E-text prepared by Woodie4, Suzanne Shell, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from digital
material generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
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Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
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There has been some confusion about the authors of
this book. The cover credits Pierre Souvestre and
Marcel Allain, but the title page lists Émile
Souvestre and Marcel Allain. Pierre Souvestre
(1874-1914) and Marcel Allain (1885-1969) were
contemporaries, while Émile Souvestre (1806-1854)
was the great-uncle of Pierre and died before
Marcel Allain was born.
THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE
Being the Second of the Series of the "Fantômas" Detective Tales
by
EMILE SOUVESTRE and MARCEL ALLAIN
New York
Brentano's
1917
Copyright, 1917, by Brentano's
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE COMRADES' TRYST 1
II. ON THE TRACK 14
III. BEHIND THE CURTAIN 22
IV. A WOMAN'S CORPSE 33
V. LOUPART'S ANGER 42
VI. THE LÂRIBOISIÈRE HOSPITAL 50
VII. A REVOLVER SHOT 58
VIII. THE SEARCH FOR THE CRIMINAL 64
IX. IN THE REFRIGERATORY 70
X. THE BLOODY SIGNATURE 75
XI. THE SHOWER OF SAND 81
XII. FOLLOWING JOSEPHINE 90
XIII. ROBBERY; AMERICAN FASHION 99
XIV. FLIGHT THROUGH THE NIGHT 107
XV. THE SIMPLON EXPRESS DISASTER 113
XVI. A DRAMA AT THE BERCY WAREHOUSE 118
XVII. ON THE SLABS OF THE MORGUE 131
XVIII. FANTÔMAS' VICTIM 142
XIX. THE ENGLISHWOMAN OF BOULEVARD INKERMANN 147
XX. THE ARREST OF JOSEPHINE 153
XXI. AT THE MONTMARTRE FÊTE 165
XXII. THE PUGILIST'S WHIM 176
XXIII. "STATE'S EVIDENCE" 185
XXIV. A MYSTERIOUS CLASP 192
XXV. THE TRAP 204
XXVI. AT THE HOUSE OF BONARDIN, THE ACTOR 212
XXVII. THE MOTHER SUPERIOR 222
XXVIII. AN OLD PARALYTIC 230
XXIX. THROUGH THE WINDOW 238
XXX. UNCLE AND NEPHEW 245
XXXI. LOVERS AND ACCOMPLICES 256
XXXII. THE SILENT EXECUTIONER 268
XXXIII. A SCANDAL IN THE CLOISTER 280
XXXIV. FANTÔMAS' REVENGE 291
EXPLOITS OF JUVE
I
THE COMRADES' TRYST
"A bowl of claret, Father Korn."
The raucous voice of big Ernestine rose above the hubbub in the
smoke-begrimed tavern.
"Some claret, and let it be good," repeated the drab, a big, fair damsel
with puckered eyes and features worn by dissipation.
Father Korn had heard the first time, but he was in no hurry to comply
with the order.
He was a bald, whiskered giant, and at the moment was busily engaged in
swilling dirty glasses in a sink filled with tepid water.
This tavern, "The Comrades' Tryst," had two rooms, each with its
separate exit. Mme. Korn presided over the first in which food and drink
were served. By passing through the door at the far end, and crossing
the inner courtyard of the large seven-story building, the second "den"
was reached--a low and ill-lit room facing the Rue de la Charbonnière,
a street famed in the district for its bad reputation.
At a third summons, Father Korn, who had sized up the girl and the crowd
she was with, growled:
"It'll be two moons; hand over the stuff first."
Big Ernestine rose, and pushing her way to him, began a long argument.
When she stopped to draw a breath, Korn interposed:
"It's no use trying that game. I said two francs and two francs it is."
"All right, I won't argue with a brute like you," replied the girl.
"Everyone knows that you and Mother Korn are Germans, dirty Prussians."
The innkeeper smiled quietly and went on washing his glasses.
Big Ernestine glanced around the room. She knew the crowd and quickly
decided that the cash would not be forthcoming.
For a moment she thought of tackling old Mother Toulouche, ensconced in
the doorway with her display of portugals and snails, but dame
Toulouche, snuggled in her old shawl, was fast asleep.
Suddenly from a corner of the tavern, a weary voice cried with
authority:
"Go ahead, Korn, I'll stand treat."
It was the Sapper who had spoken.
A man of fifty who owed his nickname to the current report that he had
spent twenty years in Africa, both as a soldier and a convict.
While Ernestine and her friends hastened to his table, the Sapper's
companion, a heavily built man, rose carelessly and slouched off to join
another group, muttering:
"I'm too near the window here."
"It's Nonet," explained the Sapper to Ernestine. "He's home from New
Caledonia, and he doesn't care to show himself much just now."
The girl nodded, and pointing to one of her companions, became
confidential. "Look at poor Mimile, here. He's just out of quod and has
to start right off to do his service. Pretty tough."
The Sapper became very interested in the conversation. Meanwhile Nonet,
as he crossed the tap-room, had stopped a few moments before a pretty
girl who was evidently expecting some one.
"Waiting again for the Square, eh, Josephine?" Nonet inquired.
The girl, whose big blue eyes contrasted strikingly with her jet black
hair, replied:
"Why not? Loupart doesn't think of quitting me that I know of."
"Well, when he does let me know," Nonet suggested smilingly.
Josephine shrugged her shoulders contemptuously, and, glancing at the
clock above the bar, rose suddenly and left the tap-room.
She went rapidly down the Rue Charbonnière and along the boulevard, in
the direction of the Barbès Metropolitan Station. On reaching the level
of the Boulevard Magenta, she slackened and walked along the right-hand
pavement toward the centre of Paris.
