, because he came to see his sister--why, you admitted thatyourself!"

"Why, of course! It's true!. . . Jacques Dollon is alive. . . . I hadforgotten. . . . Thomery can only be his accomplice then!" declared Fandor. And as Monsieur Fuselier stared at him, astonished at the way he hadreceived the sensational news of the night, Fandor rose to take hisleave. 

"My dear Fuselier, will you allow me to express my opinion?. . . "

Monsieur Fuselier nodded. 

"Well, I am sure, that with regard to this affair, there are moresurprises in store for us: you have not got the answer to theriddle--not yet!"

With that, Fandor smiled and bowed, and left the magistrate's room. Hequitted the Palais, half-smiling, half-serious. . . . What was he going todo next?

XXII

AN EXECUTION

"Not much water about, is there?"

"That's so, old 'un. . . . If I'd known, it's boats I'd have taken to!"

"Bah! Your shoes are big enough. That's not saying it's weather for aChristian to be out in!"

"Don't you grumble, old 'un! The more it comes down cats and dogs, thefewer stumps will be stirring out doors!. . . But a comrade or two will beon the prowl, eh?"

"Right-o, old bird!. . . Keep a lookout!. . . Sure he'll come this way?"

"You bet your nut he will!. . . He got my bit of a scrawl thismorning. . . . "

"What then?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Folks coming!"

 * * * * *

The night was inky black. Rain fell with sudden violence, threshed anddriven by icy gusts of wind. The hour was late: the rue Raffet desertedsave for the two men who had ventured out into the tempestuous darkness. They advanced with difficulty, side by side, speaking low. Roughcustomers to deal with. Their faces were emaciated from excessivedrinking: their eyes gleamed, their voices were hoarse: a brutal pair!But their movements were souple and lively: they walked with thatungainly swagger affected by the light-fingered gentry and the criminalsof the underworld of Paris. 

"And what did you say in your scrawl?"

"Oh, medlars! Take-ins! You know!. . . I didn't put my fist to it, though!"

"Who then?"

"You ask that?"

"I'm no wizard! If it wasn't your fist, whose then?"

"My woman. . . . "

"Ernestine?"

"Yes. Ernestine. "

They struggled on through the squally darkness. Then one of the twobroke the silence. 

"You're not jealous, Beadle, making your girl write letters to suchfolk?"

That sinister hooligan, the Beadle, burst out laughing. 

"Jealous? Me? Jealous of Ernestine? You make me laugh, you really do, old Beard!"

But Beard did not share his companion's mirth. He leaned against apalisade to take breath, while a little sheltered from the fierceonslaughts of the wind. 

"I tell you what, " he said in a gruff and threatening voice: "I don'tlike such dodges--like those of this evening. . . . "

"Why so, monsieur?"

"Why, because, after all, it's a comrade!"

"But he's betrayed--a traitor he is!"

"What do we know about it?"

The Beadle nodded; reflected. 

"What does anyone know about it?" he said at last. . . . 

"Why, when the comrades told us, weren't they surprised, one and all?Nibet, Toulouche, even Mimile--they didn't hesitate, not one of them!. . . Well then, old 'un, as all the pals were of one mind, why hesitate?What's the use of discussing!. . . But, between you and me, I don't relishit either--it bothers me to go for a pal!. . . "

Just then the tempest redoubled its fury: it seemed to the cowering menas though all the devils of the storm were galloping down the wind. Somewhere there was a moon, for scurrying clouds were dancing a witches'saraband across a faintly clearer sky. The unseen moon was mastering theobscurity of this midnight hour. 

By now, the two sinister beings were nearing the rue du Docteur-Blanche. They were passing a garden, in which tall poplars, caught by the squall, took fantastic shapes: they were nightmare trees, terrifyingly strange. 

"No more to be said, " remarked the Beadle. "The scene is set!. . . Whereis the meeting place?"

"A hundred yards from there--a little before the corner of the boulevardMontmorency. . . . "

"Good! And the trap?"

"It waits for us a little further off. "

"Who's aboard it?"

"Mimile. "

"That's good. "

The two men were now half-way along rue Raffet. The watch had begun. Gripped by the cold they waited in silence. . . . The minutes passedslowly, slowly, in the deserted street . . . The Beard put his hand on theBeadle's shoulder. . . . A vague sound could be heard in the distance: thesteps could be distinguished; some pedestrian was coming up the rueRaffet in their direction. 

"It is he!" whispered the Beadle. 

"It is he!" affirmed the Beard. "He's not oversteady on his feet!"

"Perhaps he's ill shod!"

The two spoke low and in a jesting tone: it relieved the painful tensionof the moment--a comrade was marching to meet his death, and theirs thehands to deal that death--but not yet: it was a reaction against theirsense of the looming tragedy of this dark hour!

Now a man's advancing figure could be discerned. He came nearer. He wasplainly, by the cut of his garments, an indoor servant. The collar ofhis coat was turned up: he had his hands in his pockets: he walked fast. 

"Hey! You down there! The gang!" cried the Beard, hailing the oncomingfigure. 

"Ah, it's you?"

"Yes, it's me, comrade. "

"And you too, Beadle?"

"As you say. . . . "

"What do you want of me? Since my arrest and escape from the SaladBasket, I'm not anxious to stroll about this neighbourhood--out withit!"

The Beard said in a joking tone:

"You don't suspect, then? Speak out, Jules!. . . "

Jules--for it was indeed he--shook his head. 

"My word, I have no idea what you want!. . . Who wrote to me this morning?Ernestine?"

Neither the Beadle nor Beard replied. 

The three men stood talking in the deserted street, bending their headsand backs under the rain, which was now pouring harder than ever. 

"Come on then! Make haste!" said Jules. "Come now, tell me what's thepoint--what's up--spit it out, comrades!. . . I don't want to be soaked tothe skin, you know!"

The Beadle forced the pace: he lifted his great hairy sinewy hand, brought it down heavily on Jules' shoulder, and in a changed voice, harsh, rough, imperative, he commanded:

"You must follow us!" Already he had his man fast. The unsuspiciousJules did not grasp the situation in the least. 

"Follow you?" he asked. "As to that, certainly not!. . . No more walkingfor me in such weather. Wait for a sunny day, say I!. . . But whatever isthe matter with you--eh?. . . What?. . . Why are you sticking out your jawsat me like this? Out with it, my lambs!. . . Where am I to follow you?. . . You won't say, Messieurs Beadle and Beard?

"You won't say?. . . "

Beard moved a step and got behind Jules unnoticed. He repeated in thesame tone, harsh, threatening:

"You've got to follow us, I tell you!"

Instinctively Jules tried to turn round. The Beadle's strong grip kepthim motionless. Then he understood. He was afraid. 

"What's come to you?" he cried in a trembling voice. 

The Beadle cut him short. 

"Enough! Will you follow us? Yes or no?"

Jules was going to say "no!" but he had not the time! Quick as lightningthe Beadle flung a long scarf round his neck, stuck his knee into hisvictim's back, and pulled!

Jules uttered a faint groan; but, half stifled, nearly strangled, he hadnot the strength to attempt the slightest self-defence. 

Directly he was flung backwards on the ground, where he measured hislength and lay nearly stunned, Beard jumped on him, knelt on his chest, and pinioned him. Jules lay motionless. 

The Beard now began tying up the legs of their victim. 

"Pass me a scarf!"

"There it is, old 'un!"

"Very good, I am going to apply a 'Be Discreet. '"

The "Be Discreet" of the Beard was a gag, which he rolled round theservant's head in expert fashion. 

"Feet firm?" asked the Beard. 

"Oh, jolly fine!" said the Beadle. He turned his man over as though hewere a bale of goods. Now he tied his victim's hands behind his back. 

"Is it far to go to the jaunting car?"

"No--for two sous, that's it!"

A motor-car was indeed coming slowly and noiselessly along rue Raffet:it was a sumptuous car!

"And if it is not he?"

"Stick him up against the bank . . . Dark as it is, there's every chancehe won't be seen. "

Rapidly, the doughty two stuck Jules against the bank at the side of theroad: the unfortunate creature had fainted. Then they took out theircigarettes, and going a few steps away, they pretended to be shelteringthemselves in order to strike a light. 

They need not have taken this precaution. 

The car stopped in front of them. The familiar voice of Mimile washeard:

"Got the rabbit then?"

"Yes, old 'un!"

"Pitch it into the balloon then!"

"The balloon?" questioned the Beadle. "Whatever's that?"

Emilet laughed. 

"At times, my brothers, your ignorance, mechanically speaking, iscrass!. . . The balloon is the back part of my car, I'd have you know. "

The Beard sniggered. 

"Good!. . . Pick it up! Now, Beadle!"

The two seized the body of Jules by shoulders and feet, and flung itbrutally into the limousine. 

A rug, negligently flung over the body of the trussed Jules, hid himfrom observation. 

"Now we'll embark, " announced Emilet. 

As a precaution, the young hooligan asked:

"The bloke snores?"

"Yes, " replied the Beadle. "He is travelling in No Nightmare Land. . . . "The Beadle laughed. 

But Emilet was alarmed. 

"You haven't snuffed him out, have you?"

"No danger of it! He's only shamming!"

"Off, then!" said Emilet. 

They rolled away at top speed. 

 * * * * *

The bandits' lair had been well chosen by their chiefs. It was a vastcellar, with a vaulted roof, and earthen walls bedewed with an icyhumidity. Axes, mattocks, shovels, rakes, and watering cans layscattered on the ground: these were worn out tools: they had not servedtheir purpose for many a day. 

The lantern, a kind of cresset protected by a wire globe, was suspendedfrom the roof by a string. It shed a faint and wavering light, creatingweird shadows in that far-stretching space, too vast for theinsufficient illumination. 

Directly beneath the cresset lantern, inside the circle of light itthrew upon the ground, a fantastic group of human creatures pressedclose to one another, drinking, shouting, chattering, singing. 

A clean-shaven man, whose suspicious little eyes were perpetuallyblinking, turned to a young woman. 

"Look here, Ernestine, my beauty, are you certain the Beadle understoodthat we should be waiting for him here?"

Big Ernestine, who was crouching on the ground and warming her hands ata wood fire, throwing up clouds of smoke, shrugged her shoulders. 

"Stop it, do! You say things over and over again, like a clock, Nibet!. . . Since I've told you _yes_--_yes_ it is--there now, and behanged to you!. . . You don't by chance fancy the Beadle has been made amouthful of, do you?"

Roars of laughter greeted this. Nibet was not one of the inner circle;he was not much of a favourite in the band of Numbers. It is true thatthey reckoned him a comrade, useful, faithful, that they felt safe withhim; but they bore him a grudge because of his regular employment, because of his position, because he was an official. . . . And, first andlast, his warder's uniform impressed the jail birds unpleasantly. 

But Nibet was not the man to allow himself to be intimidated. 

"All the same, " said he, "I ask where the three of them have got to?. . . If they know the mushroom bed, they should have been back long ago!" Heshouted to an old woman. 

"Eh, Toulouche, tell us the time!"

But Mother Toulouche shook her head. 

"I haven't a watch!"

There was a murmur of protestation. The seven or eight hooligansassembled there awaiting the return of the Beard and the Beadle, sentwith Emilet to kidnap Jules, could not believe that. Mother Toulouchehad told the truth. 

The Sailor caught the old woman by the shoulders and shook her, and wenton shaking her. 

"Liar! Aren't you ashamed to be in a funk with us?. . . Ever since thisblessed Mother Toulouche has sold winkles and many other things, eversince she began to make a little purse for herself, which must be a bigpurse by now, a purse everyone here has sweated to fill to the brim, shehas always distrusted us!. . . You say you haven't a watch! I tell you, you've got dozens of 'em!. . . "

Big Ernestine interrupted. 

"It's a half-hour over the hour agreed. . . . "

A shudder ran through the assembly: Nibet, finger on lip, made a signthat they were to listen. 

Then, in the mushroom bed, no longer in use, which the band of Numbershad recently adopted as their meeting place, a profound silence fell. . . . 

"There they are!" said Nibet. 

Big Ernestine leaped up, left the fire, advanced to the far end of thecellar, and imitated the cry of a screech owl to perfection. There was asimilar cry in response. 

