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THE FANTOMAS DETECTIVE NOVELS
A NEST OF
SPIES
BY
PIERRE SOUVESTRE
AND
MARCEL ALLAIN
AUTHORS OF
"FANTOMAS," "THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE,"
"MESSENGERS OF EVIL," ETC.
NEW YORK
BRENTANO'S
1917
Copyright, 1917, by Brentano's
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SUDDEN DEATH 1
II. DOCUMENT NO. SIX 13
III. BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE 26
IV. A CORDIAL RECEPTION 35
V. THEY ARE NOT AGREED 43
VI. CORPORAL VINSON 51
VII. THE SECOND BUREAU 65
VIII. A SINGER OF THE HALLS 77
IX. WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE 88
X. AUNT PALMYRA 96
XI. THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTOMAS 104
XII. A TRICK ACCORDING TO FANDOR 115
XIII. JUVE'S STRATAGEM 122
XIV. BEFORE A TOMB 130
XV. THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP 138
XVI. AT THE ELYSEE BALL 149
XVII. IN THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ENEMY 158
XVIII. IN THE NAME OF THE LAW! 162
XIX. THE MYSTERIOUS ABBE 171
XX. MAN OR WOMAN 180
XXI. A CORDIAL UNDERSTANDING 187
XXII. HAVE THEY BOLTED? 195
XXIII. LONDON AND PARIS 204
XXIV. AN APPETISER AT ROBERT'S BAR 212
XXV. THE ARREST 218
XXVI. WILHELMINES'S SECRET 225
XXVII. THE TWO VINSONS 232
XXVIII. AT "THE CRYING CALF" 240
XXIX. "I AM TROKOFF" 246
XXX. APPALLING ACCUSATIONS 260
XXXI. A CARAVAN DRAMA 271
XXXII. FREE AND PRISONER 281
XXXIII. RECONCILIATION 292
XXXIV. A FANTOMAS TRICK 298
XXXV. AT THE COUNCIL OF WAR 309
XXXVI. AMBASSADOR! 320
* * * * *
A NEST OF SPIES
I
SUDDEN DEATH
She sought in vain!
The young woman, who was finishing her toilette, lost patience. With a
look of annoyance she half turned round, crying, "Well, Captain, it is
easy to see that you are not accustomed to women's ways!"
This pretty girl's lover, a man about forty, with an energetic
countenance, and a broad forehead adorned with sparse locks, was
smoking a Turkish cigarette, taking his ease on a divan at the far end
of the room.
He jumped up as if moved by a spring.
For some time the captain had followed with his eyes the gestures of
his graceful mistress; like a good and attentive lover he guessed what
she required. He rushed into the adjoining dressing-room and returned
with a little onyx cup in which was a complete assortment of pins.
"There, my pretty Bobinette!" he cried, coming up to the young woman.
"This will put me into your good graces again."
She thanked him with a smile; took the needed pins from the cup, and
quietly finished dressing.
Bobinette was a red-haired beauty.
The thick braids of her abundant tresses, with their natural waves and
curls, fell to where the lines of neck and shoulders meet, their tawny
hues enhancing the milky whiteness of her plump flesh. This young
creature was of the true Rubens type.
It was half past three in the afternoon of a dull November day. A kind
of twilight was darkening the ground floor flat in the quiet rue de
Lille, where the two lovers were together.
For some months now Captain Brocq had been on intimate terms with this
intoxicating young person, who answered to the nickname "Bobinette."
Her features, though irregular, were pleasing. Sprung from the people,
Bobinette had tried to remedy this by becoming a past mistress of
postures, of attitudes. Like others of her kind, from her very
childhood she had learned to adapt herself to whatever company she was
in, picking up almost intuitively those shades of taste, of tact,
which can transform the most unconsidered daughter of the people into
the most fastidious of Parisiennes.
It was the contrary as regards Captain Brocq, an artillery
staff-officer and attached to the Ministry of War. Notwithstanding his
intellectual capacities and his professional worth, so highly valued
by his chiefs, he always remained the man of humble origin, somewhat
gauche, timid, who was evidently better fitted to be at the head of a
battery on the bastions of a fortress than frequenting the gossipy
clubs of officials or society drawing-rooms. Brocq, who had passed out
of the Military Academy exceedingly well, had been given an important
post recently: a confidential appointment at the Ministry of War.
During the first years of his military life Brocq had been entirely
preoccupied by his profession. Of a truth, as pretty Bobinette had
just told him, he was not at all "a man accustomed to women." This was
why, when verging on forty, his heart, as young, as fresh as a
student's, had suddenly caught fire when he happened to meet
Bobinette.
Who was this woman?
Brocq could not place her with that mathematical exactitude dear to
his scientific mind. She puzzled this honest man, who fell deeper and
deeper in love with her. Whenever they met, and their first tender
effusions were over, the lovers exchanged ideas, and always on the
same subject.
* * * * *
Bobinette had completed her toilet. In leisurely fashion she came over
to her lover and seated herself beside him. Brocq, who was thinking
deeply, remained silent.
"What are you thinking about?" Bobinette suddenly asked, in a chaffing
tone. "Have you solved a new problem, or are you thinking of a dark
woman?"
Brocq smiled. Amorously he put his arm round the girl's supple
figure; drawing her to him, and burying his lips in her abundant and
perfumed hair, he murmured tenderly:
"I am thinking of the future, of our future."