"My little Jojo!"
The girl who, after leaving the tavern, had assumed a quiet and modest
air, now came face to face with a stout gentleman with a jovial face and
one gleaming eye, the other eye being permanently closed. He wore a
beard turning grey and his derby hat and light cane placed him as
belonging to the middle class.
"How late you are, my adored Jojo," he murmured tenderly. "That accursed
workshop been keeping you again after hours?"
The mistress of Loupart checked a smile.
"That's it!" she replied, "the workshop, M. Martialle."
The man addressed made a warning gesture.
"Don't mention my name here; I'm almost home." He pulled out his watch.
"Too bad; I'll have to go in or my wife will kick up a row. Let's see,
this is Tuesday; well, Saturday I'm off to Burgundy on my usual
half-monthly trip. Meet me at the Lyons station, platform No. 2,
Marseilles express. We won't be back till Monday. A delightful week-end
of love-making with my darling who at last consents.... What's that!"
The stout man broke off his impassioned harangue. A beggar, emerging
from the darkness, importuned him:
"Have pity on me, kind sir."
"Give him something," urged Josephine.
The middle-aged lover complied and tenderly drew away the pretty girl,
repeating carefully the details of the assignation:
"Lyons Station; a quarter past eight. The train leaves at twenty to
nine."
Then suddenly dropping Josephine's arm:
"Now, sweetheart, you'd better hurry home to your good mother, and
remember Saturday."
The outline of the portly personage faded into the night. Loupart's
mistress shrugged her shoulders, turned, and made her way back to the
"Tryst," where her place had been kept for her.
At the back of the tavern, the group which Nonet had joined were
discussing strange doings. "The Bear," head of the band of the Cyphers,
had just returned from the courthouse. He brought the latest news.
Riboneau had been given ten years, but was going to try for a reduced
sentence.
The talk suddenly dropped. A hubbub arose outside, a dull roar which
waxed louder and louder. The sound of hurrying footsteps mingled with
shrill cries and oaths. Doors in the street slammed. A few shots were
fired, followed by a pause, and then the stampede began again.
Father Korn, deserting his bar, warily planted himself at the entry to
his establishment, his hand on the latch of the door. He stood ready to
bar entrance to any who might try to press in.
"The raid," he warned in a low tone.
His customers, glad to feel themselves in safety, followed the
vicissitudes of what to them was almost a daily occurrence.
First came the frenzied rush of the "street walkers," deserted by their
sinister protectors and fleeing madly in search of shelter in terror of
the lock-up. Behind the shrieking herd the constables, in close ranks,
swept and cleared the street, leaving no corner, no court, no door that
remained ajar unsearched. Then the whirl swept away, the noise died
down, and the street resumed its normal aspect: drab, weird and
alarming.
Father Korn laughed. "All they've bagged is Bonzville!" he cried, and
the customers responded to his merriment. The police had been fooled
again. Bonzville was a harmless old tramp, who got himself "jugged"
every winter on purpose to lay up for repairs.
The passage of the "driver" had caused enough stir in the tap-room to
distract attention from the entry at the back of a stoutly built man
with a bestial face, known by the title of "The Cooper."
Swiftly he passed to the Beard's table, and, taking the latter aside,
began:
"The big job is fixed for the end of the week. On my way back from the
station I saw Josephine palavering with the swell customer...."
Suddenly the Beard stopped him short.
The general attention had become fixed on the street entrance to the
tap-room. The door had opened with a bang and Loupart, alias "The
Square," the popular lover of the pretty Josephine, came on the scene,
his eyes gleaming, his lips smiling under his upturned moustache.
Then there broke out cries of stupefaction. Loupart was between two
policemen, who had stopped short in the doorway.
The Square turned to them: "Thank you, gentlemen," he said in his most
urbane tone. "I am very grateful to you for having seen me this far. I
am quite safe now. Let me offer you a drink to the health of authority!"
However, the two policemen did not dare to enter the tavern, so they
briefly declined and made off. Josephine had risen, and Loupart, after
pressing a tender kiss upon her lips, turned to the company.
"That feazes you, eh! I was just heading this way when I ran into the
drive. As I'm a peaceful citizen, I got hold of two cops and begged them
to see me safely home. They thought I was really scared."
There was a burst of general laughter. No one could bluff the police
like the Square.
Loupart turned to Josephine: "How are things going, ducky?"
The girl repeated in a low tone to her lover her recent talk with M.
Martialle.
Loupart nodded approvingly, but grumbled when he found the meeting was
fixed for Saturday.
"Hang the fellow! Must hustle with all the jobs on hand this week.
Anyway, we won't let this one slip by. Plenty of shiners, eh,
Josephine?"
"You bet. He carries the stuff to his partners every fortnight."
"That's first rate, but in the meantime there's something doing
to-night. Here, kiddy, take a pen and scratch off a letter for me."
The Square dictated in a low voice:
"Sir, I am only a poor girl, but I've some feeling and honesty and I
hate to see wrong done around me. Believe me, you'd better keep an eye
open on some one pretty close to me. Maybe the police have already told
you I am the mistress of Loupart, alias the Square. I'm not denying it;
in fact, I'm proud of it. Well, I swear to you that this Loupart is
going to try a dirty game."
Josephine stopped writing.
"Look here, what are you at?"
"Scribble, and don't bother yourself. This doesn't concern you," replied
Loupart drily.
Josephine waited, docile and ready, but the Square's attention was now
focussed upon Ernestine, her young man and the generous Sapper.