"It's all right. They're here!" she said. She returned to the fire andsat down. But Nibet seized the girl and forced her to get up again. 

"Go along with you! Quick march!" he said roughly. 

She protested. Nibet stopped her. 

"Oh, we can't stand listening to you!. . . Ho there, Sailor!. . . Comehere!. . . Sit down on this plank! You, the Beadle, and me--we're to bethe judges. . . . Beard makes the accusation: and, if her heart tells herto, Ernestine will defend him. "

"I'd rather spit at the tell-tale!. . . You can tear him to bits as far asI'm concerned!" cried the girl. "There's nothing disgusts me so much asa tell-tale!"

The hooligans crowded round big Ernestine. They applauded herironically; for they all knew that, once upon a time, she had beenstrongly suspected of having dealings with, what they called, "The dirtylot at the Bobby's Nest. "

 * * * * *

Silence fell once more. They could hear the rasp of the rope unrollingfrom a hand windlass attached to an enormous bucket. This was theprimitive lift. 

Moments passed. The hooligans had formed a circle beneath the black holewhere the bucket moved up and down. 

"It goes, old Beard?" questioned Nibet, gazing upwards. 

"It goes, old bloke!"

"Brought the game?"

"That's what we're sending down now!. . . "

"That's a bit of all right!"

Sailor now seized the trussed Jules from the bucket and flung him on theground. 

"Damaged goods, that--eh?" he laughed evilly. 

The Beadle, Beard, and Emilet were coming down in turn. The group belowbent curiously over the prisoner. 

"He's soft--that sort is!" cried Ernestine. And tapping him on the facewith her foot, big Ernestine tried to make Jules show signs of life. Beard dropped out of the bucket and stopped the game. 

"Let's see, Ernestine?. . . Stop it now!"

After gripping the hand of each comrade in turn, after hugging a bottleand draining it in a long draught, emptying it to the dregs, Beard flungit aside. 

"Let's get to work--no time to waste!. . . If we finish him off, we'llhave to get rid of him before morning!"

Sailor lifted Jules with the aid of two comrades. They propped himagainst a massive pillar of wood which supported the cellar roof. Theybound their wretched victim to it with strong cords. 

Meanwhile, Ernestine was unwinding the gag. 

"Take your places on the tribunal!" commanded Nibet. 

"And you others, a glass of pick-me-up for the fellow!"

The pick-me-up intended to restore Jules to consciousness was brought byMother Toulouche, under the form of a large earthen pot full of coldwater. She dashed the water in the prisoner's face. 

Jules slowly opened his eyes and regained his wits, amidst an ominoussilence. The band watched his return to life with evil smiles: theyquietly watched his pallid face turn a livid green with terror. 

The wretched creature could not utter a syllable. He stared wildly atthose about him, his friends of yesterday, at those seated on the mockjudgment bench who, crouching forward, were observing him with sardonicsmiles. 

Nibet put a question. 

"You hear and understand us, Jules?"

"Pity!" howled the victim. 

Nibet was indifferent to the cry. 

"He understands!. . . For my part, I am all for keeping to a properprocedure. . . . I would not have agreed to sit in judgment on him if hehad been unable to defend himself. . . . We don't act that way down here!"

Turning to his acolytes for signs of their approval, he continued:

"Beard! The word is with you! Let us hear why he has been brought up tojudgment!. . . Tell us what he is accused of!. . . Bring up all there isagainst him!"

Beard, who was marching up and down between the hooligan tribunal andthe accused, who was half dead, and incapable of making a rationalstatement, stopped, squared himself with an air of satisfaction, andbegan his speech for the prosecution. 

"Jules, has anyone ever done you any harm here?. . . Has anyone playedcowardly tricks on you?. . . Set traps to catch you in?. . . Have you everbeen cheated out of your fair share of the spoil?. . . Is there anythingyou can bring up against us?. . . No?. . . Well, here's what we have againstyou . . . It's not worth while lying about it either!. . . You are the onewho has taken the wind out of our sails over the Danidoff affair . . . Doyou confess that?"

In a voice barely intelligible Jules gasped out:

"Beard . . . I don't understand you!. . . I have done nothing--nothing. . . . What have you against me?. . . "

Beard took his time. 

Planted before the prisoner, with hip stuck out and hand in pocket, theother hand raised in tragic invocation towards his comrades:

"You have heard?. . . Monsieur does not understand!. . . He has not thepluck to be open and aboveboard!"

Turning again to the wretched captive, he continued:

"Well, I'm going to explain . . . It was you, wasn't it, who had to putthrough the robbery of the lady's jewels?. . . Well, do you know what youdid? Do you want me to tell you?. . . Instead of lending us a hand as waspromised and sworn, you kept the cake for yourself!. . . In other words, you, and some of your sort, serving at the ball, put your headstogether, and shut up the lady in the room they found her in; and thatway, you got out of sharing with us!. . . So we have been done in the eyeover that deal!. . . The proof that you have comrades we know nothingabout is, that yesterday when you were done in, they found a way to getyou out of the Salad Basket!. . . It wasn't us!. . . But to return to theDanidoff robbery . . . Oh, you must have laughed then!. . . But everyone hashis turn . . . You are going to laugh on the wrong side of your mouthnow!. . . Do you know what they call it--what you've done--dared to do?"

In the same strangled voice, Jules managed to get out the words:

"But it's not true!. . . I swear to you . . . "

Beard did not listen. 

"There's not one of our lot who would give me the lie!. . . To behave likethat is treachery!. . . You have betrayed the Numbers. There it is in anutshell!. . . What have you to reply to that?"

For the third time, Jules repeated in a hoarse whisper, for he felt lifewas gradually leaving him: an awful fear gripped him, he saw he wascompletely done for. 

"I swear I did not do that!. . . I didn't rob the princess. . . . I don'teven know who did!"

Jules was, perhaps, speaking the truth, but he took the worst way todefend himself. . . . If he had had pluck and wit enough to take theBeard's accusation with a high hand, if he had met threats with violentdenial and assertion, it is quite possible he might have made animpression in his favour; but he cried for pity and for mercy from menwho were pitiless!

He was afraid!. . . His fear was shown by the convulsive trembling whichagitated his wretched body, by his ghastly pallor, by the cold drops ofsweat rolling down his forehead. . . . He was no longer a man: it was alamentable bit of human wreckage the hooligans had before them!. . . Andthe more lamentable this wreck showed itself to be, the less worthy oftheir interest it seemed!

When Jules gasped out once again:

"I swear to you it was not I! No!. . . I did not do it!"

The hooligans, moved by a common impulse, rose, indignant, furious, madwith rage. 

"That's a good one, that is!" yelled Nibet, who, beside himself withrage, suddenly forgot his avowed respect for judicial forms. 

"Since he is determined to tell lies, and hasn't the pluck to say whathe's done, there's only one thing for us to do, and that's to stop hismouth up!. . . Ernestine, put the plug back!"

And as the girl once more rolled the scarf round and round the head ofthe miserable Jules, Nibet turned to his comrades. 

"Now then? One hasn't any need to waste more time over it!. . . We knowall the story--not so?. . . It's settled, I tell you!. . . A fellow who hasdone what he has done, what does he deserve?. . . You answer first, Mother Toulouche, since you are the oldest?. . . "

Mother Toulouche stretched out a trembling hand, as though calling onHeaven to witness an oath. 

"I, " said the old woman, with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I don'thesitate!. . . Comrades who flinch, sneaks who betray, get rid of them, say I!. . . I condemn him to death!. . . "

The old woman's sentence was greeted with loud applause. 

Nibet resumed. 

"It is said!. . . It is unanimous!. . . Make a quick finish, my lads!. . . Since each has been injured, let each take his revenge! I say: Death bythe hammer!"

In that smoke-thickened air rose a chorus of hate and of vengeance. 

"Death by the hammer! Death by the hammer!"

 * * * * *

In that noisome lair of the bandits a horrible scene ensued. 

Mother Toulouche went groping in a dark corner. She searched for, andfound, a blacksmith's hammer. She lifted it with trembling hands, andplanting herself in front of the victim, more dead than alive, she saidin a menacing voice:

"You did harm to the Numbers! You wronged them! Here goes for thatthen!"

The hammer described a quarter of a circle in the air and descended in asmashing blow on the wretched victim's face!

The awful punishment had begun!

According to age, one after another, the hooligans passed on the hammer, and, in a blind passion of hate, beat followed beat on the agonisingbody of Jules!

At last the terrible agony was over and done! The passion of hate, thelust for revenge had burnt themselves out. Jules had expiated the crimethey had imputed to him!

The band were the victims of a paralysing fatigue. Emilet flung theblood-stained hammer into a far corner of their den. 

"Well done!" said he. "He has paid the price!"

Emilet's eyes fell on Nibet. He was leaning against the wall, and, withfolded arms, was watching the scene in which he had taken no part. Walking up to the warder, Emilet demanded:

"Ho! Ho! You backed out of it, did you, my boy?. . . You didn't have athrow, did you?. . . No?. . . "

Nibet grinned sardonically. 

"Don't talk rubbish, Emilet!. . . If I have stood aside, I had my reasonsfor doing so. . . . We haven't done with Jules yet!. . . Not by a longchalk!. . . Now that he's been killed, he's got to be got rid of--isn'tthat true?. . . Look at yourselves, my lambs! You are covered with red!. . . It will take you all of an hour to make yourselves presentable!. . . Now, look at me! I'm neat and clean . . . And I have a plan . . . A famous planto rid us of that corpse there! Now, just you stir your stumps, Emilet!. . . I am going off to make preparations!. . . I'll give you tenminutes to make yourself fit to be seen . . . It's we two are to be theundertakers; and I swear to you, that we will give them no end oftrouble to the curiosity mongers at Police Headquarters!"

XXIII

FROM VAUGIRARD TO MONTMARTRE

On the boulevard du Palais, Jérôme Fandor looked at his watch: it washalf an hour after noon. 

"The hour for copy! Courage! I will go to _La Capitale_. "

Scarcely had he put foot in the large hall when the editorial secretarycalled:

"There you are, Fandor!. . . At last!. . . That's a good thing!. . . Whateverhave you been up to since yesterday evening? I got them to telephone toyou twice, but they could not get on to you, try as they might. My dearfellow, you really mustn't absent yourself without giving us warning. "

Fandor looked jovial: certainly not repentant. 

"Oh, say at once that I've been in the country!. . . But seriously, whatdid you want me for? Is there anything new?. . . "

"A most mysterious scandal!. . . "

"Another?"

"Yes. You know Thomery, the sugar refiner?"

"Yes, I know him!"

"Well--he has disappeared!. . . No one knows where he is!"

Fandor took the news stolidly. 

"You don't astonish me: you must be prepared for anything from thosesort of people!. . . "

It was the turn of the secretary to be surprised at Fandor's calmness. 

"But, old man, I am telling you of a disappearance which is causing anyamount of talk in Paris!. . . You don't seem to grasp the situation!Surely you know that Thomery represents one of the biggest fortunesknown?"

"I know he is worth a lot. "

"His flight will bring ruin to many. "

"Others will probably be enriched by it!"

"Probably. That is not our concern. What we are after are details abouthis disappearance. You are free to-day, are you not? Will you take theaffair in hand then? I would put off the appearance of the paper forhalf an hour rather than not have details to report which would throwsome light on this extraordinary affair. "

Then, as Fandor did not show the slightest intention of going in searchof material for a Thomery article, the secretary laughed. 

"Why don't you start on the trail, Fandor?. . . My word, I don't recognisea Fandor who is not off like a zigzag of lightning on such a reportingjob as this!. . . We want illuminating details, my dear man!"

"You think I haven't got any, then?. . . Be easy: this evening's issue of_La Capitale_ will have all the details you could desire on thevanishing of Thomery. "

Thereupon, Fandor turned on his heel without further explanation, andwent towards one of his colleagues, who went by the title of "Financierof the paper. " The Financier had an official manner, and had an officeof his own, the walls of which were carefully padded, for Marville--thatwas his name--frequently received visits from important personages. 

Fandor began questioning him on the subject of Thomery's disappearance. 