"Good gracious me!" replied Bobinette, withdrawing herself from his
arms. "You are not going to bore me again with your ideas of
marriage?"
The captain made a movement of protestation; but Bobinette went on:
"No, no, old dear, no chains for me! No gag, no muzzle for me! We are
both independent, let us remain so! Free! Long live liberty!"
Brocq now got in a word: "In the first place," he said, "you know
quite well you would do a very stupid thing if you married me; I have
not the usual dowry, far from it! Then I am not of your world. Can you
see me in a drawing-room, playing my tricks with the colonel's wife,
the general's wife, with the whole blessed lot of them? Zut! I am just
what I am, just Bobinette."...
Brocq now got in a word: "In the first place," he observed, "as
regards the dowry, you know very well, my pretty Bobinette, that I
have already taken steps about it, on your behalf--now don't protest!
It gives me pleasure to make your future safe, as far as I can: a
modest competence. On the other hand, I am not a society man, and if
you wish it."...
The captain drew nearer his mistress and brushed her lips with his
moustache.
Bobinette drew back, got up from the divan, stood in front of her
lover, erect, arms crossed, her look sullen: "No, I tell you, I wish
to be free, my own mistress."...
Brocq grew impatient: "But in spite of your ideas of independence, my
poor darling, you are always in a state of servitude! Why, only to
give one example, for the last two years you have been content to
occupy an inferior position in the house of this Bavarian diplomat--or
Austrian--I don't know what he is?"
"Naarboveck?" asked Bobinette, surprised. "But don't imagine that I am
the Baron de Naarboveck's servant: still, if it were otherwise, I
can't play proud. I can't bring out the title-deeds and pedigree of
my ancestors for inspection!"
"It's not a question of that," observed Brocq.
Bobinette had launched forth. She continued:
"But that is the question. You are always imagining that I have things
given me to do which lower me. I have told you a hundred times how it
was I went to the Naarboveck's. One day the poor man came to the
hospital: he was almost beside himself. His daughter Wilhelmine, who
is barely nineteen, had just been taken ill--it was typhoid fever--he
was obliged to go away and leave her--not a soul in whose care he
could leave the child with confidence. I was recommended to
Naarboveck. I came, I nursed Wilhelmine. This went on for a month,
then for two, then three--now we are the best friends in the world.
Wilhelmine is a girl whom I love with all my heart; the baron is an
amiable man, all kindness and attention.... It is true that I am now a
kind of companion, in an 'inferior' position, as you choose to put it
in your absurdly vain and jealous way of looking at things; but, my
dear man, there are ways and ways, and I assure you I am treated as
one of the family. And, besides, you ought to consider that it was
precisely at the Naarboveck receptions we met."
With the utterance of these last words Bobinette glanced at Captain
Brocq as if she would annihilate him: the remembrance of their first
meeting seemed more odious to her than pleasing.
Brocq, whose eyes were obstinately lowered, saw nothing of this. He
suggested: "I am not the only one you have met at M. de Naarboveck's.
There is that handsome cuirassier, Henri de Loubersac."...
Bobinette crimsoned. She shrugged her shoulders. "How stupid you are!
Lieutenant Henri does not give me a thought, if he comes to the
house."...
Brocq interrupted: "Yes, I know he comes on account of the fair
Wilhelmine." His tone was conciliatory. Once more he drew Bobinette to
him; but she seemed to object more and more strongly to the captain's
caresses. Glancing at a clock on the mantelpiece she cried: "Why, it
is four o'clock! High time I should leave."
Brocq, who had followed her glance, added, suddenly serious: "My
faith! I must call at the Ministry!"
Both rose. Bobinette took up her hat and went to the looking-glass.
Brocq exchanged his jacket for a black coat. He went into his study,
separated from the other room by a heavy curtain.
"Bobinette!" he called.
That young person responded to his call, but with no show of haste.
She found the captain seated before his bureau rummaging in an immense
drawer crammed full of papers.
"You know, my little Bobinette, that I have made you my sole legatee,"
cried the captain, with an adoring look at the pretty girl who
suddenly appeared in the doorway. He continued his search among his
papers: they were in great disorder.
"I wished to show you--it's a question of spelling your name
correctly. You are called Berthe, are you not?"
The girl had come forward. She quickly caught sight of a mauve sheet
of paper on the blotting-pad. A few lines were traced on it.
"Ah! you wretch!" she cried, while she glanced through the words. She
pretended to be angry. "I've caught you! You were writing to a woman!
Ho, it starts well:
"'_My own darling adored one, how long the hours seem when I
await._'"...
Captain Brocq shouted with laughter.
"Ah, here's a joke! Why, it is you who are jealous now!"
Bobinette questioned him with a look. He explained:
"But, you great idiot, don't you understand that I was writing to you,
and that only a couple of hours ago! You know I am always afraid you
will not come to our meeting-place, and you are always late!"
Bobinette, reassured, now helped Brocq to go through his drawer
methodically.
There could be no doubt of it--the captain was a most untidy man.
Family letters, papers covered with figures, handwritten military
documents, even some bank-notes, were jumbled together in great
disorder.
Bobinette noticed her own handwriting on some sheets of paper. How
well she knew them!
She feigned anger. "It is abominable to compromise me like this!" she
cried. "See! My letters! Love letters! Intimate letters lying about
like this! No, decidedly!"...
Brocq put her right. "No, no, my pet! Your precious letters are most
carefully preserved by me--put together--see--there they are--there
are not many of them--but not one is missing!"