"Yes," Ernestine was explaining to Mimile while the Sapper nodded
approvingly, "the Beard is, as you might say, the head of the band of
Cyphers, next to Loupart, of course. To belong to the Beard's gang
you've got to have done up at least one guy. Then you get your Number 1.
Your figure increases according to the number of deaders you have to
your credit."
"So then," inquired Mimile, with eager curiosity, "Riboneau, who has
just been sentenced, is called number 'seven' because ..."
"Because," added the Sapper in his serious voice, "because he has killed
off seven."
In a few curt questions the Square posted himself as to young Mimile,
who had impressed him favourably.
Josephine turned to Loupart: "What else am I to put in the letter? Why
are you stopping?"
For answer, the Square suddenly sprang to his feet, seized a half-empty
bottle and flung it on the floor, where it broke. This act of violence
sent the company scattering, and Loupart roared out:
"It's on account of spies that I'm stopping! By God! When are we going
to see their finish? And besides," he added, staring hard at Ernestine,
"I've had enough of all this nonsense; better clear out of here or
there'll be trouble."
Cunningly, with bloodshot eyes, her fists clenched in fury, but humbly
submissive, the girl made ready to comply. She knew the Square was
master, and there was no use standing out against his will.
The Sapper himself, growling, picked up his change, little disposed to
have a row, and beckoning to his comrade, Nonet, effected a humble exit
under cover of the girl Ernestine.
Loupart's arm fell upon the shoulder of Mimile, who alone seemed to defy
Josephine's formidable lover.
"Hold on, young 'un," ordered Loupart. "You seem to have some nerve;
better join us."
Mimile's eyes lighted up with joy.
"Oh!" he stammered, "Loupart, you'll take me in the Cypher gang?"
"Maybe," was the enigmatic reply. Then with a shove he sent the young
man to the back of the den. "Must go and talk it over with the Beard."
Without paying heed to the thanks of his new recruit, Loupart continued
his dictation to Josephine.
As the Sapper and Nonet went quickly down the Rue Charbonnière, Nonet
inquired:
"Well, chief, what do you think of our evening?"
The individual that the hooligans of La Chapelle knew by the nickname of
the Sapper, and who was no other than Inspector Michel, slowly stroked
his long beard:
"Not much," he declared, "except that we've been bluffed by the Square."
"Why not round up the bunch?" suggested Nonet, who was known as
Inspector Léon.
"It's easy enough to talk, but what can two do against twenty? Who wants
to take such risks for sixty dollars a month?"
In the meantime Josephine was writing at the Square's dictation:
"I know, sir, that to-morrow Loupart will be at Garnet's wine-shop
at seven o'clock, which you know is to the right as you go up the
Faubourg Montmartre, before you reach the Rue Lamartine. From there
he will go to Doctor Chaleck's to tackle the safe, which is placed,
as I told you, at the far side of the study, facing the window,
with its balcony overlooking the garden. I wouldn't have meddled in
the matter except that there'll be something worse regarding a
woman. I can't tell you any more, for this is all I know. Make the
best of it, and for God's sake never let Loupart know the letter
was sent to you by the undersigned.
"Very respectfully,"
About to sign her name, Josephine looked up, trembling and anxious.
"What does it mean, Loupart? You've been drinking, I'm sure you have!"
"Sign, I tell you," calmly replied the Square, and the girl, hypnotised,
proceeded to trace in her large clumsy hand, her name, "Josephine
Ramot."
"Now put it in an envelope."
From the end of the saloon the Beard was signalling Loupart.
"What is it?" the latter cried, annoyed at the interruption.
The Beard came near and whispered:
"Important business. The dock man's scheme is going well--it'll be for
the end of the week, Saturday at latest."
"In four days, then?"
"In four days."
"All right," declared Josephine's lover, "we'll be on hand. It'll be a
big haul, I hear."
"Fifty thousand at least, the Cooper told me."
Loupart nodded, waved the Beard aside and resumed:
"Address it to
"Monsieur Juve,
"Commissioner of Safety,
"At the Prefecture, Paris."
II
ON THE TRACK
The daily paper, _The Capital_, was about to go to press. The editors
had handed over the last slips of copy with the latest news.
"Well, Fandor," asked the Secretary, "nothing more for me?"
"No, nothing."
"You won't spring a 'latest' on me?"
"Not unless the President of the Republic should be assassinated."
"Right enough. But don't joke. Lord, there's something else to be done
just now."
The "setter up" appeared in the editor's rooms:
"I want sharp type for 'one,' and eight lines for 'two.'"
Discreetly, as a man accustomed to the business, Fandor withdrew on
hearing the request of the "setter up," avoiding the searching glance of
the sub-editor, who forthwith to meet the demands of the paging, called
at random one of the reporters and passed on the order to him.
"Some lines of special type; eight lines. Take up the Cretan question on
the Havas telegrams. Be quick!"
Fandor picked up his hat and stick and left the office. His berth as
police-reporter meant a constantly active and unsettled existence. He
was never his own master, never knew ten minutes beforehand what he was
going to do, whether he might go home, start on a journey, interview a
minister or risk his life by an investigation in the world of thugs and
cut-throats.
"Deuce take it!" he cried as he passed the office door and saw what the
time was. "I simply must go to the courts, and it's already very
late...." He ran forward a few paces, then stopped short. "And that
porter murdered at Belleville!... If I don't cover that affair I shall
have nothing interesting to turn in...."
