going to the sun of the South--ah, to the sun!" He laughed a great
laugh of satisfaction. How he had looked forward to this holiday, how
he had longed for it!--this holiday he was going to take now, after
two-and-twenty months of uninterrupted work! During those months, in
his capacity of chief reporter to _La Capitale_, scarcely a day had
passed without his having some move to make, some strange happening to
clear up, even some criminal to pursue; for Jerome Fandor belonged to
that species of active and restless beings who are ceaselessly at
work, ready for action, bent on doing things: an activity due partly
to temperament, partly to conscience. Added to this, his profession
interested him enormously.
At the commencement of his career--and that of journalism is a ticklish
one--he had been greatly helped by Juve, whose knowledge and advice had
been invaluable to him. Fandor had been involved--particularly during
the last few years--in the most sensational crimes, in the most
mysterious affairs, and, whether by chance or voluntarily, he had played
a real part in them. He had not been content to take up the position of
onlooker and historian only.
Fandor had made his post an important one: he had to be seriously
reckoned with. He had enemies, adversaries far from contemptible, and
time and again the journalist who, with his friend Juve, had taken
part in terrible man-hunts, had attracted towards himself venomous
hatreds, all the more disquieting in that his adversaries were of
those who keep in the shade and never come into the open for a
face-to-face tussle.
Finally, and above all, Fandor, coupled with his friend, detective
Juve, had either distinguished himself gloriously or covered himself
with ridicule, but in either case he had attracted public attention by
his epic combats with the most deadly personality of the age--the
elusive Fantomas.
But our holiday-making journalist, whistling the latest air, all the
rage, gave no thought to all that. He was reveling in the idea that a
few hours hence he would be installed in a comfortable sleeping
compartment, to awake next morning on the wonderful Cote d'Azur,
inundated with light, drenched in the perfume of tropical flowers,
bathed in the radiance of eternal summer.
Ah, then, eight hundred miles and more would separate him from the
offices of _La Capitale_, of the police stations, of wretched dens and
hovels with their pestilential smells, would separate him from this
everlasting bad weather, from the cold, the wet, which were the
ordinary concomitants of his daily existence. To the devil with all
that! No more copy to feed printer and paper with! No more people to
be interviewed! Hurrah! Here were the holidays! It was leave of
absence, and liberty.
The telephone bell rang.
Fandor hesitated a moment. Should he answer it?
According to custom, the journalist "had left" the evening before: he
could plead his leave, which was in order, and say, like Louis XIV,
"After me the deluge!"
This famous saying would have suited the moment, for it was at that
instant precisely that an inky cloud burst over Paris and emptied
torrents of water over the darkened city.
Perhaps a friend had rung him up--or it was a mistake! So arguing,
Fandor unhooked the receiver.
Having listened a moment, he instinctively adopted a more respectful
attitude, as if his interlocutor at the other end of the line could
see him.
Fandor replied in quick monosyllables, closing the conversation with
these words:
"Agreed. Presently, then chief."
As the journalist hung up the receiver his expression changed: he
frowned, and pulling at his moustache with a nervous hand, fretting
and fuming.
"Hang it! It only wanted this," he grumbled.
Fandor had been called up by M. Dupont, of _L'Aube_, the well-known
opportunist deputy, who was the manager of _La Capitale_ as well. M.
Dupont was only a nominal manager, and generally contented himself
with writing up his editorial without even taking it to the office. He
left the real management to his son-in-law, whose function was that of
editor-in-chief. Thus Fandor had been extremely astonished when his
"Head," as he was called in the editorial department, had rung him up.
M. Dupont had summoned him to the Chamber of Deputies, for three
o'clock in the afternoon: his chief wished to give him some
information for an article on a matter which interested him
particularly. Fandor was puzzled, anxious.
What could it be? The chief could not know that he was taking his
holiday.
"Bah!" said he, "Dupont evidently does not know. I will go to our
meeting-place and will explain my approaching departure to him, and
the devil's in it if he does not pass on this bit of reporting to one
of my colleagues!"