"You are sure of that?"
"I swear it."
Bobinette reflected. The captain, however, returned to the adjoining
room, hoping to come across the deed of gift he had set his mind on
finding. "Come with me, Bobe!" he called. He opened a little writing
desk. He thought his mistress had followed him, but she had remained
in the study.
"Bobinette!" he called again, astonished to find himself alone.
She lingered.
Brocq went back.
He collided with the girl who, with a furtive gesture, slipped
something into her muff.
"Well," said he.
"Well, what now?" she retorted.
They gazed at each other for a moment in silence.
"What were you doing?" questioned Brocq suspiciously.
"Nothing," answered Bobinette coldly.
But the captain caught hold of her hands. He was uneasy, almost angry:
"Tell me!"
The red-haired beauty jumped back with a defiant air: "Very well,
then! I have taken my letters, they belong to me! I wish to have them!
It disgusts me to think that they are left lying about your rooms. Do
you think it funny that your orderly should read them to his
country-woman? That your concierge should know all about them? I
declare men like you have not a scrap of tact, of nice feeling!"
"Bobinette!" the captain implored her.
"No, no; and again, no!" cried the girl more and more angrily. "I have
them. I keep them!"
The captain grew pale. She added, a little more gently:
"But, you great stupid, they are of no importance! I'll give them back
to you later--when you are good. You are behaving like a schoolboy!
Come, kiss me! Tell your little Bobe that you are not angry with her!
If you don't I shall cry!"
Already she was beginning to sob, and great tears were dropping.
Captain Brocq, struck dumb, gazed at her sorrowfully. And whilst he
clasped her in his arms, anxiety strained at his heart, anguish
convulsed his soul. Did she really love him, this woman with her
whimsical ways, her independent attitude, this elusive woman who never
gave herself entirely? Was he the dupe of a comedy? Did she consent to
these meetings three times a week through pity, through sympathy only,
or through habit, or, worse still, for some mercenary reason? And this
when he himself would have given up everything so that he might not
miss them! Ah, if that were the truth! The captain felt an immense
void opening in the depths of his lonely soul. He apologised in a low
voice, hurriedly, with bent head, humbly, and Bobinette listened with
curled lip and haughty air: She bore no malice, she declared. Then, a
few moments later, for she was really much upset and did not wish to
show it, she hurried away, dropping a hasty kiss on her lover's
forehead as a token of peace. How ardently he wished that this peace
might last.
"I am very much behind time," she had murmured by way of farewell.
Directly his mistress had gone, Brocq went to the window, watched her
turn the corner of the rue de Lille, enter the rue des Saints-Peres,
and go towards the quays. While he watched her he was trembling. A
roll of paper was sticking out of Bobinette's muff. Brocq knew this
paper: its appearance and colour were familiar to him. Nevertheless,
his mind was so full of his love affair that he immediately forgot
this detail. But, in a minute, the turn of events forced him to recall
it.
"In Heaven's Name!" shouted Captain Brocq, as a violent blow from his
clenched fist made the scattered papers on his bureau tremble. "By
Heaven! It is impossible!"
When he found himself alone, sadly alone in his little flat, Brocq saw
it was five o'clock, and more than time to start for the Ministry of
War. Hastily putting on overcoat and hat, he had hurried into his
study to look for the big leather portfolio he always carried when
taking his work from the office to his own home.
Owing to his special knowledge of fortress artillery Brocq had been
requested to put the finishing touches to a confidential report on the
defences of the eastern forts of Paris and the distribution of the
effective forces of the companies of mechanics in time of
mobilisation. He had searched feverishly in his drawers for this
report, which was of no great bulk. For the last ten minutes he had
anxiously searched, but in vain: he could not find a trace of it!
"It is impossible!" he cried. He swore aloud as if the better to
convince himself. "The title is in big letters, '_Confidential_,' in
red, and twice underlined. Oh, it is quite impossible that it should
pass under my eyes unperceived!"
Again the distracted man ransacked his papers and shook his portfolio.
Almost beside himself with exasperation, he cried: "My excellent
Bobinette, by her rummaging, has put the finishing touch to this
confusion. Heaven knows, it was bad enough before!"
He paused. Anguish seized him. He fell into an arm-chair, while drops
of sweat broke out on his forehead. Suddenly he had remembered the
roll of papers sticking out of Bobinette's muff. He uttered a cry: "My
God! But supposing!"... He did not put the rest of his thought into
words. For an instant he had the idea that through thoughtlessness, by
mistake, an involuntary one assuredly, his mistress had taken this
document to wrap up her letters ... without suspecting. That was it!
No doubt she had carried off with her this secret plan of
mobilisation--but if the plan got lost? If it were dropped in the
street!
Brocq cursed his untidy ways once more. He would never forgive himself
for having allowed that girl to ransack his drawers--but he must act,
and at once! He must, without fail, find that mislaid document. Of one
thing he was sure--the document was not on the premises. Brocq jumped
up. "Good-day, Captain!"
* * * * *
"Good-day, Captain!"
The man in charge at the cabstand, on the quay des Saints-Peres, at
the corner of the bridge, saluted Brocq cordially.
Brocq, ghastly pale, his face showing signs of intense anxiety,
gasping for breath, asked: "Tell me! Just now, ten, five minutes
ago--did you not see a lady--young--she had red hair--did she not pass
this way? Come now!"
The cabstand than winked. "My faith, Captain, you are just in time.
