Jérôme Fandor entered the room without a word. Juve closed the door
behind him. The boy was very pale and manifestly much upset.
"What is the matter?" said Juve.
"Something terrible has happened," the boy answered. "I have just heard
awful news: my poor father is dead!"
"What?" Juve exclaimed sharply. "M. Etienne Rambert dead?"
Jérôme Fandor put a newspaper into the detective's hand. "Read that," he
said, and pointed to an article on the front page with a huge head-line:
"_Wreck of the 'Lancaster': 150 Lives Lost._" There were tears in his
eyes, and he had such obvious difficulty in restraining his grief, that
Juve saw that to read the article would be the speediest way to find out
what had occurred.
The Red Star liner _Lancaster_, plying between Caracas and Southampton,
had gone down with all hands the night before, just off the Isle of
Wight, and at the moment of going to press only one person was known to
have been saved. There was a good sea running, but it was by no means
rough, and the vessel was still within sight of the lighthouse and
making for the open sea at full speed, when the lighthousemen suddenly
saw her literally blown into the air and then disappear beneath the
waves. The alarm was given immediately and boats of all kinds put off to
the scene of the disaster, but though a great deal of wreckage was still
floating about, only one man of the crew was seen, clinging to a spar;
he was picked up by the _Campbell_ and taken to hospital, where he was
interviewed by _The Times_, without, however, being able to throw any
light upon what was an almost unprecedented catastrophe in the history
of the sea. All he could say was that the liner had just got up full
speed and was making a perfectly normal beginning of her trip, when
suddenly a tremendous explosion occurred. He himself was engaged at the
moment fastening the tarpaulins over the baggage hold, and he was
confident that the explosion occurred among the cargo. But he could give
absolutely no more information: the entire ship seemed to be riven
asunder, and he was thrown into the sea, stunned, and knew no more until
he recovered consciousness and found himself aboard the _Campbell_.
"It's quite incomprehensible," Juve muttered; "surely there can't have
been any powder aboard? No explosives are carried on these great liners;
they only take passengers and the mails." He scanned the list of
passengers. "Etienne Rambert's name is given among the first-class
passengers, right enough," he said. "Well, it's odd!"
Jérôme Fandor heaved a profound sigh.
"It is a fatality which I shall never get over," he said. "When you told
me the other day that you knew I was innocent, I ought to have gone to
see my father, in spite of what you said. I am sure he would have
believed me and come to see you; then you could have convinced him, and
I should not have this horrible grief of remembering that he had died
without learning that his son was not a bad man, but was quite deserving
of his affection."
Jérôme Fandor was making a brave struggle to maintain his self-control,
and Juve looked at him without concealing the real sympathy he felt for
him in his grief. He put his hand kindly on his shoulder.
"Listen, my dear boy; odd as you may think it, you can take my word for
it that there is no need for you to despair; there is nothing to prove
that your father is dead; he may not have been on board."
The boy looked up in surprise.
"What do you mean, Juve?"
"I don't want to say anything, my boy, except that you would be very
wrong to give way to distress at present. If you have any confidence in
me, you may believe me when I say that. There is nothing yet to prove
that you have had this loss: and, besides, you still have your mother,
who is perfectly sure to get quite well: do you understand?--_perfectly
sure!_" He changed the subject abruptly. "There is one thing I should
like to know: what the dickens brought you here?"
"You were the first person I thought of in my trouble," Fandor replied.
"Directly I read about the disaster in that paper I came to tell you at
once."
"Yes, I quite understand that," Juve answered. "What I do not understand
is how you guessed that you would find me here, in Gurn's flat."
The question seemed to perturb the boy.
"It--it was quite by chance," he stammered.
"That is the kind of explanation one offers to fools," Juve retorted.
"By what chance did you see me come into this house? What the deuce were
you doing in the rue Lévert?" The lad showed some inclination to make
for the door, but Juve stayed him peremptorily. "Answer my question,
please: how did you know I was here?"
Driven into a corner, the boy blurted out the truth:
"I had followed you."
"Followed me?" Juve exclaimed. "Where from?"
"From your rooms."
"You mean, and you may as well own up to it at once, that you were
shadowing me."
"Well, yes, M. Juve, it is true," Fandor confessed, all in one breath.
"I was shadowing you: I do every day!"
Juve was dumbfounded.