"Madame Angelique," continued Fandor in a joyous voice, turning to the
breathless old housekeeper who had just come back laden with parcels,
"Get me lunch quickly. Then you must strap up my portmanteau. This
evening I am going to make off, whatever happens!"
* * * * *
For two hours, interminable hours they seemed, Fandor had waited for
M. Dupont in the Hall des Perdus[1] of the Palais-Bourbon. The deputy
was at a sitting of the Chamber. If the ushers were to be believed,
the discussion was likely to go on interminably. Several times our
young journalist had thought he would simply make off without word
said, excusing himself on the score of a misunderstanding when eight
hundred odd miles lay between him and the directorial thunders. But he
was too scrupulous a journalist, too professionally honest to follow
the prompting of his desires.
[Footnote 1: Hall of the Wandering Footsteps.]
So, champing his bit, Fandor had stood his ground.
As he was looking at his watch for the hundred and fiftieth time, he
quickly rose and hastened towards two men who came out of a corridor:
they were M. Dupont and a personage whom Fandor recognised at once.
He bowed respectfully to them, shaking hands with the cordial M.
Dupont, who said to his companion:
"My dear Minister, let me present to you my young collaborator, Jerome
Fandor."
"It is a name not unknown to me," replied the minister; then, having
innumerable calls on his time, he quickly disappeared.
A few minutes after, in one of the little sitting-rooms reserved for
Parliamentary Commissions, the manager of _La Capitale_ was conversing
with his chief reporter.
"It was not to present me to the minister that you sent for me, my
dear Chief--unless you intend to get me an appointment as sub-prefect,
in which case."...
"In which case?" questioned M. Dupont gently.
Fandor's reply was frank.
"In which case, even before being nominated, I should tender you my
resignation: it is not a profession which tempts me much!"
"Reassure yourself, Fandor, I have no intention whatever of sending
you to live in the provinces: but if I asked you to see me here, it
was with reference to a very delicate affair about which I mean to
give you _instructions_--I insist on this word."
"Good," thought Fandor. "It's all up with my holiday!"
He tried to ask this question before his chief went into details, but
M. Dupont interrupted him with a movement of his hand.
"You will leave for your holiday a few hours later, my dear fellow,
and you can take eight days in addition."
Fandor bowed. He could not dispute his chief's decision--and he had
gained by this arrangement.
"My dear Fandor," said his chief, coming to the main point, "we
published yesterday evening, as you, of course, know, a short
paragraph on the death of an artillery officer, Captain Brocq....
There is something mysterious about his death. Captain Brocq who,
owing to his functions, was attached to the Second Bureau of the Staff
Headquarters, that is to say, the Intelligence Department, was in
touch with different sets of people: it would be interesting to get
some information about them. I mentioned this just now to the Minister
of War, and to the Minister for Home Affairs: both are agreed, that,
without making too much noise about this incident, we should institute
enquiries, discreet, of course, but also pretty exhaustive. You are
the only man on the paper possessed of the necessary tact and ability
to carry the thing through successfully."
* * * * *
An hour later, under the pouring rain, Fandor, with turned-up
trousers, his greatcoat collar raised, was walking stoically along the
Esplanade des Invalides, which was feebly lighted by a few scarcely
visible gas-jets. He reached the other side of the Place a la rue
Fabert; looked at the number of the first house in front of him,
followed the pavement a moment, turning his back on the Seine, then
reached the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg by way of the rue de
l'Universite.
Fandor repeated to himself the final words of his chief's
instructions.
"Interview Baron de Naarboveck; get into touch with a young person
called Bobinette; find out who and what are the frequenters of the
house where this well-known diplomat lives."
Our journalist was not anxious as to the result of his interview; it
was not his first experience of the kind, and this time his task was
rendered especially easy, owing to the letter of introduction which M.
Dupont had given him, in order that he might have a talk with M. de
Naarboveck, who lived in a sumptuous mansion in the rue Fabert.
Fandor did not go straight ahead to this interview: his method was not
so simple. After identifying the front of the house, wishing to know
the immediate neighbourhood thoroughly, he went all round the mass of
houses which limited the rue de l'Universite; he went through the
Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg, in order to discover whether the house was
double or single, if it had one or two exits. Fandor was too much a
detective at heart to neglect the smallest detail.