Only a moment ago a lady, such as you describe, but prettier than
that, got into a taxi; she."...
"Ah!" interrupted the captain, "do you know what address she gave?"
"Why, yes I do. I was almost touching her when she spoke to the
driver."...
"Well?"
"Faith, what she said was 'Take me to the Bois,' and the cab turned by
the Saints-Peres bridge. Probably it went by the Tuileries quay
after."
"The number? The number of this taxi?"
"Why, we will ask the policeman at the kiosque: he has certainly
entered it, as usual."
Stamping with impatience inside a landaulet whose hood he had had
lowered that he might more easily see around him, Brocq had rushed off
in pursuit of Bobinette's taxi, 249--B.Z.
Shaking from head to foot, Brocq held in a tight grip his leather
portfolio, which contained all the documents he wished to lay before the
Ministry of War, less, alas! the mislaid plan of the eastern forts. He
scrutinised the Place de la Concorde, the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. He
was asking himself why Bobinette, after telling him she must hurry
away, had driven to the Bois as if she were one of the leisured crowd?
This troubled the lover in him as well as the soldier. Why had he rushed
after his mistress in this fashion? What definite reason had he? After
all, it was exceedingly improbable, surely, that she had carried away
this document without noticing it, for it was composed of three or four
large sheets of paper!... In that case, she must have lost it before
getting into the taxi. As to supposing for an instant that she had taken
it away intentionally--Brocq would not suppose it. Why should he? There
was nothing to lead him to think.
But, all the same!...
All the same, the captain had a presentiment, a conviction, an
instinctive certainty that, at all costs he must overtake
Bobinette--he absolutely must.
Why?
Brocq could not have said why. He did not reason about it. He felt: a
feeling as indefinable as it was irresistible drove him to pursue, to
continue the chase at top speed.
Again and again he had shouted to the astonished chauffeur, who was
driving his taxi as fast as the crowded street permitted: "Get on! In
the devil's name, go faster--faster!"
Night was falling. The close of this November day was particularly
beautiful. Behind the Arc de Triomphe a broad band of red on the
horizon reflected the setting sun in its winter glory. The breeze was
wafting the last red-brown leaves from the trees, turning them over
and over before they fell on the autumnal greensward and the black
earth of the empty flower-beds.
Rows of carriages were moving towards the Etoile. As they had cleared
the Rond-Point of the Champs-Elysees Brocq uttered a cry of joy. Some
fifty yards away his keen eye had caught sight of Bobinette's taxi: he
had identified the number.
"There it is!"
He urged the chauffeur to follow it up closely, regardless of
consequences.
"A moment more and we shall have caught up the 249," said Brocq to
himself. His landaulet was gaining ground.
The crowd of vehicles, the police holding them up where the roads
intersected, impeded the advance. Brocq, wild with impatience, could
not keep still. At last they reached the Place de l'Etoile. The
carriages, conforming to rule, rounded the monument on the right,
going more and more slowly owing to the increased crush. But the
captain felt relieved; only one cab, drawn by a horse, now separated
him from Bobinette's taxi, and assuredly her vehicle and his would be
abreast, side by side at the entry to the avenue of the Bois de
Boulogne.
Brocq loved Bobinette dearly, but frankly, if for a joke or
inadvertently she had carried off the document, he would give her a
piece of his mind. He would let her know that it would not do to play
tricks with things of that sort. Nevertheless, his heart was wrung
with anxiety.
Supposing Bobinette had noticed nothing--if the document had fallen in
the street?
Suddenly the poor fellow saw Bobinette's taxi cut across the line of
carriages to the right and turn into the Avenue de la Grand-Armee.
Brocq's chauffeur did not seem to have noticed this: he continued in
the direction of the Bois de Boulogne.
"Oh, you idiot!" shouted the captain. And, in order to give his
instructions as rapidly as possible, he leaned almost entirely out of
the vehicle.
* * * * *
But a second or two had passed when the chauffeur stopped dead, that
he might see what had happened to his fare. Something must have
happened, for Brocq had abruptly stopped short in the midst of his
directions. He had collapsed on the cushions of the taxi, and remained
motionless.
Other vehicles surrounded the automobile. Some ladies passing in a
victoria noticed the captain.
"Look, my dear," exclaimed one of them, "do you see how pale that man
is? He seems to be ill!"...
At the same moment, the pedestrians were struck by the officer's
strange attitude. Brocq had suddenly subsided in a heap on the
cushion, his head had fallen to one side, his mouth was open, his eyes
were closed: he seemed to have fainted.
A crowd gathered at once.
The chauffeur got down, shook his fare by the arm, and the arm was
inert.
The crowd increased.
"A doctor!" cried a voice. "It is plain that this man is ill!"
A man stepped out from the crowd. His hair was white, he wore a
decoration ribbon, and he had descended from a private brougham. With
an air of authority he made his way through the curious onlookers, and
when a constable came forward he said: "Kindly make these people stand
away. I am Professor Barrell of the School of Medicine."
There was a murmur of respectful sympathy among the onlookers, for the
professor was famous.
This master of medicine with a sure hand had undone the collar, the
cravat of the mysterious sufferer, half opened his overcoat, put his
ear to the patient's heart, then, straightening himself, considered
the face attentively, not without a certain amount of stupefaction.
The constable made a suggestion: "Had we not better take this
individual to a chemist's?"