"Every day? And I never saw you! Gad, you are jolly clever! And may I
enquire why you have been exercising this supervision over me?"
Jérôme Fandor hung his head.
"Forgive me," he faltered; "I have been very stupid. I thought you--I
thought you were--Fantômas!"
The idea tickled the detective so much that he dropped back into a chair
to laugh at his ease.
"'Pon my word," he said, "you have an imagination! And what made you
suppose that I was Fantômas?"
"M. Juve," Fandor said earnestly, "I made a vow that I would find out
the truth, and discover the scoundrel who has made such awful havoc of
my life. But I did not know where to begin. From all you have said I
realised that Fantômas was a most extraordinarily clever man; I did not
know anyone who could be cleverer than you; and so I watched you! It was
merely logical!"
Far from being angry, Juve was rather flattered.
"I am amazed by what you have just told me, my boy," he said with a
smile. "In the first place your reasoning is not at all bad. Of course
it is obvious that I cannot suspect myself of being Fantômas, but I
quite admit that if I were in your place I might make the supposition,
wild as it may seem. And, in the next place, you have shadowed me
without my becoming aware of the fact, and that is very good indeed: a
proof that you are uncommonly smart." He looked at the lad attentively
for a few moments, and then went on more gravely: "Are you satisfied now
that your hypothesis was wrong? Or do you still suspect me?"
"No, I don't suspect you now," Fandor declared; "not since I saw you
come into this house; Fantômas certainly would not have come to search
Gurn's rooms because----"
He stopped, and Juve, who was looking at him keenly, did not make him
finish what he was saying.
"Shall I tell you something?" he said at last. "If you continue to
display as much thought and initiative in the career you have chosen as
you have just displayed, you will very soon be the first newspaper
detective of the day!" He jumped up and led the boy off. "Come along:
I've got to go to the Law Courts at once."
"You've found out something fresh?"
"I'm going to ask them to call an interesting witness in the Gurn
affair."
* * * * *
Rain had been falling heavily all the morning and afternoon, but within
the last few minutes it had almost stopped. Dollon, the steward, put his
hand out of the window and found that only a few drops were falling now
from the heavy grey sky.
He was an invaluable servant, and a few months after the death of the
Marquise de Langrune, the Baronne de Vibray had gladly offered him a
situation, and a cottage on her estate at Querelles.
He walked across the room, and called his son.
"Jacques, would you like to come with me? I am going down to the river
to see that the sluices have been opened properly. The banks are
anything but sound, and these rains will flood us out one of these
days."
The steward and his son went down the garden towards the stream which
formed one boundary of Mme. de Vibray's park.
"Look, father," Jacques exclaimed, "the postman is calling us."
The postman, a crusty but good-hearted fellow, came hurrying up to the
steward.
"You do make me run, M. Dollon," he complained. "I went to your house
this morning to take you a letter, but you weren't there."
"You might have left it with anybody."
"Excuse me!" the man retorted; "it's against the regulations: I've got
an official letter for you, and I can only give it to you yourself," and
he held out an envelope which Dollon tore open.
"Magistrates' office?" he said enquiringly, as he glanced at the heading
of the notepaper. "Who can be writing to me from the Law Courts?" He
read the letter aloud:
"Sir: As time does not permit of a regular summons being sent to you by
an usher of the court, I beg you to be so good as to come to Paris
immediately, the day after to-morrow if possible, and attend at my
office, where your depositions are absolutely required to conclude a
case in which you are interested. Please bring, without exception, all
the papers and documents entrusted to you by the Clerk of Assizes at
Cahors, at the conclusion of the Langrune enquiry."
"It is signed Germain Fuselier," Dollon remarked. "I've often seen his
name in the papers. He is a very well-known magistrate, and is employed
in many criminal cases." He read the letter through once more, and
turned to the postman. "Will you take a glass of wine, Muller?"
"That's a thing I never say 'no' to."
"Well, go into the house with Jacques, and while he is attending to you
I will write a reply telegram which you can take to the office for me."
While the man was quenching his thirst Dollon wrote his reply:
"Will leave Verrières to-morrow evening by 7.20 train, arriving Paris 5
A.M. Wire appointment at your office to me at Hôtel Francs-Bourgeois,
152 rue du Bac."
He read the message over, signed it "Dollon" and considered.
"I wonder what they can want me for? Oh, if only they have found out
something about the Langrune affair, how glad I shall be!"