His inspection was soon done. The house possessed two entrances; that
in the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg was for the use of the servants and
common folk only. The front door opened on the rue Fabert. A courtyard
at the back separated it from the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg.
The house consisted of three storeys, and a ground-floor approached by
a few steps.
Fandor returned to the Esplanade des Invalides, and walked up and down
under the trees for some time, watching the comings and goings of the
neighbourhood. At a quarter to seven he had looked at his watch, and,
not seeing any light in the first-floor rooms, the shutters of which
were not yet closed, he concluded that the inmates had probably not
come in.
Just then Fandor saw an automobile, a very elegant limousine, draw up
before M. de Naarboveck's house. A man of a certain age descended from
it, and vanished in the shadow of a doorway: the door had opened as
the carriage stopped.
"That's de Naarboveck," thought Fandor.
Then he saw the carriage turn and move away.
"The carriage goes in: the master does not go out again," deduced
Fandor.
A short time after, the chauffeur, having taken off his livery, came
out of the house and went away.
"Good," remarked Fandor. "The man I am after will not budge from the
house to-night."
The next to enter were two young women: then some twenty minutes
passed. The rooms on the first floor were lit up, one after the other.
The house was waking up. Fandor was making up his mind to ring when a
motor-car brought a fourth person to the door. It was a young man,
smart, distinguished-looking, very fair, wearing a long thin drooping
moustache: movements and appearance spoke his profession: an officer
in mufti, beyond question.
Fandor once more encircled the house; he had reached the door opening
on to the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg when he saw a confectioner's boy
slip into the house.
"M. Dupont told me de Naarboveck lived alone with his daughter,
therefore he has people dining with him this evening," reasoned the
journalist. He then decided to dine himself, and return an hour and a
half later. Naarboveck well dined and wined could give him more time,
and would be the easier to interview.
Three-quarters of an hour later Fandor left the humble eating-house,
where he had dined badly in the company of coachmen and
house-servants, but fully informed as to the private and public
existence of the person he was going to interview. He had set his host
and his table neighbours gossiping to such purpose that he could tell
at what time de Naarboveck rose in the morning, what his habits were,
if he fasted on Fridays, and what he paid for his cigars.
* * * * *
"Monsieur de Naarboveck, if you please?"
Jerome Fandor had rung the bell of the front entrance in the rue
Fabert. It was just striking nine. A house-porter of the correct stamp
appeared.
"He lives here, Monsieur."
Fandor offered his card, and the letter of introduction from M.
Dupont.
"Please see that these are handed to Monsieur de Naarboveck, and find
out if he can receive me."
The porter, having decided that the visitor was too well dressed to be
left waiting on the steps, signed to the young man to follow him. The
porter rang, and a footman in undress livery immediately appeared, and
took card and letter from the porter.
The servant looked consideringly at Fandor's name engraved on the
card, stared at this unknown visitor, hoping he would definitely state
the purpose of his visit, but the journalist remained impassive, and
as his profession was not indicated on his card the servant had to be
satisfied with his own curiosity.
"Kindly wait here a moment," said the footman, in a fairly civil tone
of voice. "I will see if my master is at home."
Fandor remained alone in a vast hall, furnished after the Renaissance
manner. Costly tapestries covered the walls with their imposing
pictures, their sumptuously woven epics.
The footman quickly returned.
"Will Monsieur kindly follow me?"
Relieved of his overcoat, Fandor obeyed.
One side of the hall opened on a great double staircase, the white
stone of which, turned grey with the passing of time, softened by a
thick carpet and ornamented by a marvellous balustrade of delicately
wrought iron-work, a masterpiece of the XVIIth century.
The lackey opened a door which gave access to a magnificent
reception-room, sparsely furnished with pieces of the best Louis XIV
period. Mirrors reflected the canvases of famous painters, family
pictures of immense artistic value, and still more valuable as
souvenirs.
Traversing this fine apartment, they passed through other drawing
rooms furnished in perfect taste. Fandor reached the smoking-room at
last, where Empire furniture was judiciously mingled with pieces made
for comfort after the English fashion, the tawny leather of which
harmonised marvellously with the blood-red of the ancient mahogany and
with its ancient bronzes.