"Tell me, my dear fellow, what is happening in the financial world, nowthat Thomery has disappeared. "

"What do you mean?"

"Where is the money going--all the coppers?"

"The coppers?"

"Why, yes! I fancy that when an old fellow like that does the vanishingtrick, there are terrible results on the Bourse? Will you be kindenough to explain what does happen in such a case?"

Very much flattered by Fandor's request, Marville cried:

"But, my boy, you are asking for nothing less than a course of politicaleconomy--but I cannot do that--on the spur of the moment!. . . Stateprecisely what you want to know. "

"What I want to know is just this: Who loses money through Thomery'sdisappearance?"

The Financier raised his hands to Heaven. 

"But everybody! Everybody!. . . Thomery was a daring fellow: without himhis business is nothing!. . . There was a big failure on the marketto-day. "

"Good, but who gains by it?"

"How, who gains by it?"

"Yes. I presume Thomery's disappearance must be profitable to someone?Can you think of any people to whose interest it would be that this oldfellow should disappear?"

The Financier reflected. 

"Those who gain money by the disappearance of Thomery--only thespeculators, I should say. Suppose now that a Monsieur Tartempion hadbought Thomery shares at ninety francs. To-day these shares would not beworth more than seventy francs: Tartempion loses money. But let ussuppose some financier speculates on the probable fall of Thomeryshares, and has sold to clients speculating on the rise of these shares;these shares to be delivered in a fortnight, at a price of ninetyfrancs. If Thomery was still there, his shares would be worth, possibly, the ninety francs, possibly more. In the first case, the financier'sdeal would amount to nothing: in the second case, his deal would be adeplorable one, because he would be obliged to deliver at an inferiorprice, and would be responsible for the difference. . . . "

"Whilst Thomery dead . . . "

"Dead--no! But simply in flight, his shares fall to nothing, and thissame financier may buy at sixty francs which he must deliver at ninetyfrancs in fifteen days. In that case he has done excellent business. "

"Excellent, certainly . . . And . . . Tell me, my dear Marville, do you knowif there has been any such deal in Thomery shares on a large scale?"

"Ah! You ask me more than I can tell you now . . . But that would be knownat the Bourse. "

No doubt Jérôme Fandor was going to continue his interrogation, butthere was a great disturbance in the editorial room near by. They wereshouting:

"Fandor! Fandor!"

The editorial secretary entered the Financier's room, and, catchingsight of Fandor, he cried:

"What's the meaning of this? What are you up to here? I told you thisThomery affair was important. . . . Be off for the news as quick as youcan. . . . Here is the _Havas_. It seems they have just found Thomery'sbody in a little apartment in the rue Lecourbe. "

Fandor forced himself to appear very interested. 

"Already! The police have been quick!. . . I also had an idea that thatThomery had more than simply disappeared!"

"You had that idea?" asked the startled secretary. 

"Yes, my dear fellow, I had--absolutely!"

After a silence, Fandor added:

"All the same, I am going out to get news. In half an hour's time, Iwill telephone details of the death. Does the _Havas_ say whether it isa crime or a suicide?"

"No. Evidently the police know nothing. "

 * * * * *

"Monsieur Havard, I am delighted to meet you!. . . Surely now, you willnot refuse me a little interview?"

"Not I, my dear Fandor! I know only too well that you would not take'no' for an answer. "

"And you are right. I beg of you to give me some details, not as regardsThomery's death, for I have already made my little investigationtouching that; but as to how the police managed to find the poor man'sbody. "

"In the easiest way in the world. Monsieur Thomery's servants were verymuch astonished yesterday morning, when they could not find their masterin the house. 

"After eleven, Thomery's absence from the Bourse gave rise todisquieting rumors. He had some big deals to put through, therefore hisabsence could only be accounted for in one way--he had had an accidentof some sort. 

"Naturally enough, they warned Headquarters, and at once I suspectedthere might be a little scandal of some sort. . . . You guess that Iimmediately went myself to Thomery's house?. . . I examined his papers;and I found by chance three receipts for the rent of a flat, in the nameof Monsieur Durand, rue Lecourbe. One of them was of recent date. I, ofcourse, sent one of my men to ascertain who lived there! This manlearned from the portress that there was a new tenant there, who had notyet moved in with his furniture; but who, the evening before, hadbrought in a heavy trunk. . . . My man went up to this flat, and had thedoor opened. You know under what conditions he found Thomery's deadbody. "

"And you did not find indications which went to show why MonsieurThomery committed suicide?"

"Committed suicide?. . . When a financier disappears, my Fandor, one isalways tempted to cry 'suicide'; but, this time, I confess to you that Ido not think it was anything of the kind!. . . "

"Because?"

"Because"--and Monsieur Havard bent his head. "Well, when I reached thescene of the crime I immediately thought that we were not face to facewith a suicide. A man who wishes to kill himself, and to kill himselfbecause of money affairs, a man like Thomery, does not feel thenecessity of committing suicide in a little flat rented under a falsename, and in front of a trunk, which you know, do you not, belonged toMademoiselle Dollon! One might swear that everything was arrangedexpressly to make anyone believe that Thomery had strangled himself, after having stolen the trunk, for some unknown reason!"

"You did not find any kind of clue?"

"Yes, indeed! And you know it as well as I do, for I have no doubt theextraordinary event has been the gossip of the neighbourhood. On thecover of the trunk we have once again found an imprint, a very clearimpression--the famous imprint of Jacques Dollon!. . . "

"And you found nothing else?"

"Yes, in the dust on the floor, we found the marks of steps, numerousfoot marks: we have made tracings of them. "

"My steps, evidently, " thought Fandor. But what he said was:

"What, in short, is your view of the general position, Monsieur Havard?"

"I am very much bothered about it. For my part, I think we are onceagain faced by another of Jacques Dollon's crimes. This wretch, afterhaving attempted to assassinate his sister, has learned that we weregoing to search mademoiselle's room. He then made arrangements to stealthis trunk, by pretending to be a police inspector, as you know; then hebrought the trunk to this flat, examined its contents thoroughly, andhaving some special interest in the sugar refiner's death, he managed toget him to come to the flat, and there assassinated him, leaving hisdead body in front of this trunk, where it was bound to be seen; allthis he did in order to tangle the traces and perplex those on histrack. . . . "

"But how do you explain the fact of Jacques Dollon being so simple as toleave the imprints of his hand everywhere?. . . Deuce take it, thisindividual is at liberty: he reads the papers. . . . He knows that MonsieurBertillon is tracing him!. . . So great a criminal would certainly be onhis guard!"

"Of course! Such a successful criminal as Dollon has shown himself tobe, must have resources at his disposal, which allow him to laugh at thepolice. He does not trouble to cover his tracks; it is enough for himthat he should escape us. "

As Fandor could not suppress a smile, the chief of the detective forceadded:

"Oh, we shall finish by arresting Dollon, have no fear! So far he hasquite extraordinary luck in his favour, but the luck will turn, and weshall put our hand on his collar!"

"I certainly hope you may. But what are you going to do now?"

The two had stopped on the edge of the pavement, and were talkingwithout paying any attention to the passers-by who rubbed shoulders withthem. The well-known journalist and the important police official wereunrecognised. 

Monsieur Havard took Fandor's arm. 

"Look here, come along with me, Fandor? Just the time to telephone to apolice station, and then I will take you with me to make a freshinvestigation. "

"Where!"

"At Jacques Dollon's studio. I have kept the key of the house, and Iwish to see whether I can find any other rent receipts made out in thename of Durand. Though I can see how Dollon inveigled Dollon into atrap, I do not understand how it came about that Thomery paid the rentof that trap. There is some subtle contrivance of Dollon's here; I wantto get to the bottom of it. . . . Will you come to rue Norvins?"

"I jolly well will!" cried Fandor. 

The chief of the detective force telephoned to Headquarters, whilstFandor got into communication with _La Capitale_. He sent on a report ofthe Thomery case up to that moment. 

Quitting the police station, the two men hailed a cab, and were drivento the rue Norvins. 

 * * * * *

As far as they could tell, the artist's house had not been entered sinceElizabeth Dollon's departure. 

The neglected garden, with its rank growth of grass and weeds, gave anadded air of melancholy to the deserted house. 

Monsieur Havard put the key in the lock of the front door. 

"Don't you think, Fandor, it gives one a queer feeling to enter a housewhere an unaccountable crime has been committed?" The key grated in thelock, and Monsieur Havard added:

"In spite of oneself, there is the feeling that some terrifying spectreis lurking within!"

"Or a ghost!" said Fandor. 

And as the door was unlocked and opened, our journalist asked:

"Where shall we start this domiciliary visit?"

"Let us begin with the studio, " replied Monsieur Havard, mounting to thefirst story. 

No sooner had they entered the room, than a double cry escaped from thetwo men. 

"Oh!. . . "

"Great Heaven!. . . "

In the very middle of the studio, there was the rigid body of a manhanging. 

They rushed forward. . . . 

"Dead!" was Monsieur Havard's cry. 

"Horribly dead!" echoed Fandor. 

"Shall we never lay hands on those wretches?" Monsieur Havard stared, horrified, at the hanging corpse. He brought a chair, grasped the strongsharp knife he always carried about him, and, aided by Fandor, he cutthe rope, laid the hanged man flat on the floor, and proceeded toexamine the miserable remnant of a human being. 

The face was swollen, gashed, crushed. . . . 

"The hands have been dipped in vitriol--they did not want finger printstaken--it is--it is Jacques Dollon!"

Fandor shook his head. 

"Jacques Dollon? Of course, it isn't!. . . If it were Dollon, he would nothang himself here. . . . Why should he hang himself?"

Monsieur Havard remarked:

"He has not hanged himself. Again the stage has been set!. . . I couldswear the man had been killed by blows from a hammer and hangedafterwards!. . . It seems to me, that if death had been caused throughstrangulation, there would have been marks round the neck. . . . But see, Fandor, the rope has hardly made a mark. "

"No, the man was dead when they strung him up. "

"It is of secondary importance!" remarked Fandor, who was preoccupied. 

"You are mistaken: it matters a great deal! It decidedly looks as ifDollon had accomplices, who wished to be rid of him. "

Fandor shook his head. 

"It is not Dollon! It cannot be Dollon!"

"Look at the vitriolised hands--that was a precaution. "

"I say, as you did just now: it's like a set piece--a bit of slagassassins' stage craft. "

"I say, in Dollon's house, we have found Dollon at home!"

Fandor was not convinced. He felt certain Dollon had lied in the Dépôt. 

"Well, Elizabeth Dollon can settle the question for us. There may besome physical peculiarity, some mark by which she can identify herbrother's body!"

But Fandor was examining the body very carefully. Suddenly he rose fromhis stooping posture, exclaiming:

"I know who it is!"

"Who?"

"Jules! None other than Madame Bourrat's servant, Jules!. . . That is tosay, an accomplice whom the bandits we are after wanted to be rid of. Hemight give them away when brought up for examination. That was why theymanaged his escape: they killed him afterwards, because he had servedtheir turn, and was now an encumbrance. "

"Your explanation is plausible, Fandor; but how about the truth of it?"

"This proves the truth of it!" cried Fandor, pointing to a cicatrice onthe back of the neck of the murdered man: it was the clear mark of wherean abscess had been. 

"I am certain I noticed a similar mark on the neck of Jules. He sat infront of me the other day, and I particularly noticed this mark. Thedead man is Jules. I am certain it is Jules!"

Monsieur Havard was silent. Presently he said:

"If it is Jules . . . It must be admitted that we are no further forward!"

Fandor was about to utter a protest, when there was a knock on thestudio door. Startled, the two men looked at each other anxiously. 

"It can only be one of the force, " murmured Monsieur Havard. "I toldthem I was coming here with you, and that they were to send for me ifnecessary. "

The two men walked to the door. Monsieur Havard opened it. There stood acyclist member of the police force. He saluted respectfully, and toldhis chief that he had come with a message from Michel. 

"The message?"

"That the arrest is successful, chief. "

"Which?"

"That of the band of Numbers, chief. "

"Good! Whom have you bagged?"

"Almost the whole lot, chief!"

"That is to say?"