Professor Barrell replied in a low voice: "To a chemist's? Do so if
you wish ... but it is useless ... you would do better to go to the
police-station: this unfortunate man is dead--it is a case of sudden
death." The medical man added some technical words which this guardian
of the peace did not understand.
II
DOCUMENT NUMBER SIX
"Hullo!... Am I speaking to Headquarters of Police?"
"Yes?"
"To the sergeant?... Good!... It is the superintendent of the Wagram
Quarter who is telephoning.... They have just brought here the body of
an officer who has died suddenly, Place de l'Etoile, and I want you to
send me one of your inspectors.... This officer was the bearer of
important documents.... I must send them direct to the military
authorities.... Hullo!... Good.... You will send me someone
immediately?... An inspector will be here in ten minutes?...
Splendid!... Very good!"
The superintendent hung up the telephone receiver and turned to the
policeman, who stood motionless awaiting orders. He was visibly
embarrassed.
The police superintendent of the Wagram Quarter was a man of decisive
action. He possessed in the highest degree the quality, the most
precious of all for those of the police force, whose functions call them
to intervene continually in the most surprising adventures--presence of
mind.
A few minutes before this the taxi with its tragic burden had stopped
at his police-station, and the men on duty had carried in the body of
the unfortunate captain.
Called in all haste, the sergeant had immediately made a rapid
investigation. He examined the documents in the victim's portfolio.
"Here's a go!" he muttered--"'State of munition supplies!' 'Orders for
the eastern fortresses!' I do not want to keep such important
documents longer than I can help."
He had immediately telephoned to Headquarters. Reassured by the
sergeant's reply, the superintendent turned to the policeman.
"You have made out your report?" he asked curtly.
The honest guardian of the peace touched his cap, looked perplexed,
and scratched his head.
"Not yet, Monsieur. No time, Monsieur. But I will write it out at
once."
The superintendent smiled at his embarrassed subordinate. "Suppose we
do it together!"
"Let us see now! The deceased was a captain--isn't that so? The papers
found in his portfolio and the name written on it let us know that he
was called Brocq, and that he was attached to the Ministry. So much
for his identity. We will not trouble about his domicile, the Place
will tell us that! Now let us go into the details of the
accident--tell me, my man, exactly how his death occurred!"
Again the worthy guardian of the peace scratched his head with an
anxious look.
"I saw nothing of it, Monsieur," he replied.
"And the taxi-driver? You have his deposition?"
"He did not see anything either, Monsieur."
"Call this chauffeur."
A few minutes after, the superintendent dismissed the chauffeur. A
short interrogation revealed that the taxi-driver had not only seen
nothing, but that he could do nothing to help the enquiry.
The superintendent recalled the honest policeman.
"Come now! You are certain that the victim died immediately?"
"Well, you see, Monsieur, while I was dispersing the crowd, a doctor
came up, and it was he who told me how the dead man died!"
"This doctor did not point out to you the cause of death?"
"No, Monsieur. But he gave me his card."
The policeman drew from the pocket of his tunic a dirty note-book. He
took a card from it and handed it to his chief. "There, Monsieur!"
The magistrate looked at the name. _Professor Barrell, of the School
of Medicine_. Turning the card, he read aloud a few words in pencil:
"_Sudden death, which seems due to a phenomenon of inhibition._"...
"This professor did not explain what he meant by 'death due to
inhibition'?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Annoying!... I do not know what that means."
The superintendent was about to continue his enquiry when there was a
knock at his office door.
A policeman informed him respectfully: "There is an inspector,
Monsieur, from Headquarters detective department who asks to see you
on urgent business--he declares you have sent for him."
"Tell him to come in."
No sooner had this personage from "Headquarters detective department"
appeared in the doorway, than the superintendent rose, and advanced
with outstretched hands.
"You, Juve! I am delighted to see you! How are you?"
It was, in truth, the celebrated detective, Juve.
Juve had altered but little. He was always the same man; rather
thick-set, vigorous, astonishingly alive, agile, as youthful as ever,
in spite of his moustache turning grey, in spite of his rounded
shoulders which, at moments, seemed to bend under the weight of the
toils and fatigues of the past.
This magic name evoked memories of terrible stories, stories of
dangers encountered, endured, overcome; of brave deeds; of desperate
struggles with the worst criminals.
Juve! He was the man who, for ten years, had represented to all,
ability, audacity, limitless daring! He was the man who best knew how
to employ wiles and stratagems to secure the triumph of society in the
incessant combat it had to sustain against the innumerable soldiers of
the army of crime.
* * * * *
When the terrible Dollon affair had come to an end, Juve had been
blamed officially, and the detective could not help feeling angry and
exasperated, for, after all, if he had failed, he ought not to have
been treated as a culprit. Not a soul had had the slightest suspicion
of how the affair had ended. Not one of them knew the incredible
truth--how the marvellous, the redoubtable, the incredible Fantomas
had elected to make his escape at the very moment when Juve was
preparing to put the handcuffs on him.
And the detective, disheartened, but determined not to give up the
fight against this deep-dyed criminal whom he had been pursuing for
years, had asked for a few weeks' holiday, had lain snug, then had
returned to his post at Headquarters, had made a point of keeping in
the background, only awaiting the moment when he could resume his hunt
for the ruffian whom he looked on as a personal enemy.
Since then, nothing had happened to put him on the track of Fantomas.
No crime had been committed in circumstances which could leave him to
think that this elusive murderer was involved in it.