The lackey pointed to a chair and disappeared.
"By jove!" said Fandor, half aloud, "this fine fellow has done himself
well in the way of a dwelling-place!"
The journalist's reflections were interrupted by the entrance of an
exceedingly elegant young lady.
Fandor rose and saluted this charming apparition.
IV
A CORDIAL RECEPTION
The journalist had naturally expected to see Monsieur de Naarboveck
enter the room: in his stead came this pretty girl.
"Be seated, I beg, Monsieur," she entreated.
"She is his daughter," thought Fandor. "I am given the go-by: the
diplomatist is not going to see me! I am sorry for that, but, on the
other hand, here is this delicious creature."
"You asked to see Monsieur de Naarboveck, did you not? It is for an
interview, no doubt. Monsieur de Naarboveck makes it a point of honour
never to get himself written about in the newspapers, therefore you
must not be surprised."...
The charming girl paused.
Fandor bowed and smiled. He said to himself:
"I shall have to listen for five minutes to this delightful person
assuring me that her father does not wish to talk; after that he will
come himself, and will tell me all I want to know."...
Thus he listened with divided attention to the pretty creature's
words. Then he interjected:
"Monsieur, your father."...
His companion smiled.
"Excuse me!" she said at once. "You have made a mistake: I am not
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, as you seem to imagine. I am
merely her companion: I dare add, a friend of the house. They call me
Mademoiselle Berthe."...
"Bobinette!" cried Fandor, almost in spite of himself. He immediately
regretted this too familiar interjection; but that young person did
not take offence.
"They certainly do call me that--my intimates, at least," she added
with a touch of malice.
Fandor made his apology in words at once playful and correct. He must
do all in his power to make himself agreeable, fascinating, that he
might get into the good graces of this girl; for she was the very
person whom it behooved him to interrogate regarding the mysterious
adventure, the outcome of which had been the death of Captain Brocq.
Bobinette had answered Fandor's polite remarks by protesting that she
was not in the least offended at his familiar mode of address.
"Alas, Monsieur," she had declared, in a tone slightly sad, "I am too
much afraid that my name, the pet name my friends use, will become
very quickly known to the public; for, I suppose, what you have come
to see M. Naarboveck about is to ask him for information regarding
this sad affair we have all been thinking so much about."
"Now we have come to it!" thought Fandor.
He was going to take the lead in this conversation, but the young
woman did not give him time.
She continued in a rapid tone, on one note, almost as if she had
repeated a lesson learned by heart.
"Baron de Naarboveck, Monsieur, cannot tell you anything that you do
not already know, except--and there is no secret about it--that
Captain Brocq used to come here pretty regularly. He has dined with
the Baron frequently, and they have worked at several things
together.... Several of his friends, officers, have been received here
as well: M. de Naarboveck is very fond of company."...
"And then he has a daughter, has he not?" interrupted Fandor.
"Mademoiselle Wilhelmine, yes."
Fandor nearly added:
"A daughter to get married."
It seemed clear to him, that in spite of her timid and reserved airs,
this red-haired beauty seemed to like the idea of playing a part in
the drama.
"Mademoiselle," questioned Fandor, "it has been reported that
yesterday afternoon you had occasion to meet Captain Brocq, some hours
before his sad end?"
The young woman stared fixedly at the journalist, as if to read his
thoughts, as if to divine whether or not he knew that not only had she
met Captain Brocq, but had spent some time with him alone.
Fandor did know it, but he remained impenetrable.
Bobinette, very much mistress of herself, said quite simply:
"It is a fact Monsieur, that I did see Captain Brocq yesterday. I had
to give him a message."
"You will think me very inquisitive," continued Fandor, who pretended
not to look at the young woman, in order to put her more at her ease,
but who, in reality, did not lose a single change of expression on her
pretty face, for he could watch its reflection in a mirror. "You will
think me very inquisitive, but could you tell me the nature of ...
this communication?"