He retraced his steps, looking for a cab and swearing at the narrowness
of the Rue Montmartre, where the inadequate pavements forced the foot
passengers to overflow on to the roadway, which was choked with
costermongers' carts, heavy motor-buses, and all that swarm of vehicles
which gives a Paris street an air of bustle unequalled in any other
capital in the world. As he was about to pass the corner of the Rue
Bergère, a porter laden down with sample boxes, strung on a hook, ran
into him, almost knocking him down.
"Look where you're going!" cried the journalist.
"Look out yourself," replied the man insolently.
Fandor, with an angry shrug of his shoulders, was about to pursue his
way, when the man stopped him.
"Sir, can you direct me to the Rue du Croissant?"
"Follow the Rue Montmartre and take the second turning to the right."
"Thank you, sir; could you give me a light?"
Fandor could not repress a smile. He held out his cigarette. "Here; is
that all you want to-day?"
"Well, you might offer me a drink."
Fandor was about to answer sharply when something in the man's face
seemed vaguely familiar. He was about sixty. His clothes were threadbare
and green with age, his shoes down at the heels, his moustache and
shaggy beard a dirty yellow.
"Why the devil should I stand you a drink?"
"A good impulse, M. Fandor."
In a moment the man's features seemed to change. He appeared quite a
different person and Fandor recognised who was speaking to him.
Accustomed by long habit to conceal his impressions, the journalist
spoke nonchalantly:
"All right; let's go to the 'Grand Charlemagne.'"
They started off together, reached the Faubourg Montmartre and entered a
small wine-shop. Having taken their seats and ordered drinks, Fandor
turned to the porter.
"What's up?" he asked.
"It takes you a long time to recognise your friends."
Fandor scrutinised his companion.
"You are wonderfully made up, Juve."
On hearing his name mentioned, the man gave a start. "Don't utter my
name! They know me here as old Paul."
"But why the disguise? Who are you after? Is it anything to do with
Fantômas?"
Juve shrugged his shoulders. "Let's leave Fantômas out of it," he said.
"At least for the moment. No, my lad, it's a very commonplace affair
to-day, and I wouldn't have bumped into you except that I have an hour
to while away and wanted your company."
"This disguise for a commonplace affair?" cried Fandor. "Come, Juve,
don't keep me in the dark."
Juve laughed at his friend's eagerness.
"You'll always be the same. When it's a matter of detective work,
there's no keeping you out of it. Well, here's the information you're
after. Read that."
He passed Fandor a greasy, ill-written letter. Fandor took it in at a
glance.
"This refers to Loupart, alias the Square?"
"Yes."
"And you call it a commonplace affair? But, look here, can you trust
information given by a loose woman?"
"My dear Fandor, the police largely depend upon such tips, given through
revenge by women of that class."
"Well, I'm going with you."
"No, I won't have you mixed up in this business; it's too dangerous."
"All the more reason for my being in it! What is really known about this
Loupart?"
"Very little, unfortunately," rejoined Juve. "And it's the mystery
surrounding him which makes us uneasy. Although he has been involved in
some of the worst crimes, he has always managed to escape arrest. He is
supposed to be one of an organised gang. In any case, he's a resolute
scoundrel who wouldn't hesitate to draw his gun in case of need."
Fandor nodded.
"His arrest will make bully copy."
"And for the pleasure of writing a sensational story you want to put
your life in peril again!" Juve smiled sympathetically as he spoke. He
had known the young journalist, when, scarcely grown up, he had been
involved in the weird affairs of "Fantômas."
Fandor was an assumed name. Juve recalled the young Charles Rambert,
victim of the mysterious Fantômas, the most redoubtable ruffian of
modern times, whom Juve declared to be Gurn and still alive, although
Gurn had supposedly died on the scaffold. He recalled the sensational
trial and the terrible revelations that had appalled society. Gurn he
had then affirmed to be the lover of the Englishwoman, Lady Beltham.
Gurn it was who had killed her husband, and Gurn was no other than
Fantômas.
He recalled the tragical morning when Gurn, in the very shadow of the
scaffold, had found means to send in his stead an innocent victim,
Valgrand, the actor.
"When will you begin to draw in your net?" inquired Fandor.
Juve motioned to his companion to be silent and listen.
"Fandor, you hear what that man's singing; the one drinking at the
bar?"
"Yes, 'The Blue Danube.'"
"Well, that gives me the answer. We shall soon be on Loupart's tracks.
By the way, are you armed?"
"If you won't run me in for carrying concealed weapons I'll confess that
Baby Browning is in my pocket."
"Good. Now, then, listen to my directions. Loupart was seen at the
markets this morning by two of my watchers, and you may be sure he
hasn't been lost sight of since. Reports I have received indicate that
he will presumably go to the Chateaudun cross-roads and from there to
the Place Pigalle, in the direction of Doctor Chaleck's house. We shall
nab him at the cross-roads. Needless to say we are not going to keep
together. As soon as our man comes in sight you will pass on ahead,
walking at his pace on the same pavement and without turning round."
"And if Loupart doesn't appear?"
"Why then--" began Juve. "The deuce! There's another customer whistling
'The Blue Danube.' It's time to be off."
"Are those your agents whistling?" asked Fandor, as they left the shop.
"No."
"What! Isn't it a signal?"
"It is, and you'll be able to find your trail by the passers-by who
whistle that air."
While talking, the journalist and the detective arrived at the
Chateaudun cross-roads. Juve cast an eye over the ground.
"It's six o'clock. Be off and prowl around Notre Dame de Lorette.
Loupart will probably come out of that wine-shop you see to the right.
You can easily recognise him by his height and a scar on his left
cheek."
"Look here, Juve, why should these people whistle 'The Blue Danube' if
they are not detectives?"