"Mother Toulouche, Beard, Mimile, otherwise Emilet, and the Cooper--anda few more whose names are not known. "

Fandor said, laughing:

"Not Cranajour, I am certain. "

"No. Cranajour has escaped, " answered the policeman. 

Turning to Monsieur Havard, he asked:

"You have no instructions, chief?"

"No. Tell me, how did the capture go?"

"Perfectly, chief. They were assembled in Mother Toulouche's store. Theywent like lambs. "

"Good!. . . Good!"

Monsieur Havard gave the policeman some orders. The cyclist leaped intothe saddle and disappeared. 

"How did you guess that Cranajour was still at liberty?" asked MonsieurHavard. 

Fandor smiled. 

"Good business! You take me to be more stupid than I am. It isCranajour's information which has enabled you to arrest the band ofNumbers. Consequently!. . . "

"Cranajour's information? You are mad, Fandor!. . . Whatever makes youimagine that Cranajour belongs to our force?"

Fandor looked Monsieur Havard straight in the eye and said coolly:

"Juve has never told me that he had sent in his resignation!"

Monsieur Havard looked searchingly at our journalist, before remarking:

"Come now! What is this you are telling me? Poor Juve?. . . "

Fandor wished to save the chief of the detective department from tellinguseless falsehoods. 

"Monsieur Havard! Monsieur Havard! Interrogate the members of the bandof Numbers, and don't trouble about how I got my information . . . But, besure of one thing, there are dead men of whom I could tell tales, ofwhose existence I am as well aware of as you yourself!"

As the chief stared at the journalist, looking more and more astonished, Fandor added:

"And I do not refer to Dollon! I am referring to Juve, to my dear friendJuve, the king of detectives!"

XXIV

AT SAINT LAZARE

"Hop along there! See if you can't hurry up a bit!"

The warder opened the door of Elizabeth's Dollon's cell and pushed in anold woman--a horrid looking creature. 

"In with you!" commanded the warder in a harsh tone. "You are to stayhere till to-morrow. We will find another place for you when we getinstructions. . . . "

Poor Elizabeth Dollon stared miserably at this strange companion whichFate, in the person of a warder, had thrust on her. 

The old woman stared with no little curiosity at the pale, sad girl. . . . Silence fell for a few minutes, then the new prisoner asked, in a toneof rough familiarity:

"What's your name?"

"I call myself Elizabeth!"

"Don't know it!. . . Elizabeth, who?. . . "

"Elizabeth Dollon. . . . "

The old woman rose from the corner of the mattress she had seatedherself on. 

"True? You're Elizabeth Dollon?. . . Well, that's funny! Have you beennabbed long?. . . "

"You ask if it is long since I was. . . ?"

"Nabbed!. . . Taken!. . . Arrested!. . . Eh?"

Elizabeth nodded in the affirmative. It seemed to her that an infinityof time had passed since her imprisonment at Saint Lazare. 

"I was nabbed last night. If you want to know my name, I'm called MotherToulouche. They say I'm one of the band of Numbers, and that I receivestolen goods! Lies! That's well understood!"

Elizabeth had no desire to go into such an unsavoury question. Thishorrid old woman rather frightened her; but, such had been her distressand fears since she had been a prisoner, that it was a relief not to bequite alone; to have even this old creature to speak to was better thansolitary confinement. 

In her character of old jail-bird, Mother Toulouche made herself quicklyat home. 

"Moved to-morrow, they say I'm to be! Pity! At bottom you're not one ofthe scurvy sort, but you must be here to play spy on me, for allthat!. . . When do you go out? Are you long for Saint Lago?" Alas, howcould Elizabeth tell?

 * * * * *

"I like being a barrister, " thought Fandor, as he entered Saint Lazare. "For the last hour I have felt a different person, much more serious, more sure of myself, not to say, more eloquent!. . . I must be eloquent, since I have succeeded in persuading my friend, Maître Dubard, to gethimself appointed officially as Mademoiselle Dollon's counsel; then toobtain a permit of communication, and to hand this same permit over tome, so that his identification papers, safely tucked away in myportfolio, make of me the most indisputable of Maîtres Dubard!"

 * * * * *

Fandor might well congratulate himself! By means of this ruse--his ownidea--he was enabled to see Elizabeth, not in the prison parlour, but ina special cell, and without a witness. As Fandor crossed the thresholdof the sordid building, he said to himself:

"I am Maître Dubard, visiting his client, in order to prepare herdefence!"

He easily accomplished the necessary formalities, and, at last, he sawhimself being conducted by a morose warder to a little parlour, scantilyfurnished with a table and a few stools. 

"Please be seated, maître, " said the surly fellow. "I'll fetch yourclient along!"

Fandor put down his portfolio, but remained standing, anxious, allaquiver at the thought that he was about to see his dear Elizabethappear between two warders, just like a common prisoner!

"In a moment she will be here, " thought he. . . . But she must on noaccount recognise him on entering! By an exclamation she might betrayhis identity and complicate things! Therefore, Fandor feigned to beabsorbed in a newspaper he unfolded and raised, so as to hide his facefrom the approaching pair. The door opened. 

"Come now! Go in!. . . " growled the warder. "Maître, when you wish toleave, you have only to ring. "

The door fell to, heavily, behind the warder. 

Fandor made a sharp movement. He stood revealed. He hurried up toElizabeth. 

"Oh, tell me how you are, Mademoiselle Elizabeth!" he cried. 

But the girl was struck dumb: she grew suddenly pale, and made no reply. 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Will you not give me your hand even? You do notunderstand why I am here? I had to see you, speak to you without awitness . . . That's why I have passed myself off as an advocate!"

The startled girl was regaining her self-control. Fandor was gazing ather with frankly admiring eyes. 

"Poor Elizabeth! How I have made you suffer!"

The poor girl's eyes filled with tears. 

"Why have you betrayed me?" she demanded in a voice trembling withrestrained emotion. "Oh, how could you get me arrested? You, who wellknow I am not guilty?"

"You really believe I have betrayed you? You actually credited me withthat?"

These two young people, meeting in a prison parlour under such tragiccircumstances, were hurt and even angry with each other. 

Elizabeth Dollon went on:

"Why did you not tell me that you had found on that piece of soap tracesof my brother's finger-marks? Why did you accuse me of having received avisit from him, when you yourself had proved that he was dead?"

Fandor took Elizabeth's two little hands in his and pressed them longand tenderly. 

"My dear Elizabeth, when I engineered this theatrical stroke in thepresence of the examining magistrate, in order to secure your arrest, believe me, I had no time to warn you of what I meant to do. . . . Ah, if Icould have warned you--but it would have only disturbed you to no goodpurpose, besides--your being really taken by surprise was a help--therecould not be any idea of collusion. . . . Of course, you want the answer tothis riddle? You shall have it--that is why I am here. . . . Don't youremember, Elizabeth, that on the evening before the fatal day you toldme that I had twice rung you up on the telephone? And that each time youanswered the call you could not find me at the end of the line?. . . Youcannot imagine what I felt when I heard you say that! I nevertelephoned! I never telephoned to the convent!

"The obvious conclusion was, that the individuals who, for some reason, did not wish to make themselves known, did wish to keep track of you, and to assure themselves that you were still at the convent, rue de laGlacière. . . . "

Fandor's voice trembled a little, as he went on:

"And I was at once afraid, my poor child, that these people who werepursuing you, might be the very same who had got into Madame Bourrat'shouse, and had tried to kill you. . . . Ah, do you not see how greatly ithurt and troubled me to think that I had taken you to the convent, andhad there placed you in security--as I thought--but where you were farfrom being safe?"

Again Fandor took Elizabeth's hands in his. 

"You do understand now, dear child, why I had you arrested?. . . I feltyou would be safe here. . . . You see, I could not get your persecutorsimprisoned and so prevent them from getting at you. To imprison you wasthe alternative: you are better guarded here than elsewhere. "

Elizabeth smiled a little smile when she saw how moved Fandor was. 

"But, " replied she, "there is the other point! You certainly told methat you were sure my brother was killed in prison--in his cell!"

"Certainly, I did! The assassination of your brother was premeditated. If the criminals have had accomplices at the Dépôt, and such therecertainly were, they have been bought over little by little. . . . The factof your brother's murder is fresh in the memory of the police, of all, therefore, a special watch is kept over you. I ascertained that it wouldbe so, and Fuselier himself assured me of it: there is a warderspecially told off to keep a close guard over you, a safe man, known tobe beyond suspicion. . . . No, Elizabeth, do believe me, if I was the causeof your horrified surprise the other day, and then of your imprisonment, I wished to be sure that you were as safe as it was possible to be;then, freed from such intense anxiety, I felt I should be at liberty tocontinue my investigations. . . . Do say you forgive me!"

All Elizabeth could say was:

"But why not have warned me?. . . I still can't quite see!. . . "

"Why, because, I only thought of the plan at the last moment! Also, because I feared you might not be able to act surprise naturallyenough!. . . It was absolutely--yes, absolutely necessary--that everyoneshould take your arrest seriously. . . . Surely, Elizabeth, you canunderstand that!"

He repeated his plea. 

"Do, do say you forgive me, Elizabeth!"

The smile returned to Elizabeth's lips: she was much moved. 

"Indeed, I do. . . You are always my very good friend: you think ofeverything, and you watch over me as if . . . "

Intimidated, blushing hotly, she stopped short, then changed theconversation. 

"Do tell me if you have heard anything fresh!"

Fandor returned to his normal self also. He had sworn to himself that hewould not tell Elizabeth he loved her, until he had succeeded inunravelling the tangled skein of the terrible Dollon affair. 

"I shall speak, " thought he, "when she is once more at peace and free, when she is out of danger. I do not want her to consent to love me justbecause I have devoted myself to her brother's case. Elizabeth shall bemy wife, please God; but only if I deserve her, if I can win her. "

And Jérôme Fandor told her the story of the famous wicker trunk--but hedid not mention Thomery's death, nor did he speak of the horrible murderof Jules. . . . What was the use of saddening Elizabeth, of addingneedlessly to her terrors? Instead, he thought it better to learn whathe could from her. 

"I have not found that famous list!" said he. 

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Elizabeth. "I was so worried!. . . Justimagine that, I found the list after all, and I thought I had lost it!It was in one of my little handbags. I had put it there to bring to you. Here it is: they were quite willing to let me keep it!"

Fandor eagerly took the paper from Elizabeth and proceeded to examineit. Yes, it certainly was a page torn from a note-book of medium size. An unknown hand had traced the following words in bold writing. Thenames succeeded one another in the form of a list. 

 _Baroness de Vibray, April 3. Jacques Dollon. _ _Dep. . . . Idem. _ _Sonia Danidoff, April 12. _ _Barbey-Nanteuil, May 15. _ _Gérin. . . ?_ _Madame B. . . ?_ _Thomery, during May. _ _Barbey-Nanteuil, end May. _

Fandor could not find anything more on the paper. Whilst Elizabeth satsilent, Fandor reflected:

"Baroness de Vibray, April 3. Jacques Dollon . . . These correspondexactly with the commencement of this mysterious affair: the two firstdeaths, and the date of their death. . . . What does _Dep. _ signify? Theinitials of a name--or--yes, Dep . . . Dépôt idem--yes, _Dépôt the sameday!_ That's it! _Sonia Danidoff, April 12_ . . . The full name, the exactdate. _Barbey-Nanteuil, May 15_: the affair of rue du Quatre Septembreoccurred May 20; that's pretty near. Two more names, and one date whichexactly tallies. _Gérin?_. . . _Madame B_. . . . ? Who are they? Why no date?Ah, Gérin, lawyer of Madame de Vibray, a crime planned, without date, perhaps because he was not indispensable . . . And _Thomery_! Thomery, whodied in the middle of May, as this plan indicates! But, how about thelast line? _Barbey-Nanteuil, end of May?_ Oh, beyond a doubt the bankerswere to be victims of some fresh aggression on the part of themysterious author of these lines!"

"_Barbey-Nanteuil, end of May!_ We are at the 28th of the month: onlythree more days before the sinister date falls due! Are they to beattacked, or is it their money? How to defend them? How organise a trapfor the mice?"