Bobinette replied, quite naturally:
"To be sure I can, Monsieur. Baron de Naarboveck is giving an
entertainment here shortly, and the captain was going to take part in
it. As he was very much of an artist we counted on his doing some
menus in colour for us: I simply went to see him with a message from
Mademoiselle Wilhelmine."...
The conversation stopped short.
Fandor had turned around quickly. Behind him--doubtless he had been
there for some moments--a man was standing. Fandor had not heard him
enter the room. He was a man of a certain age. His moustache was quite
white: he wore the whiskers and imperial of 1850.
Fandor recognised Baron Naarboveck. He was going to apologise for not
having noticed his entrance, but de Naarboveck smiled at the
journalist with apparent cordiality.
"Pardon me, Monsieur Fandor, for not having received you myself, but I
had a guest: moreover, Mademoiselle Berthe must have told you what my
views are regarding interviews."...
Fandor made a slight gesture. The baron continued:
"Oh, they are definite, unalterable! But that will not prevent you
from taking a cup of coffee with us, I feel sure. I have the highest
esteem for Monsieur Dupont, and the terms in which he has recommended
you to me are such that, from now on, I have not the slightest
hesitation in treating you as one of ourselves, as a friend."
Monsieur Naarboveck put his hand familiarly on the young journalist's
shoulder, and led him into the next room.
It was a library: a very lofty room. It was soberly and elegantly
furnished. Before a great chimney-piece of wood, two young people were
standing, and were chatting very much at their ease.
They paused when Fandor entered.
Close behind followed Mademoiselle Berthe.
Fandor bowed to the two young people.
Naarboveck made the introductions:
"Monsieur Jerome Fandor--Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, my
daughter--Monsieur de Loubersac, lieutenant of cuirassiers."
Silence reigned after these formal introductions. If Fandor was in
certain measure satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken, he
was really bored by this involuntary intrusion into a family gathering
which mattered little to him. He felt he had been caught. How the
devil was he going to escape from this wasp's nest? His eye fell on a
timepiece. Seeing the hour, he thought:
"Had it not been for this Brocq fellow, and that fool of a Dupont, I
should now be in the train asleep, and rolling along towards
Dijon!"...
Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, with the ease of a well-bred woman,
offered the journalist a cup of boiling hot coffee.
Mademoiselle Berthe suggested sugar.
Monsieur de Naarboveck, as if he had suddenly remembered something,
said to him:
"But you bear a name which recalls many things, Monsieur Jerome
Fandor! It was you, of course, famous journalist that you are, who,
some time ago, was in constant pursuit of a mysterious ruffian whom
they called Fantomas?"
Fandor, a little embarrassed, smiled. It seemed to him something quite
abnormal to hear Fantomas mentioned in this gathering, so simple, so
natural, so commonplace.
Surely, this criminal, his adventures, the police, and even reporting,
must partake of the fantastic, the imaginary--it must all be Greek to
such conventional people.
Nevertheless, as Monsieur de Naarboveck spoke, Mademoiselle Berthe
drew close to the journalist and gazed at him with curiosity.
"But tell me, Monsieur, may I ask you a question? Perhaps it is my
turn to be inquisitive--but then, so were you just now!"
Fandor laughed. Decidedly this young and pretty person was charming.
"I am certainly bound to reply to you as you wish, Mademoiselle!"
Nodding with a mischievous look, and casting a glance at the Baron
asking his approval--he signified his consent by a nod--she demanded
with an innocently curious air:
"Do tell me, Monsieur, who this Fantomas is?"
Fandor stood speechless.
Ah, this question, which this young woman had asked so naturally, as
if it referred to the most simple thing in the world, how often had he
asked himself that same question? During how many sleepless nights had
his mind not been full of it? And he had never been able to find a
satisfactory answer to "Who is Fantomas?"
Fandor had been asking this question for years. He had, after a
fashion, vowed his existence to the search for this mysterious
individual. How often, and often, in the course of his investigation,
in the midst of his struggles with criminals during his long talks and
conferences with Juve, had he not thought that he had run the bandit
to earth, identified him, was going to drag his personality out into
the broad light of day--and then, suddenly, Fantomas had disappeared.
Fantomas had made a mock of him, of Juve, of the police, of everybody!