Juve smiled. "It's quite simple. If you whistle a popular tune in a
crowd, some one is bound to take it up. Well, the two men I put to
watching Loupart this morning were whistling this same tune, and now we
are meeting persons who caught the air."
Fandor crossed the road and proceeded toward Notre Dame de Lorette to
the post the detective had allotted to him. The man hunt was about to
begin.
III
BEHIND THE CURTAIN
The Cité Frochot is shut in by low stone walls, topped by grating round
which creepers intertwine.
The entry to its main thoroughfare, shaded by trees and lined with small
private houses, is not supposed to be public, and a porter's lodge to
the right of the entrance is intended to enforce its private character.
It was about seven in the evening. As the fine spring day drew to a
close, Fandor reached the square of the Cité. For an hour past the
journalist had been wholly engaged in keeping track of the famous
Loupart, who, after leaving the saloon, had sauntered up the Rue des
Martyrs, his hands in his pockets and a cigarette in his mouth.
Fandor allowed him to pass at the corner of the Rue Claude, and from
there on kept him in view.
Juve had completely disappeared.
As Loupart, followed by Fandor, was about to enter the Cité Frochot, an
exclamation made them both turn.
Fandor perceived a poorly dressed man anxiously searching for something
in the gutter. A curious crowd had instantly collected, and word was
passed round that the lost object was a twenty-five-franc gold piece.
Fandor, joining the crowd, was pushed close to the man, who quickly
whispered:
"Idiot! Keep out of the Cité."
The owner of the gold piece was no other than the detective. Then, under
cover of loud complaint, Juve muttered to Fandor, "Let him go! Watch the
entrance to the Cité!"
"But," objected Fandor in the same key, "what if I lose sight of him?"
"No fear of that. The doctor's house is the second on the right." The
hooligan, who had for a moment drawn near the crowd, was now heading
straight for the Cité.
Juve went on: "In a quarter of an hour at the latest join me again, 27
Rue Victor Massé."
"And if Loupart should enter the Cité in the meantime?"
"Come straight back to me."
Fandor was moving off when Juve addressed him out loud: "Thank you, kind
gentlemen! But as you are so charitable, give me something more for
God's sake."
The other drew near the pretended beggar and Juve added:
"If anyone questions you as you pass through, say you are going to
Omareille, the decorator's; you'll find me on the stairs."
Some moments later the little crowd had melted away and a policeman,
arriving as usual too late, wondered what had been going on.
Fandor carried out Juve's instructions to the letter. Hiding behind a
sentry box he kept an eye on the doctor's house, but nothing out of the
way happened. Loupart had vanished, although he was probably not far
away. When the fifteen minutes were up Fandor left his post and entered
No. 27 Rue Victor Massé. As he reached the third floor he heard Juve's
voice:
"Is that you, lad?"
"Yes."
"The porter didn't question you?"
"I've seen no one."
"All right, come up here."
Juve was seated at a hall window examining Doctor Chaleck's house
through a field glass.
"You've not seen Loupart go in?" he inquired as Fandor joined him.
"Not while I was on watch."
"It's well to know one's Paris and have friends everywhere, isn't it?"
continued Juve. "It occurred to me quite suddenly that this might be an
excellent place from where to follow citizen Loupart's doings. You would
have spoiled everything if you had followed him into the Cité. That's
why I devised my little scheme to hold you back."
"You are right," admitted Fandor, who, the next moment, gave a jump as
Juve's hand gripped him hard.
"Look, Fandor! The bird is going into the cage!"
The journalist, excited, saw a figure already familiar to him in the act
of slipping into the little garden which separated Dr. Chaleck's house
from the main thoroughfare.
The detective went on: "There he goes, skirting the house until he
reaches the little door hidden in the wall. What's he up to now? Ah!
He's fumbling in his pocket. False keys, of course."
They saw Loupart open the door and make his way into the house.
"What comes next?" inquired Fandor.
"We are going to tighten the net which the silly bird has hopped into,"
rejoined Juve, as he bolted down the stairs, and added as a
precautionary measure: "While I question the porter, you slip by me
into the main street. I have every reason to believe that M. Chaleck has
been absent for two days, and as soon as I get this information, I shall
pretend to go away, and then--the rest is my concern."
Juve's program was carried out in all points.
To his questions, the porter replied:
"Why, sir, I can't really say. I saw Doctor Chaleck go off with his bag
and I haven't seen him come back. However, if you care to see for
yourself----"
"No, thanks," replied Juve, "I'll return in a few days. But look out,
your lamp's flaring!"
As the porter turned to remedy the trouble, Juve, instead of going off
to the right, quickly followed the direction Fandor had taken and caught
up with the latter just outside Doctor Chaleck's house.
"Now for our plan of campaign," he said. "It's darker now than it will
be later when the street lamps are lit and the moon rises. That
excellent Josephine sent me a rough plan of the house. You see there are
two windows on the ground floor on either side of the hall. Naturally
they belong to the dining-room and drawing-room. The window to the right
on the first floor is evidently that of the bedroom. On the left, this
window with a balcony belongs to the study of our dealer in death!
That's where we must plant ourselves. Understand, Fandor?"
The journalist nodded. "I understand."
The two men advanced carefully, holding their breath and halting at
every step. To catch the ruffian in the act they must reach the study
without giving the alarm.
The first story of Doctor Chaleck's house was only slightly raised above
the ground: by the aid of a drain-pipe, Juve and Fandor managed without
difficulty to hoist themselves on to the balcony.
"Here's luck," cried Juve. "The study window is wide open!"