Suddenly, Fandor looked up, saw Elizabeth's anxiety, and said quietly:

"Well, this list agrees in every particular with the description yougave me of it, and I don't quite see what fresh information we arelikely to get from it. However, will you leave it with me?"

Fandor rose. 

"Ah, there is one point which has just occurred to me"--Fandor's voicetrembled a good deal--"Do you know for a fact that your brother hadbought Thomery shares?"

"He had very few, three or four. I think the Barbey-Nanteuil got themfor him. "

"And your brother had to pay for them by a certain date?"

"Yes. "

Fandor now felt he must tear himself away. He was deeply moved. 

"Elizabeth!. . . Elizabeth!" he cried. "I swear to you we shall clear upthese dreadful mysteries amidst which we live, and more, you and I! Onlyhave confidence, I implore you! Grant me a week's grace, less even!"Fandor pressed Elizabeth's hands as though he could never let them go!Such little hands, and so dear!

It was not a farewell he took--it was a veritable flight he took fromthe girl who now meant so much to him!

Leaving the prison, Fandor walked straight ahead, thinking aloud. 

"It is clear--evident! The Barbey-Nanteuils have sold Thomery shares tobe paid up on a certain date. Thomery was murdered so that his sharesshould fall to zero, and so that the Barbey-Nanteuils should realiseenormous sums at their monthly clearance. Next Saturday, the coffers ofthe Barbey-Nanteuil bank will be full of gold, and this same Saturday isthe last day of May, the fatal day inscribed on the list. Yes, thiscoming Saturday, they will pillage the Barbey-Nanteuil bank!"

XXV

A MOUSE TRAP

Jérôme Fandor had been ringing Juve's door bell in vain: the greatdetective was not at home. 

"What the deuce is he doing? What has become of him? Never have I neededhis advice as I need it now!. . . His support, encouragement--what acomfort they would be!. . . It is possible he would have dissuaded meagainst the attempt--or, he might have joined forces with me! Hang itall! It was a jolly bad move on Juve's part to make himself scarce atsuch a critical moment for me!. . . It is a long time, too, since I hadnews of him! Were I not certain that he has sound reasons for hisabsence--Juve never acts haphazard--I should be desperately anxious!"

Fandor consulted his watch--four o'clock! He had time then! He couldthink over all the dramatic events in which he had been involved duringthe past weeks, beginning with the rue Norvins affair, and ending--how, and when?

At last, our journalist arrived before the immense building which formsthe corner of the rue de Clichy. He saw, in front of him, the tallwindows of the flat occupied by Nanteuil: on the ground floor were thebank offices. 

"Well, " thought Fandor, "I certainly am going to do an unconventionalthing. If my summing up of them is right, these bankers are balanced, calm, cold, without imagination, and distrusting it in others. I shallhave to be eloquent to convince them, to make them listen to me and getthem to do what I want. Will they show me the door, as though I were anintriguer or a madman?. . . I shall not let them do it!. . . Ah, they willowe me a fine candle if I have the good luck. . . . Whether there will begood luck for my venture, and gratitude from the bankers, remains to beseen. . . . Here goes!. . . "

 * * * * *

Seated behind their large and important looking writing table, as thoughjudges behind a judgment seat, Messieurs Barbey and Nanteuil, in theirimmense reception office, separated from the rest of the world by anumber of padded doors, had just said to Fandor, who was standing infront of them:

"We are listening to you, monsieur. "

Fandor had asked to see the bankers, and to see them only, stating thathe would wait if they were engaged. He had been shown into a handsomelyfurnished room, then into another, then into a third; finally, he hadbeen ushered into the office of the partners. He had waited there for afew minutes alone. He recognised it as the same room in which he hadinterviewed Monsieur Barbey a few weeks earlier. Again he saw the samehangings, the same fine rugs, the same velvet arm-chair of classicdesign. 

Then Barbey, solemn, and Nanteuil, elegant, a rose in his buttonhole, had entered the room, their manner stiff-starched, showing no surprise, accustomed as they were to receive visitors of all sorts and kinds: theywere polite, but not cordial. 

Fandor, accustomed to society as he was, and audacious as he had to bein the exercise of his profession, was intimidated, for a moment, by thecalm simplicity of the two men--these strictly conventional bankers, towhom he was about to say such strange things, and make a most unexpectedproposition!

First of all, he made excuse on excuse for having disturbed the bankersat their post time. Then anxiety overcame every consideration ofconventional propriety. Full of persuasive ardour, he went straight tothe point. 

"Messieurs, " declared he, "you are more deeply involved than you mightthink in the mysterious affairs occupying the attention of the police atthis moment. So far, they have not got to the bottom of them. I, myself, through the necessities of my profession, and owing to othercircumstances, have been drawn into an investigation, conjointly withthe detective department, an investigation which has had definiteresults: it has enabled me to discover clues of the highest importance. I learned, too late, alas, to prevent the tragedies, that certainpersons were the chosen victims of these mysterious criminals. Madame deVibray, the Princess Danidoff were condemned beforehand; the robbery ofyour gold was carefully arranged. Now to my point! Messieurs, youyourselves are sentenced: the execution of the sentence to be carriedout three days hence. Do you believe me?"

Fandor had drawn nearer the two bankers: only the immense mahoganywriting-table stood between them!

The partners had listened with cold attention: nevertheless, a slighttrembling of Monsieur Barbey's lips betrayed hidden feeling. Noticingthis, Fandor was emboldened to proceed. 

Monsieur Nanteuil, in a slightly sneering tone, but with a perfectlycorrect manner, replied to the ardent young journalist:

"We are greatly obliged to you, monsieur, for the sympathy you haveshown us by coming to give us information regarding the mysteriousassassins, whom the police are so zealously trying to round up. Believeme, we are accustomed to take our precautions, seeing that we have thehandling of enormous sums of money. We are none the less grateful to youfor your interest in us, and for your warning. "

"It is not a question of gratitude, " interrupted Fandor sharply. "Wehave to deal with very strong opponents. I say 'we' because I havebecome more and more personally involved in all these crime-tragedies. Believe me, I speak from five years' experience as a reporter, who hashad to report, on an average, one crime a day!. . . Up to now, nothing, absolutely nothing has hindered the criminals from executing theirplans; but, warned in time, we may be able to thwart them. "

"But, " interrupted Monsieur Barbey, who had grown more and more serious. "What are you aiming at?"

Fandor felt that the decisive moment had arrived. Bending across thetable, his face almost touching the faces of the two men, he said slowlyand distinctly:

"Messieurs, I have asked _La Capitale_ to grant me three days' leave. Ihave brought a little travelling bag with me: here it is! Leaving homeas I did about half an hour ago, I consider I have arrived at the end ofmy journey!. . . Will you offer me hospitality for the next forty-eighthours?. . . I know that you, Monsieur Nanteuil, live above your offices, whilst Monsieur Barbey goes home every evening to his place at SaintGermain. I ask you to give up your room to me, for I am determined notto leave here for an instant!"

Fandor, in his eagerness, had spoken faster and faster, and his heartwas beating violently. He stared fixedly at the two men; he quiteexpected that his demand would excite astonishment; that objectionswould be raised; and he was ready with a crowd of arguments by which toconvince them and carry his point. . . . But, the surprise was his, for thebankers did not seem particularly astonished. 

They consulted each other with a look. Then, as Barbey opened his mouthto reply, Nanteuil began to speak, rising politely at the same time. 

"Monsieur Fandor, your last statements and remarks are too serious to bepassed over lightly. Your offer is too generous to be rejected withoutconsideration. Will you allow us to retire for a minute or two: mypartner and I will discuss the question. "

 * * * * *

For about ten minutes Fandor marched up and down the sumptuous room. Then one of the padded doors opened silently, and Barbey entered moresolemn than ever: Nanteuil was smiling. 

"Monsieur, " said Barbey, in weighty tones, "my partner and I, in view ofthe exceptional seriousness of the situation, for your words carryconviction--have come to a decision: we beg of you to consider yourselfour guest from this moment, and to consider this house as your own!"

"And it is understood, of course, that you dine with us this evening!"added Nanteuil with friendly graciousness. "Monsieur Barbey will be ofthe party, and will pass the night in our company . . . And you can counton it, that we shall drink a good bottle of Burgundy to enable us toawait with patience and serenity the audacious individuals you say weare to expect. . . . Dear Monsieur Fandor, here are some illustrated paperswith some gay sketches of dear little women to exercise your patienceover, whilst we sign our outgoing letters as fast as possible. . . . "

XXVI

IN THE TRAP

The servant had retired, leaving the three men to their fruit and wine. His hosts turned to Fandor in mute interrogation. . . . But Fandorcontinued to peel a superb peach with the utmost coolness: he did notseem disposed to talk. 

Barbey broke the silence. 

"Tell me, now that your first day on guard is ended, and you have notleft us for a moment--have you noticed anything at all suspicious?"

Fandor shook his head. "Nothing whatever. "

This was not strictly true; for he had noticed an individual in thebank, occupied in repairing the telephone. He had made discreetinquiries, and had been told that he was a workman sent by the State, atthe request of the bankers, to see that the lines were in good workingorder. This explanation had at first set his mind at rest regarding thecomings and goings of this individual. 

But, just when he was going in to dinner at seven o'clock, Fandor hadcome across the man in the vestibule of the bank making preparations todepart. It had been a painful surprise for Fandor. He recognised theman, but could not remember exactly who he was, or where he had seenhim. . . . 

Was this workman one of the mysterious band of criminals who, he wasmore and more convinced, meant to strike a blow at Monsieur Barbey, andhis partner, Nanteuil?

If Fandor had had anything to go upon, he would have had the manshadowed. But he had no sure ground for his suspicions; besides, sentby the State, the man was most probably what he seemed. As he wasworking for the Government, he could easily be traced should such a stepbe found necessary. But to make certain that all was as it should be, Fandor had examined the work done by this individual during the day. There was nothing wrong with it: beyond a doubt, the man was an expert. Therefore, Fandor had felt justified in saying that he had noticednothing suspicious during the day. 

"So much the worse, " remarked Monsieur Barbey, with a shrug. . . . "Probably the individuals who are threatening us, have been warned ofyour presence here, and are on their guard. I rejoice as far as we areconcerned; but, as regards the general interest, I almost regret it:that your trap should prove effective, is what we must wish. "

"Have no fear, dear Monsieur Barbey, it will not be laid in vain!Knowing the cunning, the cleverness of my adversaries, I have not theleast doubt they know I am here; but I also know that the audacity ofthese criminals is such, that my presence here would not deter them frommaking their attempt. They believe themselves the stronger, but I hopeto undeceive them. "

"What is your plan of campaign to-night?" asked Monsieur Nanteuil. 

"Before replying to that, will you show me all the means of access tothe house?"

"With the greatest pleasure. "

The three men left the dining-room: then went into the vestibule. 

"Our courtyard gate is at the far end of the house, on the right, " saidNanteuil. "On the left, there are the Bank offices: they occupy thisground floor. The only entrance to them is through this vestibule. Thisdoor closed, it is impossible to get in. "

"Not by the windows looking on to the street?" asked Fandor. 

"No, those windows have heavy iron bars before them. To remove themwould be difficult--very . . . As to the windows looking on to the garden, they are closed every evening--you can see for yourself--by strongwooden shutters fastened on the inside. "

"So the Bank offices are perfectly protected?" said Fandor. 

"We believe so. Now, come upstairs to the floor above!. . . Here is alarge corridor, and that door, on the right, opens into a library. Thetwo rooms which come next, are my own room and a dressing-room. Theother rooms are unoccupied. "

"Does your room face the street or the garden?" asked Fandor. 

"The garden. "

"And the windows?"

"The windows?"

"Yes. Would it be difficult, or impossible to climb up to them?"

"It would be difficult, but not impossible. No one ever enters thegarden. If absolutely necessary, a ladder could be placed against them, a square of glass could be cut out, and the fastening could be undone. . . But come and see the room, you can then judge for yourself. "

Fandor inspected the room most carefully. The banker was right. It wouldbe comparatively easy to get into the room by the window; but the otherentrances to the room could be easily watched; they resolved themselvesinto one door, which opened on to the corridor. 