Our detective had begun to ask himself if, not having been fortunate
enough to arrest this king of assassins, he had not at any rate
succeeded in unmasking him, in compelling him to fly for his life, in
putting him out of power to do harm.
* * * * *
Rapidly the superintendent put Juve in possession of the incidents
which had led him to telephone to Headquarters.
"You have done well," said Juve. "Have you the portfolio of this dead
man?"
"Here it is, my friend."
Juve opened it.
"If you will allow it, Monsieur, I am going to make a complete list of
the contents. This list I shall leave with you. I shall take a copy:
that I shall deposit at the office of the Chief of Staff, obtaining a
receipt for it. This will relieve both you and myself of all further
responsibility on this head."
For some moments Juve and the superintendent occupied themselves in
going over the papers of the dead man. Suddenly the detective got up,
and, holding a paper in his hand, began walking up and down the room.
"You have read that?" he asked, turning to the superintendent.
"What is it? No."
"Read it!"
The superintendent read:
"_Inventory of the documents which were submitted to me by the Second
Bureau of the Staff Headquarters, for which I have signed a receipt,
and I have undertaken to return and deliver them up to the Second
Bureau of the Staff Headquarters, Monday, November 7th, when given a
receipt to that effect._"
"Well, what of it?"
"Well," replied Juve. "Compare the documents given on this list with
those we have found in this portfolio ... they tally."...
"Of course. That only proves, I imagine, that this officer died at the
very moment when he was on the way to his office to return the papers
entrusted to him. What do you see surprising in that?"
Juve shook his head. "I see, Monsieur, that what I feared is true:
yes, this is certainly the list of documents contained in this
portfolio, but."...
"But, one is missing!"
The two men checked the papers of Captain Brocq. Juve was right. There
was a document missing--Number Six.
"Whew!" murmured the superintendent. "How are we to know whether this
document has been dropped in the taxi, or has already been returned by
the captain, or whether."...
"Or whether it has been stolen from him," finished Juve.
The supposition which the detective had put into words was so grave,
so terrible, so weighty in its consequence that the superintendent
cried, in a shaking voice:
"Robbed! Robbed! But by whom? Where? How? On the way from the Place de
l'Etoile here? While the body was being brought to the police
station?... Juve, it's incredible!"
Juve was walking up and down, up and down. "I don't like affairs of
this sort, in which officers are involved, and most particularly
officers connected with the Second Bureau of the Military Staff: they
require the most careful handling.... You never know where they will
lead. These officers are, owing to their functions, the masters of all
the military defences of France.... Confound it!"
Juve stopped short. "You had better let me see the body of this poor
fellow."
"Certainly!"...
The superintendent led Juve towards one of the rooms, where the corpse
of Captain Brocq was: it had been laid down on the floor. Pious hands
had lighted a mortuary candle, and, in view of the position held by
the dead man, two of the police staff were keeping watch and ward
until someone came to claim the body of the deceased.
Juve examined the corpse. "A fine fellow!" he said quietly.
He turned to the superintendent.
"You told me just now that Prof. Barrell chanced to be present at the
moment of death?"
"That is so."
"What did he suppose was the cause of death?"
The superintendent smiled. "Now you have it! Possibly you can throw
light on it, my dear Juve, for I could hardly make head or tail of his
diagnostic. The professor claims that death is due to a _phenomenon of
inhibition_. What does that mean exactly?"
Juve shrugged his shoulders.
"Inhibition!... Peuh!... It is a learned word--very learned!"...
"Which means to say?"... pressed the superintendent.
"It does not mean anything."
Juve's tone was a mixture of contempt and anger. The superintendent
was staggered. Juve's anger increased.
"It does not mean anything," he repeated. "Inhibition! Inhibition! It
is the term reserved for deaths that are unexplained and inexplicable:
it is the term with which science covers herself when she does not
wish to confess her ignorance."
The magistrate was smiling now.
"So then, Juve, you conclude that Professor Barrell has declared that
this officer had died through inhibition because, in fact, he was
ignorant of the cause of death?"
"Exactly!" snapped Juve.
He was kneeling on the floor, bending over the body. Slowly, minutely,
he was examining it with his keen eyes, by the flickering light of the
mortuary candle.
He had examined successively the face of the dead man, then the arms,
the trunk, the shoulders, the whole body. He did not utter a word.
"What are you looking for in particular, Juve?"
"The cause of this _inhibition_," replied the detective, who
pronounced the word with unconcealed anger and resentment. He seemed
to harbour some subtle rancour regarding the doctor. Suddenly he got
up and, turning to the policeman, commanded:
"Undress this body!"
The superintendent interposed.
"What for?"
"It will be useful for your report."
"Come, now! In what way?"
"For that," said Juve, pointing a finger at the officer's short
coat....
"That? How that?... I don't see anything," protested the
superintendent.
Juve knelt down again, and made a sign to the superintendent to do
likewise.
"Look, Monsieur! Just bend down and look at this tiny graze on the
cloth."
"Yes!... Well?"
"Does that not tell you anything?"
"No it does not."
Juve rose and repeated his order. "Unclothe this corpse!"
Then, turning to the superintendent, he added:
"What that tells me is, that this man has been killed by a shot from a
gun or a revolver."
"Oh, come, now!"
"You will see."...
"The garment is not pierced."...
Juve began to smile.