After putting on a pair of rubbers and making Fandor remove his boots,
the two men entered the room. Juve's first precaution was to test the
two halves of the window. Finding that their hinges did not creak, he
fastened the latch and drew the curtains.
"We'll risk a light," he whispered, taking out a pocket-lamp, which lit
up the room sufficiently to allow him to take his bearings.
The study was elegantly furnished. In the middle was a huge desk piled
with papers, reports, and files. To the right of the desk in the corner
opposite the window and half hidden by a heavy velvet curtain was the
door leading to the landing. A large corner sofa occupied the space of
two wall panels. A set of book-shelves covered a whole wall. Here and
there cosy armchairs invited meditation.
"I don't see the famous safe," Murmured Fandor.
"That's because your eyes aren't trained," replied the detective. "Look
at that corner sofa, topped by that richly carved bracket. Observe the
thick appearance of the delicate mahogany panel. You may be quite sure
that it hides a solid steel casket which the best tools would have no
easy job to cut through. That little moulding you see to the right can
be easily pushed aside."
Here Juve, with the precision of an expert, set the woodwork in motion
and showed the astonished Fandor a scarcely visible key-hole.
"Now, let's put out the light and hide ourselves behind the curtains.
Luckily they are far enough from the window for our presence not to be
noticed."
For about an hour the men remained motionless, then, weary of standing,
they squatted on the floor. Each had his revolver ready to hand.
Ten had just struck from a distant clock when suddenly a slight sound
reached their attentive ears.
The two had whiled away the time of waiting by drilling the curtains
with a small penknife. These holes were invisible at a distance, but
enabled them to see what was going on in the room.
The noise continued, slow and measured; some one was walking about in
the adjacent rooms without any attempt to disguise the sound. Evidently
Loupart believed himself quite alone in the house of the absent doctor.
The steps drew nearer, and Fandor, in spite of his courage, felt the
rapid beating of his heart. The handle of the door leading from the hall
to the study was turned, and some person entered the room.
There was an instant of silence, and then the desk was suddenly lit up.
The new-comer had found the switch. But he was not Loupart.
He seemed a man of forty and wore a brown beard, brushed fan-shape; a
noticeable baldness heightened his forehead. On his strongly arched nose
a double eye-glass was balanced. Suddenly, having looked at the clock
which marked half-past eleven, he began to loosen his tie and unbutton
his waistcoat and then went out, leaving the study lit as if intending
to come back.
"It's Chaleck!" exclaimed Fandor.
"Just so," replied the detective. "And this complicates matters; we may
have to protect him as well as his safe."
Indeed, Juve's first impulse was to go straight to Doctor Chaleck,
apprise him of the situation, and, under his guidance, search the house
thoroughly. But that would have put Loupart on the alert. It would be
taking too great a chance. If Juve should lay hands on him outside of
Chaleck's house he would have no right to hold him. For the subtle power
of Loupart, that well-loved hooligan of the purlieus of Paris, lay in
his remaining constantly a source of fear, always a suspect without ever
being caught with the goods.
Coming back to his first idea of insuring Chaleck's safety, Juve said to
himself: "The doctor is coming back here, that's sure, and we must
protect him without his knowing it. That is the best plan for the
present."
Sure enough after an absence of ten minutes Chaleck returned to the
study and seated himself at his desk. He had now changed into his
pajamas.
Time passed.
When the little Empire time piece which decorated the mantel struck
three, Fandor, for all his anxiety, could not repress a yawn: the night
was long and thus far had been devoid of incidents. From their
hiding-place, he and Juve kept an eye on Doctor Chaleck. When did the
man sleep?
Nothing in the physician's countenance betrayed the slightest weariness.
He examined numerous documents spread out on the desk, and also wrote a
letter which he sealed by lighting a candle and melting some wax. He
lingered a good twenty minutes afterwards, then finally put out the
lights and left the room.
The room was now in total darkness. The journalist and the detective
listened a few moments longer as a precaution, but nothing happened to
break the hush of the waning night.
Half an hour more and the outlines of the two would be visible on the
thin curtains. It was high time to be off.
Fandor and Juve rose with difficulty to their feet, so cramped were
their legs from the enforced rigidity.
"What now?" asked Fandor.
"Listen!" Juve abruptly gripped the other's arm as a fresh noise came to
their ears. This time it was not the footsteps of a man walking
carelessly, but weird creakings, sly gropings. The noise stopped, began
again and again stopped. Where did it come from?
"This room is a mass of hangings," muttered Juve.
"It's impossible to locate those sounds or determine their origin."
"You would suppose," began Fandor----
But he stopped short. The door had opened, the light was switched on
and Doctor Chaleck appeared once more, probably disturbed in his sleep
by the mysterious noises.
Chaleck gave a quick glance round the room, and then, to the
consternation of the two men, he took a few steps toward the window,
revolver in hand. At this moment dull creakings were heard, apparently
coming from the landing. Chaleck turned quickly, and, leaving the door
open, went out. An increase of light indicated that the other rooms in
the house were being searched, and as the lights were gradually switched
off again, it was apparent that Chaleck was concluding his domiciliary
visit without having noticed anything abnormal.
The two remained still for an hour longer, although they had heard
Chaleck go back to his room and lock himself into it.
Meantime the daylight was growing brighter, and in a little while the
neighbourhood would be awake.
"We must slip out," decreed Juve, as he turned the hasp of the window
with infinite care and set it ajar to reach the balcony.
A few moments later Juve had shed his disguise and the two men drew
breath in the middle of the Place Pigalle, having fled ignominiously
like common criminals.