Monsieur Nanteuil's room was lightly furnished: he evidently favouredthe modern method: it was a bare apartment, but it was hygienic. 

"Ah, " said Fandor, "the bed has its back to the door, and faces thewindow. Very right. You have electric light, I see, near the fireplace, and above your bed. Then it is possible to switch on a bright light atany time. . . . Valuable, that!"

Having finished a minute inspection of the room, and, to the amusementof the bankers, having looked under the bed to make sure that no onehad hidden himself beneath it, Fandor declared:

"I am decidedly pleased with this room, and if you see no objection, Iwish to stay here and await the visitors of to-night. "

"You think of sleeping here alone?"

"Alone! Decidedly, I do! It is pretty certain that these men know everyinch of your flat; and if they are the sort I take them to be, they willmake certain that everything here is as usual before attempting toattack the Bank. I do not wish them to be frightened off by finding acompanion at my side, and I particularly wish them to mistake me foryou. . . . "

"But that is frightfully dangerous, surely?" objected Nanteuil. 

"Reassure yourself, monsieur, I do not run any great risk. They won'tknow I am watching them; but I shall have this advantage over them--I amon the lookout for the rascally assassins and robbers, and I do not fearthem in the slightest. "

Fandor was not going to own that he knew there was danger; but he waskeenly set on running this particular risk, for, by so doing, might henot discover the truth?

When the bankers left him for the night, Fandor again examined everycorner of the room, and all it contained. He tested the electric lightswitch; he took a mental photograph of the situation of the pieces offurniture. He got into bed, half dressed, and lay quietly, grasping hisrevolver, fully loaded. 

He switched off the light, and in that large room, veiled in darkness, he awaited the events of the night. Noises from the street reached himindistinctly. The silence about him was menacing: something was going tohappen here, something sudden, unforeseen, perhaps irremediable. 

Minute by minute, time went by, interminable, monotonous, casting a softveil of sleep over the eyes of Fandor. But thoughts were rising withinhim: more and more keenly he was realising the horrible danger he wasexposing himself to. Beneath closed eyes his brain was active, hisimagination afire. 

"Elizabeth Dollon must be avenged, " was his persistent thought. "Consequently, I must run some risks to achieve that!"

A definite fear tormented him. He thought of the curious sleep Elizabethhad fallen victim to in the boarding-house. 

"Provided I have not taken some narcotic without knowing it!. . . Supposethe villains are going to inject into the room some gas which wouldsuffocate me, and I should not know I was breathing it in? Suppose Ilose consciousness and slip into death?"

But Fandor drew himself together; he stiffened his will. 

Do they know I am in this room waiting to entrap them? Do they thinkthey will find Nanteuil here defenceless? Who was that workman?. . . Iought to be able to put a name to that familiar face?

How slow, how deadly slow, the tic-tac, tic-tac, of the timepiece?Centuries passed between the striking of the hours!. . . Would it beto-night?. . . To-morrow night?. . . Or . . . 

On the corridor carpet outside the room, a slight rustling sound, continuous, barely perceptible, caught Fandor's listening ear. . . . Whowas it?. . . Was it anyone at all?. . . Was it imagination? He listenedintently . . . Not a sound now. . . . But, yes . . . The same rustling sound. . . It was nearer--moving along the wall. Fandor closed his eyes aninstant, so vividly did he feel that someone was looking at him throughthe wall!

Seconds beat by--seconds that might culminate in a moment ofhorror--seconds passing steadily by in regular succession, sinking intonothingness. . . . 

Had someone moved? Were there steps by the door?. . . 

Fandor thought he heard strange sounds all around him, in the roomitself! His nerves were tensely strung: he was overwrought. Someone wascertainly walking in the corridor!. . . He had felt a movement along thewall against which his bed stood!

Impossible to hesitate longer! The door knob, which he could not see inthe darkness, must have moved. . . . Fandor sensed this movement as surelyas though he himself had placed his hand on the knob. . . . 

Yes, the door was going to open!. . . 

It was ajar . . . It was turning on its hinges--it was open. . . . Someonewas coming in. . . . Who?. . . 

Fandor lay still--he dared not move an eyelid; but in his mind he said:

"Come in, then! Take the trouble to come in!"

Thus Fandor, who believed Death was entering the room, dared to welcomethe grim visitor--with a smile!

 * * * * *

Nothing was happening. . . . Fandor's feverish excitement sank down todepression. . . . He must have deceived himself--no one was entering theroom--nothing untoward was happening! He had simply imagined the noisesoutside in the corridor, for nothing happened--nothing . . . And once morehe was following the eternal tic-tac, tic-tac of the timepiece!

The head of Fandor's bed was near the door. He could not, in the densedarkness, fix the point where he supposed the enemy would find him, andhe had the agonising conviction that they were very much at theirease--that they knew exactly where he was, and were quietly preparingtheir attack. 

But had these unknown assassins entered the room?. . . Yes, it wascertain--there were men behind him--bending over him with outstretchedhands to strangle him!. . . He could hear the sound their fingers made inpassing through the air to grip his throat, to squeeze his life out!. . . 

Though he lived a hundred years, never could Fandor forget the agonisingthrill when he sensed that hidden danger! He held his revolver ready tofire. He thought:

"In whatever way I am attacked, I must not let slip this unique chanceto learn the truth! I must seize the attacker at all costs, and leap tothe electric switch, turn on the light--and I shall be saved! Saved!. . . "

Without a cry, without a warning sound, without a moment's time to copewith the violence of the attack, Fandor felt a cloth over his face, strong hands on his throat, a heavy weight crushing his chest. 

"I am lost!" flashed through his mind. 

"I mean to find out the truth!" his will declared. 

With all the force of resistant muscle and will he disengaged himselffrom the power crushing him to death; seized an arm by chance, hung onto it, gripped it, threw off the man, ran to the switch, shouting:

"Help!"

Again, Fandor thought he was done for: the switch acted, but no lightflashed forth!

They had cut the wire!

Men were holding on to him: their grip was tightening!

A voice gave a strangled cry. 

"Help!"

A strange voice! Whose?

Fandor was weakening. His right hand seemed to be caught in a vise whichwould break and crush it: it was growing tighter and tighter: it waswrenching his arm, was dragging him backwards: it would fracture hisshoulder blade! Who?. . . Who?. . . 

By a miraculous effort he freed himself. He leaped away; sprang to themantelpiece; seized a pocket electric torch he had placed there--clac--alight flashed out!. . . Fandor saw, recognised his attacker!. . . 

Ah! The form he had seen before--a slim figure, clothed in black!. . . Ah, this murderer, whose face was concealed by a hooded mask!

Fandor shouted at him. 

"Fantômas! It's you and I, Fantômas!"

But, already, this mysterious bandit, unmasked by the unexpected light, had rushed on our journalist. 

The electric torch was extinguished. 

The struggle recommenced, fierce, formidable, desperate! Fandor wasseized by the throat in a strangling grip: he was choking!

His right arm, so twisted, so bruised, was powerless--and in that hand, now so deadened and helpless that it seemed detached from his body, washis revolver. He must shoot, though almost powerless in the formidablegrip of the bandit. He must shoot if he was to be saved. He managed topull the trigger. 

There was a loud report. 

Fandor felt himself flung towards the wall. The vise loosed its grip. There was a terrific din. The window panes were shattered, a heavy pieceof furniture was pushed aside, oscillated, fell with a crash; then asudden silence; but a silence broken by gaspings, loud breathings, hoarse sounds, an agonising death rattle. 

The dead pause seemed interminable. . . . Fandor was about to shoot again, when a voice close to him cried:

"He is escaping!. . . "

Jérôme Fandor recognised that voice!. . . 

Another voice said:

"We must have a light!"

A wax match flamed and flared. 

By its wavering light Fandor could distinguish three men in the room. . . . Their clothes were torn: there was blood on their faces, they werepanting: they stared at one another. 

Fandor recognised them instantly. 

Leaning against the bed, a gash in his cheek, was Monsieur Barbey. 

Lying on the floor, apparently half dead, was Monsieur Nanteuil. 

Calmly lighting a candle was the telephone workman. He alone seemedunmoved. 

Fandor threw down his revolver and, coolly marching to the door, lockedit. 

Monsieur Barbey followed the journalist with a look. He made a gestureof discouragement and pointed to the window: its panes were smashed topieces. 

"We are tricked--done!" he said. "The assassin has got away!"

But Fandor, with a shrug, marched up to the window, returned, and saidin a matter-of-fact tone:

"It is impossible that Fantômas could have made his escape that way!"

The workman nodded gravely. 

"Monsieur Fandor, " said he, "I am entirely of your opinion. "

XXVII

THE IMPRINT

"Monsieur Fandor, I am entirely of your opinion!"

Hearing these words, Fandor, who had regained his self-possession, andwas ready to start fighting again if necessary, looked at the individualwho had made this statement--the individual whose face was oddlyfamiliar. 

"Who are you?" he asked. 

The individual smiled broadly. 

"Don't you recognise me?" he asked. 

He removed his wig, threw the candle light on himself, and smilinglyannounced his style and title. 

"Sergeant Juve, once of the detective force; formerly dead: now amateurpoliceman!"

"You! You, Juve!" cried Fandor. "And to think I suspected you. . . . "

But the two bankers interrupted at one and the same moment. 

"What are you doing here?"

Juve smiled. 

"The art I practise brought me! Since my interest in the Dollon affairis so keen, I follow it up, I wish to find the secret of it, justthrough love of my art. I dabble in it nowadays. "

"But Juve--how did you get here?" questioned Fandor. 

"Ah, ha! If you have made some psychological discoveries: if reasoninghas landed you here, now facts have led me here!. . . You know I wasshadowing the band of Numbers. You know that in the skin of Cranajour Iwas intimate with those rascals. To my astonishment I found that mywretched companions had dealings with the Barbey-Nanteuil bank, who, ofcourse, had no suspicion of it! Are you surprised then that I felt itincumbent on me to visit this bank?. . . Besides, yesterday, I saw youenter here; but you never came out again! You had reasons for acting so. I determined to be near you, in case you needed my help. I thereforepassed myself off as a workman come to attend to the telephoneinstallation. It was easy enough, for I am a good electrician. . . . Well, when I found that you were preparing to pass the night here, I laid myplans accordingly. I pretended to leave the premises, but really I hidmyself in the house. Just now, when you called for help, I came to youraid as quickly as I could, naturally!"

"Just as we did!" remarked Monsieur Barbey, looking at his partner. 

Monsieur Nanteuil contented himself with a nod. He added:

"Alas, once again that criminal has escaped! Fantômas, since it wasFantômas who was here, just now, Fantômas has got away!" And Nanteuilpointed to the broken window by which it would seem the criminal, takingadvantage of the noise, had escaped. 

But both Fandor and Juve shrugged doubtfully. 

"You believe then, Monsieur Nanteuil, that Fantômas has left this room?"questioned our young journalist. 

"What the devil do you mean?" asked Nanteuil. 

Juve demanded. 

"Which way did he make his escape?"

Nanteuil pointed. 

"Why that way! By this window . . . Where else?. . . You can see quite wellthat he has broken the panes!. . . Why, look! His hooded cloak has gotcaught on the window latch!. . . "

Fandor lay back in an arm-chair. He seemed much amused. He silenced Juvewith a gesture, and turned to Nanteuil. 

"I can assure, dear Monsieur Nanteuil, that Fantômas has not left theroom by this window!. . . "

"Because?. . . "

"Because this window has been broken by means of this chair: this chair, which he flung against the panes to put us on the wrong scent, and makeus believe he had escaped that way!. . . Just look at this chair! It isstill strewn with broken bits of glass . . . Look, there is even a littlebit stuck into the wood!"

"But that proves nothing!. . . Fantômas has broken the window panes asbest he could, and then made his escape!"

"In that case, " insisted Fandor, "dear Monsieur Nanteuil, can youexplain how it was he troubled to remove his cloak, hood and all; and, after that, how is it he has left no footprints in the flower-bedsbeneath the window? When day dawns you will see for yourself that mystatement is correct, though I have not verified it! The flower-beds aretoo wide, too big, for a man jumping from here, to jump clear of them!And the earth is soft enough to take and retain the footprints of a manwho leaps down on to them from this height!. . . Nevertheless, suchfootprints are conspicuous by their absence!"