"Monsieur," said he, "you must know that arms of high penetrating
power, firing projectiles of small diameter, grooved projectiles,
cause only the slightest graze in the materials they pass through: the
damage is almost imperceptible. Numerous experiments have demonstrated
this. You see the passage of the projectile is so rapid, its gyratory
movement so accelerated, that, in some way, the threads of the fabric
are not broken: they are only pushed aside. They come together again
after the passage of the ball, and unless a very careful examination
is made, one would never know that a projectile had perforated the
material."
The two policemen were undressing the corpse.
Scarcely had they undone the waistcoat than the shirt of the
unfortunate man was seen to have a spot of blood on it, in the region
of the heart.
"See," cried Juve. "It is just as I said: a ball of small diameter,
propelled by a formidable power of penetration, has caused immediate
death, producing a wound which has hardly bled at all, so precise and
clean has the wound been!"
Juve again bent over the corpse.
"It is plain to see that this officer's death has been caused by a
ball in the heart, right in the centre of the heart."
The superintendent now protested:
"But what you are telling us, Juve, is terrible, it is inadmissible!
How could this person have committed suicide without having been seen
in the act by someone? Without anyone finding his revolver? And that
at the very moment when he leaned out of the window of the vehicle to
give the chauffeur his instructions?"
Juve did not seem disposed to answer this. But, after remaining silent
for a minute or two, he took the superintendent by the arm in familiar
fashion, and drawing him away said: "Let us return to your office, I
have a couple of words to say to you."
When the superintendent and the detective had entered the room, when
they were alone together, when the detective had made sure that the
double door was shut tight, and that not a soul could hear them,
Juve, his hands resting on the writing-table, looked the
superintendent straight in the face. The latter, having seated himself
in his chair, waited for the detective to speak.
Juve spoke.
"We are thoroughly agreed, Monsieur, are we not, regarding the
conditions of the accident?... This officer has been shot through the
heart, when he was crossing the Place de l'Etoile in a vehicle, and at
the precise moment when he leaned over the door of that vehicle, and
this, without anyone having seen or heard what happened?"
"Yes, Juve, that is so. This suicide is incomprehensible!"
"It is not a case of suicide, Monsieur."...
"What is it, then?"
"A crime!"
"A crime!!!"
"This man has been killed by a shot from a gun, a shot fired from a
distance. No one saw the assassin do the deed: the Place de l'Etoile
was crowded with people. It was a shot fired from a distance, because
of an important point, Monsieur. The deceased was attached to the
Second Bureau of the Ministry of War. At the time of his death he was
the bearer of important documents: one of these important documents is
missing! I assure you, Monsieur, this not only determines the fact of
the crime, but furnishes us with the motive for that crime!"
The superintendent of police stared at Juve, speechless. At last he
said:
"But it is impossible! Absolutely impossible, I tell you! What you are
inventing now is impossible!... You forget that a shot from a gun, a
shot from so powerful a weapon, makes a noise. Why, deuce take it, the
detonation must be heard!"
"No, Monsieur! There are now weapons which are perfectly silent. For
example, there are guns in which liquefied carbonic acid is used,
which fires a projectile at more than 800 yards, and all that can be
heard is a sharp snap when the projectile speeds off."...
"But, look here, Juve! Such a crime as this partakes of the nature of
a romance! The criminal must have taken aim in the midst of a crowd!
Who, do you suppose, would have been mad enough to attempt it? What
scoundrel would ever have run such a risk?"
Juve, very calm, very much master of himself, was standing in front of
the superintendent. His arms were crossed: he seemed to defy him, as
though he knew beforehand that in him he was to encounter the
incredulity of the average person.
"You ask me," replied he, "what criminal could be daring enough to do
this? What criminal would have carried out such a murder successfully?
Sir, that murderer's name is synonymous with all the maddest attempts,
with every kind of atrocity, with every species of cruelty, with all
the talents!"...
"And, it is."...
Juve suddenly stopped short, as if he were afraid of the word he was
about to pronounce.
"By jove!" he declared, "if I knew the name of the guilty person, I
would go and arrest him!"...
* * * * *
While the unfortunate Captain Brocq collapsed inside his carriage,
mortally struck by the mysterious shot, pretty Bobinette, who could
have had no idea of the accident to her lover, following hard in her
wake, continued her drive. She ordered her chauffeur to stop at the
riding-alley which passes behind the Chinese Pavilion.
A lingering ray of sunshine still illuminated the thickets of the
Bois, but already those out for an airing were hastening towards the
city, when Bobinette, discharging her taxi, entered the little path
which runs beside the equestrian's track.
She seemed full of the joy of life, stepping smartly along,
appreciating the pleasure of this quick, free, independent walk. Soon,
however, her pace slackened. She spied an unoccupied seat, looked at
her watch, and sat down. She cast a sharp glance towards the far end
of the path.
"We are both up to time," she murmured, recognising a figure still
some distance away.
Bobinette drew from her muff a small roll of papers.
The advancing person was a seedy-looking individual, stooping,
seemingly bent under the weight of a bulky accordion. He looked about
sixty; his long white beard, untrimmed and badly neglected, disguised
the lower half of his face, while his luxuriant moustache, and his
long hair, arranged artist fashion, largely hid the upper part of his
countenance.
A beggar? Not at all! This personage would most certainly have spurned
such an epithet with a gesture of offended disdain. Live by charity?
Not he! Was not his accordion there to show that he possessed a
regular means of livelihood? He claimed to be a musician.
He was well known throughout one quarter of Paris, was this poor old
man who chanced to be passing along that path in the Bois de Boulogne.