IV
A WOMAN'S CORPSE
"Well, Juve, I suppose you'll agree with me that Josephine's information
was a piece of pure fiction," said Fandor as they turned into the Rue
Pigalle.
"You are talking nonsense," replied Juve.
"But," protested the other, "we arrived punctually at the place
appointed, and most assuredly nothing happened there."
"We were punctual, it is true, but so was Loupart. Josephine's letter
gave us two items of information: That her lover would be at Doctor
Chaleck's house and that he would rob the safe. Events have proved her
correct in one case. As to the second, while he did not break open the
safe, nothing proves that he had not that intention. He may have been
frustrated by the unexpected appearance of Doctor Chaleck, or he may
have discovered that we were following him."
At this moment Fandor pointed out to Juve three men who were running
toward them, violently gesticulating.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
Before Juve could reply one of the men, much out of breath, inquired:
"Well, chief!"
"Why, it's Michel and Henri and Léon!" Then, turning to Fandor, he
explained: "Three inspectors."
Michel repeated the question: "Well, chief, what's up?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've just come from the Cité Frochot, chief?"
Juve was amazed. "Look here," he said, "where do you come from, Michel?
The Prefecture?"
"No, chief, from the head office of No. IX."
"Then how do you know we were at the Cité Frochot?"
Taken aback, Michel replied: "Why, from seeing you here, after the
affair."
"What affair?" insisted Juve.
"Well, chief, it's this way. The three of us were on duty this morning
at the Rue Rochefoucauld Station. About twenty minutes ago the telephone
rang and I heard a woman asking in a broken and choked voice if it was
the police station. On my answering it was, she begged me to come to
the rescue, crying, 'Murder! I'm dying!'"
"What then?" questioned Juve.
"Then I asked who was speaking, but unfortunately Central had cut me
off."
"You made inquiries?"
"Yes, chief, and after a quarter of an hour Central told me that only
one subscriber had called up the police station, the number being
928-12, name of Doctor Chaleck in the Cité Frochot."
"I suppose you asked for the number again?"
"I did, but I could get no reply."
After a pause, during which Juve was lost in thought, the officer added
timidly: "We'd better hurry if a crime has been committed."
Juve beckoned Michel to him.
"There are too many of us," he said. "You come along, Michel; the other
two must go back to the station and be ready to join us in case of
need."
The two officers and Fandor went hurriedly up the Rue Pigalle and came
to a halt by Doctor Chaleck's door.
A loud ringing brought no reply. It was repeated, and finally a voice
cried: "Who is there; what's the matter?"
"Open," ordered Juve.
"To whom do you wish to speak?"
"To Doctor Chaleck." And Juve added: "Open, it's the police."
"The police! What the deuce do they want with me?"
"You'll soon find out," answered Michel. "Do you suppose we'd be making
this row if we were criminals?"
Doubtless convinced by this reasoning, Doctor Chaleck decided at length
to open his door.
"What do you want with me?" he repeated.
Juve quickly explained matters.
"We've just had a telephone message to say that some ruffians, possibly
murderers, are in your house."
"Murderers!" cried Chaleck in amazement. "But whom could they murder?
I'm living here alone."
At this assertion, Juve, Fandor and Michel looked at each other,
mystified.
"Well, in any case we must search your house from top to bottom," said
Juve, and added as an afterthought: "I suppose you are thoroughly
satisfied that we come with honest intentions?"
Doctor Chaleck smiled:
"Oh! Inspector Juve's features are very well known to me, and I place
myself entirely at his disposition."
The three men, led by Chaleck, ransacked all the rooms on the ground
floor; finding nothing suspicious, they then went up to the floor above.
"I have only three more rooms to show you, gentlemen," said the doctor.
"My bathroom, my bedroom and my study."
The bathroom disclosed nothing of interest, and Chaleck, throwing open
the door of another room, announced, "My study."
Scarcely had Fandor set foot in the study, from which he and Juve had so
recently made their escape, when a cry burst from his lips:
"Good God! How horrible!"
The apartment was in the greatest disorder. Overturned chairs bore
witness to a violent struggle. One of the mahogany panels of the desk
had been partly smashed in. A window curtain was torn and hanging, and
the small gas stove was broken.
Fandor, at the first glance, saw what appeared to be a long trail of
blood, extending from the window to the desk. Stepping forward quickly,
he discovered the body of a woman frightfully crushed and covered with
blood.
"Dead some time," cried Fandor. "The body is cold and the blood already
congealed."
Juve tranquilly examined the room, and took in its tragic horror. "The
telephone apparatus is overturned," he muttered to himself. "There has
been a struggle between the victim and the murderer. Ah!--theft was the
object of the crime."
"Theft!" cried Doctor Chaleck, coming forward.
"Look, doctor, your safe has been overturned, broken in and ransacked,"
answered Juve, as he and Fandor cautiously lifted the woman. The body
was a mass of contusions and appeared to be one large wound.
Juve turned to the doctor, who, livid with consternation, was holding up
a small grey linen bag which had contained his bonds.
"Come, doctor, calm yourself and give us some information. Can you make
anything of it?"
"Nothing! nothing! I heard nothing. Who is this woman? I don't know
her!"
Fandor pointed to a small shoe lying in a corner.
"A fashionable woman," he said.
"Quite so," was Juve's reply, and putting his hands on Chaleck's
shoulders he inquired: "A friend of yours, a mistress, eh? Come now,
don't deny it."
"Deny!" protested the doctor, "deny what? You are not accusing me, are
you? I know nothing of what has taken place here, and, as you see, have
been robbed into the bargain."
"Is she a patient of yours?"
"I don't practise."
"A visitor, perhaps?"