Monsieur Barbey seemed overwhelmed--aghast. 

"If Fantômas did not escape by the window, how then did he get away?" heasked. 

Fandor said in clear, distinct tones:

"Fantômas was not able to escape!. . . "

"But he cannot be in the room?. . . Where, then, can he have hiddenhimself?"

In a hard voice, Fandor made answer. 

"He is not hidden in the room. . . . "

"You think then that he has hidden himself somewhere in the house?"

Speaking in the same hard, decisive tone, Fandor asserted:

"He is not hidden in the house! In the very height of the struggle, Ikept a strict watch on the direction taken by the man who was doing hisutmost to strangle me. I am positive I had my back against the doorwhen I fired, so that exit was barred! Neither by door nor window didFantômas escape!" Fandor's tone was one of absolute assurance. 

"If you are certain of that, " said Nanteuil, "can you tell us howFantômas did escape?"

Fandor's reply was to rise from his arm-chair. He took the candlestickfrom the table where Juve had placed it and walked towards a largemirror. He carefully examined his neck. 

"Very curious!" said he, in a low voice. . . : "Now, monsieur, the man whotried to strangle me was Fantômas--we have seen him. . . . Well, this manhad a wound on his thumb, or, more probably, he wounded me, anyhow hehas left on my collar the mark of his thumb in blood--you guess whatthis thumb-mark is?"

Simultaneously, Barbey, Nanteuil, and Juve rushed towards the youngjournalist. . . . Fandor showed them a little red mark, clear cut on thewhite surface of the collar; it was a finger-print so characteristic, that the two bankers cried in a trembling voice:

"Again the imprint of Jacques Dollon!"

Silence fell--a pregnant silence. The four men gazed at one another. Fandor soon started whistling a popular air. Juve smiled: MonsieurBarbey was the first to speak:

"Good Heavens! Do you mean to say that Jacques Dollon was here--in thisroom!. . . It is certain, you say, Monsieur Fandor, that he did not getaway either by door or window--for pity's sake explain the mystery!"

But Fandor contented himself with a smile and a question. 

"Do you really think, then, that I know it?. . . "

Nanteuil stamped with impatience. 

"But hang it all! If you don't know anything, don't let us waste time!Let us begin the search! Hunt through the house! Search the garden fromend to end!. . . "

Fandor went on--his tone was ironic. 

"And warn the police? Well, no, Monsieur Nanteuil, we will not make anysearch whatever, you can rely on that!. . . For the last three months wehave been striving and struggling to solve a maddening mystery: we nevercould reach a certain solution of it: we have been vainly pursuing anassassin, who for ever escaped us . . . And now, when for once, we gethold of a definite fact, an indisputable reality, are we going to riskmuddling up the whole business?. . . Not if I know it!"

"What do you mean?" demanded Monsieur Barbey. 

"Listen!" replied Fandor: "Some minutes ago, I was alone in this room;Jacques Dollon entered the room, because I bear on my neck the imprintof his thumb. Jacques Dollon was Fantômas, because he declared ithimself when he believed he would emerge victorious from the struggle. Jacques Dollon--Fantômas--has not left this room, either by door orwindow. On the other hand, you have entered the room--you MonsieurBarbey, you Monsieur Nanteuil, and you Juve. Since these individualshave entered the room, and no one has left it, it necessarily followsthat the personage, Jacques Dollon--Fantômas, must have entered amongyou, and that he has remained here, between these four walls. "

Simultaneously, Barbey and Nanteuil raised protesting voices: but Juvecontinued to smile. 

"Do you believe then?. . . "

But Jérôme Fandor did not allow him to finish. 

"I do not _think_ anything, " said he. "I _know_ that I, Jérôme Fandor, am I, and that I am not Jacques Dollon!. . . Juve knows that he is Juve, and that he is not Jacques Dollon. You, Monsieur Barbey; you, MonsieurNanteuil, you know who you are, and who you are not! None of us canleave imprints similar to those of Jacques Dollon. But, I also know, that Jacques Dollon has entered this room, and that he has not leftit--this is all that I know!"

To this extraordinary declaration, Monsieur Nanteuil, with anincredulous shrug of the shoulders, exclaimed:

"This is downright madness, monsieur!"

But Juve congratulated Fandor. 

"That's logic, my boy! You are going it strong, lad!"

Fandor continued. 

"It follows, that if Jacques Dollon has not left the room, he must behere in this room. He must be arrested. In order to arrest him, we mustbeg Monsieur Havard to come here as fast as he possibly can! JacquesDollon is Fantômas, or I should say, Fantômas is Jacques Dollon. Monsieur Havard will not hesitate to put himself to any inconvenience inorder to effect such a capture! I am going to call him up at once, messieurs, thanks to this telephone!"

And profiting by the bewilderment of his hearers, Fandor, then andthere, telephoned to Police Headquarters; he spoke to one of theofficials, who undertook to inform his chief that he was wanted at thetelephone on most urgent business. 

A minute or two later, Fandor was telling Monsieur Havard what hadhappened. He terminated his narrative thus:

"I myself had locked the door of the room in which the struggle tookplace. No one left the room, nor shall anyone leave it before yourarrival, I give you my word of honour on that! Come, post-haste. It isof the utmost urgency. Bring a locksmith. He must open the great door ofthe house. He will have to force open the door of the room in which wenow are. I must keep an incessant watch over this room. I do not seeFantômas--Jacques Dollon--in this room; but in this room he mustinevitably be--he _is_ in it!"

Fandor, listening to Monsieur Havard's answer, repeated it to hiscompanions. 

"In a very short time, the chief will be here; in a very short time, messieurs, we shall witness the arrest of Fantômas, that is, of the mostinhuman monster that has ever existed!"

"It seems to me you are going too fast!" remarked Monsieur Barbey. "Allis mystery--yet you talk of making an arrest!"

"But what do you consider mysterious now?" asked Fandor, laughing. 

"Why, everything! Take one thing: do you know what were the motives ofthe different Fantômas-Dollon crimes?"

Juve replied to this:

"Oh, as for that, perfectly! The motives are clear as crystal!. . . Madamede Vibray was ruined, and really committed suicide because--you willpardon me, I am sure--because the Bourse transactions you advised werenot successful. . . . She poisoned herself, and went to Jacques Dollon'sstudio to die: perhaps she felt for him a secret attachment! Fate willedit that the assassins should choose this very evening to make their wayinto the painter's studio . . . By means of this first corpse they createdan alibi for themselves, and prepared the scene which was bound tomislead justice and make lawyers and police believe in the murder ofMadame de Vibray and the suicide of her murderer. . . . Unfortunately forthem, Dollon was discovered before the poison they administered had doneits deadly work on him, and Dollon was arrested. . . . You can imagine thefury, the distracted state of the guilty! Dollon had seen them--he wasgoing to speak at the legal interrogation--very well, then--they willkill him--and they do kill him. . . . "

"But Jacques Dollon lives, since his imprints are found here, there andeverywhere!. . . " cried Monsieur Barbey. 

Fandor replied:

"They kill Jacques Dollon, since it has been formally established thatJacques Dollon was seen dead; and once they have killed Dollon, theythink that a dead man cannot be arrested by the police, and _they acceptthis dead man as one of their band_. . . . He, they decide, shall steal thepearls of Princess Danidoff!. . . "

"This is raving lunacy!"

"All that is pretty clearly proved, Monsieur Nanteuil!. . . It is he alsowho stole the millions in the rue du Quatre Septembre, a sensationalrobbery which would have ruined your bank, had not this issue of bullionbeen well covered by an insurance: this insurance signified that youwere no losers by this robbery--in fact, owing to an ingeniouscombination of insurances, you have actually gained by the robbery! Aswe are on this subject, I might add that were I a member of the Band Ishould propose restoring to you the vanished ingots--robbers findbullion somewhat difficult to put into circulation: you might buy themback; then turn them into false coin, for instance--that would be allprofit--for you!. . . "

"I wonder at you--making such a joke as that!" remarked Nanteuil. 

"Please wonder at me!. . . To continue!. . . Having carried out their plansuccessfully, these robbers remembered something they had forgotten--acompromising paper, or something like it, which had been left inElizabeth Dollon's possession. Thereupon, they send the deadman--Jacques Dollon--to look for it: he attempts to murder his sister: Iarrive just in time to open the windows before she is past all humanaid. . . . Meanwhile a series of cleverly arranged deals on the Bourse arebrought off, so that if Thomery disappeared the Barbey-Nanteuil Bankwould rake in important profits . . . In haste the assassins get rid of anaccomplice who is in their way--that duffer of a Jules, the rue Raffetservant, and they send Dollon to kill Thomery. After that they decide torob your Bank which is stuffed with gold; for, were it not for thistheft, it would be your Bank, burdened as it is, with Thomery shares, which would pay out to speculators the differences in value between pastand present prices--which amounts would have to come out of the moneypaid in the day before. Messieurs, with regard to this, Thomery's deathdid you a great service. . . . Without his death, which enriched you, youwould have had to settle up your sales by a certain date, and you wouldhave lost more than you gained at the moment, owing to the sole fact ofhis disappearance!. . . I think you are very grateful to Jacques Dollonbecause of what he has done for you. "

Monsieur Nanteuil, on hearing these last words, rose. He walked up tothe journalist and said, in a voice quivering with some emotion:

"For my part, Monsieur Fandor, I think your way of explaining the Dollonaffair is a very strange way!. . . You assert that this painter is dead, and you make him behave as if he were alive!. . . Besides, I haveunderstood your words! In truth, what you say is senseless: you makewild statements! You have involved our Bank in every one of the Dolloncrimes!. . . You have shown us as interested parties in all theserobberies!"

Fandor said quietly:

"Nevertheless, it is unquestionably true that you are the gainers bythese crimes: beginning with Madame de Vibray and ending with Thomery. Madame de Vibray might have brought an action against you for the lossof her fortune, owing to your risky speculations and bad management. Thomery's murder brought down his shares with a run, and you found thata most advantageous state of affairs--you gained by it!. . . But, ofcourse, this is coincidence, since you are not Fantômas, since you arenot Jacques Dollon, since you cannot imitate the imprint of histhumb!. . . I have only said this to show . . . " Fandor stopped short. 

"Hark!. . . Someone is coming upstairs! Here is Monsieur Havard!"

As the bankers were hurrying impatiently to the door, Fandor said in abantering tone:

"Do not stir a step further, I beg of you! Not a step! Let us receivethe chief of the detective force exactly in the position we were, not anhour ago, when we encountered him whom the chief has now come toarrest!"

Barbey and Nanteuil returned to their former positions. Those in theroom could hear voices on the other side of the door exchanging briefremarks. The lock was being picked. Monsieur Havard entered and hurriedup to the journalist. 

"Well, my dear Fandor, I have followed all your instructions to theletter!. . . Ah! you here, too, Juve! Well?. . . Speak! Anything fresh sinceyour extraordinary telephone communication?. . . What were you tellingme?"

"I was saying, Monsieur Havard, that the assassin had entered this room, and assuredly had not left it--that he was here!. . . "

"Here?"

Monsieur Havard had recognised the bankers at the first glance. . . . Hisquestion betrayed a certain incredulity which piqued Fandor. 

"Here! Yes! That is absolutely so, because it is impossible that he canhave left the room! Besides, you shall convince yourself of that!. . . Monsieur Nanteuil, will you do me a small service? Will you draw a planof the first floor of your house?"

The banker rose and seated himself at his writing-table, which wasplaced in a corner of the room. 

"I am at your disposal. " And he began to trace a plan, a pretty roughone, of the various rooms which made up the first floor of his house. 

"Is that what you want?" he asked. 

Jérôme Fandor rose quickly and went towards Nanteuil. 

The journalist's nerves must have been out of order--in a jumpy state, despite his apparent calm, for, in approaching the writing-table, hesuddenly staggered, nearly fell, tried to regain his balance, and thatso clumsily that he upset the contents of a large ink-pot on thewriting-desk. . . . 

"Take care!" said Monsieur Nanteuil, who, to save himself from cominginto contact with this inky inundation, threw himself back in his chair, and lifted his hands above the flood of ink. . . . 