He was a perfect specimen of the unsettled type of human being,
savagely enamoured of liberty, going from court to court playing with
wearied arms the ballads of the moment, indifferent to their melodies,
to their rhythms, to their beauties, to their ugliness.... No one knew
his real name. They called him _Vagualame_; for his plaintive notes
inspired sad thoughts and an indefinable trouble of the nerves in
those unlucky enough to listen to him for a time. This nickname stuck
to him.
He was quite a Parisian type, this Vagualame: one of those faces at
once odd and classic, such as one comes across in numbers on the
pavements, known to all the world, without anyone knowing exactly who
they are, how they live, where they go, or whence they come....
* * * * *
The old man had, on his side, caught sight of Bobinette. He hastened
towards her as fast as his legs permitted; and as soon as he was near
enough to speak to her without raising his voice, he questioned her:
"Well?" It was the interrogation of a master to a subordinate.
"Well?" he repeated. His tone was anxious.
Bobinette calmed the old man's apprehensions with a nod. "It's done,"
said she.
Holding out to him the roll of paper, she added: "I could only get
them at the last minute; but I've got them, and I don't fancy he
suspects anything."
As Bobinette uttered these last words, the old accordion player
chuckled sneeringly:
"So that's what you think? As a matter of fact, it is evident that he
suspects nothing now!"
The way in which the old man pronounced the word "now" puzzled the
girl.
"What do you mean?"
"Captain Brocq is dead."
"Dead!"
Although she did not love her lover much, at this startling piece of
news Bobinette had jumped up, wringing her hands in horror. She grew
strangely pale.
"Yes, dead!" replied Vagualame coldly. "Kindly sit down please! See to
it that you play your part! You are a young woman speaking to an old
beggar, and you are not to forget it."
Bobinette sat down mechanically. She questioned him, and her voice was
trembling.
"Dead? What has happened, then?"
"What has happened is that you have played the fool! Brocq saw clearly
that you had stolen the document from him."
"He saw?"...
"Yes, he saw it! I had my suspicions, fortunately!... Then this cursed
captain threw himself into a taxi and followed you.... At the moment
when your own auto turned on the Place de l'Etoile, his was going to
meet it! Brocq was already hailing you, and you would have been caught
without a doubt had I not come to the rescue."
"Great Heavens! What have you done?"
"I have just told you. Clic-clac! A bullet in his heart, and he
remains on the spot."...
Bobinette was dumbfounded. She did not speak for a minute or two. Then
she asked anxiously:
"But where were you?"
"That does not concern you!"
"What must I say, then, if, by chance, I am questioned?"
"What must you say! The truth."...
"I am to confess that I knew him?"
Vagualame tapped his foot impatiently.
"How stupid you are! There is one thing you must understand. At the
present moment it is almost certain that this good fellow's identity
has been established. The devil's in it if some policeman is not at
his domicile already and if enquiry is not being made into the life of
Captain Brocq. To learn that he is on terms of acquaintanceship with
your patron, de Naarboveck, is child's play! To prove that he has
received a visit from you to-day, to prove that you were his
mistress--or, at the very least that you had come on an errand from
Naarboveck's daughter, Wilhelmine, why anybody can discover that!
To-morrow you will read the details in all the papers, for the
reporters are going to get hold of this affair: it is inevitable!
Consequently, do you not deny anything: it would only compromise you
to no good purpose. You will say."...
Vagualame stopped short. He raised the accordion which he carried
slung over his shoulder, saying in a whisper:
"People are coming. I leave you. I will see you again, if necessary.
Do not be anxious. I take all on my own shoulders. Attention!" And
suddenly changing his tone, he began to speak in a voice calculated to
excite pity:
"Grateful thanks, kind lady! The good God will rain blessings on you
for it.... I thank you, kind lady!"
Vagualame moved off.
III
BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE
Despite the gusty wind and squalls of icy rain which deluged Paris,
despite the early morning hour, although it was one of those first
dark days of November which depress humanity, Jerome Fandor, the
journalist, editorial contributor to the popular evening paper _La
Capitale_, was in a gay mood, and showed it by singing at the top of
his voice, at the risk of rousing the neighbourhood.
In his very comfortable little flat, rue Richer, where he had lived
for a number of years, the young journalist was coming and going
busily: cupboards, drawers, wardrobes, were opened wide, garments,
piles of linen, were spread about in all the rooms. On the dining-room
table a large travelling bag lay open: into this, with the aid of his
housekeeper, Jerome Fandor was feverishly packing the spare things he
required, and was talking in joking fashion with his old servant,
Angelique.
Presently she asked, rather anxiously:
"Are you likely to be away a long time, sir?"
The journalist shook his head and murmured:
"I should like to be, but you don't suppose we journalists get
holidays of that sort!"
Still anxious, Angelique went on:
"Perhaps you intend to change your housekeeper when you return,
Monsieur Fandor? Nevertheless----"
"You are really mad, Angelique! Have I not told you twenty times that
I am going away for a fortnight's holiday? Never for a moment have I
thought of getting rid of you--quite the contrary! I am delighted with
the way you do your work. There now! I shall go by way of Monaco--I
promise to put five francs on the red for you!"
"On the red?" questioned old Angelique.
"Yes. It's a game. If red's the winner there will be a present for
you! Hurry off now and bring up my trousers!"
Whilst his housekeeper hastened downstairs, Fandor went to the window
and, with a questioning glance, considered the dull grey sky.