"No one has been to see me to-day."
"It is not your maid?"
"No; I tell you. I am living here all by myself."
"Have you noticed this, sir?" put in Michel, as he gave Juve a
handkerchief on which some vicious, greyish substance was spread in
thick layers.
"Shoemakers' wax," Juve explained, after a brief glance at it. "That
explains the burns we noticed. The murderer covered his victim's face
with the handkerchief to prevent identification." Then, turning to
Fandor, he went on in a low tone:
"But it doesn't explain how and when the crime was committed. Less than
an hour ago we were in this very room, and the burgling of the safe
alone would take fully an hour."
Michel, ignorant of this fact, was for arresting the doctor.
"Look here," he said sharply to Chaleck, "we've had enough yarns from
you; now tell us the truth."
"But, good God! I have told you the truth!" cried Chaleck.
"And you heard nothing, although you were only a few yards away?"
"Nothing at all. I sat up working very late last night. When I went to
bed, nothing had happened in the least suspicious. Oh, by the way,
toward morning I did hear a slight noise. I rose and went over the
house, even coming into this room. I found everything in order."
"That's a likely tale!"
"Here's a proof of what I say! When I returned to this study I used that
candle and sealing wax to seal my letter, which, as you can see, is
still here. Your ring at the bell awoke me not more than twenty minutes
later, just as I was getting to sleep again."
"Lies!" cried Michel, turning to Juve. "Shall I arrest him?"
"The doctor is telling the truth," replied Juve, half regretfully.
Chaleck seemed very much relieved.
"Oh, you'll help me, won't you? Get me out of this abominable affair!"
As a matter of fact, Chaleck had accounted for his time with exact
truthfulness.
Juve crossed the room and drew aside the curtains; upon the floor he
pointed out to Fandor traces of mud. It was there that he and the
journalist had stood.
"Doctor," said Juve at length, "I must ask you not to go out this
morning. I am going to headquarters to ask them to send experts in
anthropometry. We must photograph in detail the appearance of your
study; then I will come back and make an extended inquiry and I shall
want you. Michel, remain here with the doctor."
Without further words, Juve, followed by Fandor, left the house of
mystery, jumped into the first cab that passed and, mopping his
forehead, cried:
"It's astounding! This murder presents mysteries worthy of Fantômas
himself!"
V
LOUPART'S ANGER
Loupart was taking a fruit cure. It was about ten in the morning, and
along the Rues Charbonnière, Chartres and Goutte d'Or the women hawkers,
driven from central Paris by the police, were making for the high ground
of the populous quarters.
Loupart strolled along the pavement, making grabs at the barrows,
picking a handful of strawberries or cherries as he went by. If by
chance the dealer complained, she was quickly silenced by a chaffing
speech or a stern glance.
The hooligan stopped at the "Comrades' Tryst," in front of which Mother
Toulouche had set out a table with a large basket of winkles.
"Want to try them?" suggested the old woman on catching sight of
Josephine's lover.
"Hand me a pin," he answered harshly, and in a few moments had emptied
half a dozen shells.
"Friend Square, I've something to say to you."
"Out with it, then."
But before the old woman could reply, a noise of roller skates coming
down the pavement made her turn.
Loupart looked round with a smile.
"Why here comes the auto-bus," he cried.
A cripple moving at a great pace came plump into the basket of
shell-fish. The speed with which he travelled had earned him the
nickname of the Motor. He was said to be an old railway mechanic, who
had lost both legs in an accident.
"Motor," cried Mother Toulouche, "I have to be away for ten minutes or
so; look after my basket, will you?"
Following the old dame to her den Loupart entered with difficulty, on
account of the great quantity of heterogeneous objects with which it was
crowded. The product of innumerable thefts lay heaped up pell-mell in
this illicit bazaar.
Dame Toulouche, having shut the door, plunged into her subject.
"Big Ernestine is furious with you, Loupart."
"If she's threatening me," the hooligan replied, "I'll soon fix her."
"No, big Ernestine didn't want to fight, but she was annoyed at the
public affront put upon her by Josephine's lover when he drove her from
'The Good Comrades' the evening before last without any reason."
"Without any reason!" growled Loupart. "Then what was her business with
those spies, the Sapper and Nonet?"
"That can't be! Not the Sapper!"
"Spies, I tell you; they belong to headquarters."
The old receiver of stolen goods cast up her eyes. "And they looked such
decent people, too! Who can one trust?"
Loupart, for reply, suddenly picked up a scarf pin set with a diamond,
and, tossing the old Woman a five-dollar piece, said as he left the
room: "You can tell Ernestine that I bear her no malice."
Loupart had hardly gone a few steps along the Rue Charbonnière, when, at
the corner of the Rue de Chartres, he bumped into a passer-by who was
coming down the street.
Loupart burst out laughing: "What! Can this be you, Beard? What's
happened to you?"
It certainly needed a practised eye to recognise the famous leader of
the Cypher gang. For the Beard, who owed his name to an abnormal hairy
development, was clean shaved; in addition, he wore a soft, greenish
hat and was clad in a suit with huge checks.
"You told me to make up as an American."
"I did, and you've made yourself look like a hayseed juggins. For
Heaven's sake, take it off. By the way, what about young Mimile?"
"He's with us."
"Well, get him the togs of a collegian for the job at the docks. What
night do we bring it off?"
"Saturday night, unless the Cooper changes the time."
Loupart bent close to the ear of his lieutenant.
"Is he--easy to recognise?"
"No chance of making an error. Lean, togged in dark clothes and with one
goggle eye."
Loupart touched the "Beard's" arm.