The banker repeated:

"Take care!. . . Here is a fresh catastrophe!. . . "

But he did not finish what he intended to say! Quick as thought, Fandorsteadied himself, and before anyone could guess his intention he seizedthe banker's right hand, pushed it forcibly into the wide-spreading ink, then, immediately after, pressed it on to a sheet of blotting paperwhich took the hand's imprint quite clearly. . . . 

This imprint he glanced at but a moment. . . . Like a flag, he waved itabove his head!

"_It is the Jacques Dollon imprint!_" he shouted. "_The hand of MonsieurNanteuil, whose characteristics are known in the anthropometric section, has just left the imprint of--Jacques Dollon!. . . _"

The journalist's action created a momentary stupour!

Juve rushed to him. 

"Bravo! Bravo!" he cried. 

But Monsieur Havard had gone quite pale. He said in a low voice:

"I don't understand!"

Barbey and Nanteuil retained their self-possession!

Then Monsieur Barbey rose. He looked fixedly at his partner. He spoke ina tone of sad finality:

"I suspected this!. . . Farewell. . . . "

A shout of horror answered him: he had drawn a sharp dagger from insidehis coat, and had plunged it in his heart up to the hilt!

Juve knelt by the fallen man. Monsieur Havard kept a sharp eye onNanteuil. 

"Here, then, is Jacques Dollon, the dead-alive!. . . Here is the elusiveFantômas!" said the chief of the detective force. 

But the bandit brazened it out as he recoiled before the chief. 

"Why do you arrest me because of this imprint?" he demanded. "It is apiece of juggling on the part of this journalist!. . . Take a freshimprint of my hand, my fingers, my thumb, and you will see whether myhand could possibly leave such an impression as that put on the blottingpad, by some sleight-of-hand trick of this much too smart reporter!" Hestretched out his arm in the direction of the blotting pad, as thoughbegging for a fresh trial. . . . 

Fandor marched up to Nanteuil. 

"Useless, " said he, in a curt tone. "I have been watching you!. . . I knowthe trick!"

Nanteuil stood stock-still, dumb. Fandor lifted the cuff of Nanteuil'scoat, and pointed out to Monsieur Havard, and to Juve, a sort of thinfilm of glove-like form. It was fastened to the wrist by an almostimperceptible piece of elastic. 

"This is human skin, " said Fandor. "Human skin marvellously preserved bysome special process: all its lines and marks are intact. Can you notguess whence it came? Do you need to be told whose dead body hassupplied this phantom glove?"

Monsieur Havard was as white as a sheet. 

"The body of Jacques Dollon, " he murmured. . . . "Yes, that is it!. . . "

There was a moment's intense silence in the room. 

"How do you imagine this wretch set to work?" demanded Monsieur Havard. 

"Simple enough, " replied Fandor. . . . "Fantômas knows the danger criminalsrun, owing to the exact science of anthropometry: he knows that everyimprint denounces the assassin: he knows that it is difficult to doanything without leaving such imprints--and that is why, every time hehas committed a crime, he has taken care to glove his hands in the skinof Jacques Dollon's hands. "

Nanteuil, at bay, attempted denial. 

"You are talking mere newspaper romance, " said he. 

Fandor looked the banker in the eye. 

"Fantômas!" said he. "Do not attempt to deny what is no longer possibleto deny!. . . The trick is remarkably clever, and you have reason to beproud of your invention. Perhaps I should never have discovered it, ifin this very room, this very night, you had not been imprudent enough toleave those imprints on my collar!. . . No one had left the room, therefore the guilty person was in the room--of necessity he was:_therefore, it followed, that someone had the hands of Dollon!. . . _ Buthow could this someone have the hands of Dollon?. . . Of course, naturally, the idea of these gloves occurred to me!. . . "

Fandor turned to the chief of the detective force. 

"Monsieur Havard, Madame de Vibray committed suicide because she losther fortune through Barbey-Nanteuil mismanagement--she might even havebeen poisoned by them! But that does not matter! Her death mightcompromise the Bank: they carried her dead body to Jacques Dollon'sstudio, and they tried to poison this painter, in order to put the lawoff their track. You know Dollon was saved! He was a dangerous witness. They killed him in his cell, some warder being accessory to thefact--killed him before his innocence could be established! Then theytook his hands, that they might commit murders with them!. . . Dollon isdead, as I have held all along. It is Nanteuil who has committed thecrimes ascribed to the most unfortunate Dollon. These crimes haveprofited the Barbey-Nanteuil Bank--as I pointed out just now!"

 * * * * *

Whilst Nanteuil stood speechless, whilst Barbey, whom they had lifted toa sofa, was gasping out his last breath, whilst Juve was giving littlenods of approval to what his dear lad was saying, Fandor was treatingMonsieur Havard to a further version of the affair. 

"When I telephoned to you I was morally certain of the approachingarrest. Not a soul quitted the room after the hands of Dollon had leftimprints on my collar and on my neck. Therefore someone had the hands ofDollon. The finger imprints of all the personages present were known tome--therefore someone had a method by which he changed his ownfinger-prints into those of Dollon. . . . How was it done? It must be aremovable method or means . . . Why, of course, it could only be by a pairof gloves that the trick was done . . . Of course it must be by means of_a pair of gloves made with the skin of Jacques Dollon's hands_!. . . Inoticed that Nanteuil kept his hands obstinately behind his back. Iguessed that it was he who had played the part of Dollon to-night, so Imanaged to prevent him removing those Dollon gloves, that I might taketheir imprint before your eyes--the rest can be guessed, can it not?. . . The imprint taken, profiting by the confusion, Nanteuil slipped off theglove which, as you see, was no thicker than a cigarette when rolledup. . . . To throw it aside was risky: he pushed it up his sleeve whilepretending to arrange his cuff, and at the same time to put ink on hisungloved hand and so hide his trick!. . . Only I saw it all. . . . MonsieurHavard, it is not only the false Jacques Dollon I denounce, for Juve andI fully realised that he was also the elusive Fantômas! Here is thiscloak with hooded mask, which is an irrefutable proof: besides hehimself declared he was Fantômas. . . . Monsieur Havard, all you have to donow is seize this man: Juve and I will hand him over to you!"

It was a thrilling moment! Juve and Fandor, in this hour of decisivevictory, mutely embraced. Monsieur Havard advanced with raised handstowards Nanteuil who retreated. 

"Fantômas, " he commenced, "in the name of the law I arr. . . "

The word was strangled in his throat!. . . 

As he advanced another step, Nanteuil suddenly sprang backwards, and hishand rested on the moulding of a wooden panel. . . . At the same moment, Monsieur Havard, as if hampered by some invisible obstacle, stretchedhis length on the floor!

Juve and Fandor were about to rush to his aid . . . But while Fandor, inhis turn, measured his length on the floor also, Juve yelled:

"Good lord!. . . We are caught!. . . He escapes!. . . "

Whilst the detective made a frantic effort to move a step--_he seemednailed to the floor_--Fantômas, quick as lightning, leaped over theprone body of Monsieur Havard, gained the door, and banged it to behindhim!. . . They heard a triumphant burst of laughter. . . . Fantômas wasescaping!

"This is sorcery!" shouted the chief of the detective force, in a voicehoarse with rage. 

"Take your boots off!. . . Take your boots off!" yelled Juve, who, withbare feet, was rushing through the house, revolver in hand, hoping tocome up with the banker bandit!. . . 

But, when the detective arrived at the entrance gateway of the house, hefound the policemen brought by Monsieur Havard chatting away quietly . . . They had not seen a thing . . . The street was deserted . . . In a secondFantômas had disappeared, vanished into thin air . . . He, the elusiveone, had got away: once more he had escaped those who were pursuing himwith such keen determination!

 * * * * *

"It is very simple, " explained Juve to Monsieur Havard and Fandor, whoseemed deprived of speech. "Yes, it is simple enough; I guessed it atonce when I saw you fall, Monsieur Havard, just after Fantômas hadpressed the woodwork. "

"He pressed an electric button, did he not?"

"Yes, Fandor, he established a current!. . . The wretch must have placedpowerful electric magnets under the floor . . . And the moment he realisedthat it was impossible to brazen it out any longer--was on the verypoint of being arrested--he established the current . . . So we three werenailed to the ground by the attraction exercised by theseelectro-magnets on the nails of our shoes--he, Fantômas, was then freeto cut and run for it, whose shoes must certainly have had soles made ofsome insulating material. . . . "

Monsieur Havard and Fandor made no answer to this. 

To have held Fantômas at their mercy, if only for a minute; to havebelieved that they were going to lay hands on the atrocious criminal, at last; to have seen him slip through their fingers--the thought ofthis almost brought tears to their eyes: they were in a state of thedeepest despondency. 

"There's a curse on us!" cried Fandor. "This time, at any rate, we havenothing to reproach ourselves with! We could not foresee that!. . . " Then, to himself in a low tone, he added:

"Poor Elizabeth!. . . How are we to tell her that we have let herbrother's murderer escape?"

XXVIII

COURAGE

"Have some more chicken?"

"No, thanks: I am not hungry. "

"But you should eat all the same!"

"Are you eating anything yourself?"

"Faith, I am not!"

"Well, then?"

In the private room of the Fat-Pheasant restaurant, where Juve andFandor were dining, silence again fell. The two men sat motionless, gazing into space. They neither wished to eat food nor do anything atall. They were depressed to the last degree; they felt baffled: theywere sick of every mortal thing!

All of a sudden, Fandor burst into tears. Juve, looking at his dear ladin such grief, bit his lip; his face with wrinkled brow wore a dejected, worried look. 

An hour or two previous to that, Fandor, on returning to his flat, hadfound a black-edged envelope: the address in Elizabeth Dollon'shandwriting. Fandor had opened it with fast beating heart and tremblinghand!

For these past days, an evil Fate seemed relentlessly pursuing them. Nowhe feared to read of some fresh catastrophe. 

He was reassured by the opening lines; but as he read on, and took inthe meaning of Elizabeth's words, Fandor felt as though his heart werebursting with grief. 

Elizabeth Dollon had written:

"I seem to be going mad . . . Yes, I love you!. . . Yesterday, I should havebeen glad to become your wife; but there came by the same post as yourletter, another, which contained terrible revelations, proofs of theirtruth were given me!. . . I have not the right to curse you--or rather Ihave not the strength to do it; but never will I marry you, JérômeFandor, you, Charles Rambert!. . . "[11]

[Footnote 11: See _Fantômas_ and _The Exploits of Juve_. ]

It seemed to Fandor that everything was turning round about him. . . . Hetook a few steps, staggering. The weight of this terrible past, a pastin which he was the innocent victim, but of which he could not clearhimself, overwhelmed him!

Fandor cried, in a voice of despair:

"Fantômas! Fantômas has taken his revenge!"

And before the astounded portress, the unhappy young man turned aboutand fell in a heap on the ground. 

On the other hand, shortly after the extraordinary flight of thebanker--Nanteuil to the world in general--but Fantômas to him andFandor--Juve had received from Monsieur Annion, the supreme head of thepolice detective department, who only manifested himself on sensationaloccasions, a note sent by pneumatic post:

 "_Regret keenly that you revealed your personality in such ridiculous circumstances, and that you failed to arrest a great criminal. _"

As Juve read these observations, he clinched his fists: he grew lividwith rage!

Dinner was a mere farce to the two friends: they did not dine: they hadno appetite! Juve and Fandor went over and over in their minds thedeplorable events of which, all said and done, they were the victims. They gazed at each other full of self-pity. They felt they were twoderelicts afloat on the immense sea of indifferent humanity. 

"The worst suffering, " said Fandor, with tears of misery in his voice, "is the pain of love. "

"The most painful of wounds, " said Juve bitterly, "is a wound toself-respect!. . . "

These two, men every inch of them, might have their moments ofdiscouragement, but they were a sporting pair of the finest quality. 

"Fandor!"

"Juve?"

"You are courageous?"

"I have courage, Juve!"

"Very well, my lad, let us sponge out the past, and start off afresh inpursuit of Fantômas!. . . I tell you the struggle has only begun. . . . Listen!. . . "

END