fine day he would produce a drama, it might be a big drama, which took
public opinion captive, it might be a drama in appearance
insignificant, and then each one saw and followed traces which were
more or less normal and ordinarily probable. Fandor and Juve, Fandor
alone, or Juve isolated, following the indications which only their
perspicacity enabled them to discover, still and always felt the
presence, the trace of this monster, this being so enigmatical, so
indefinable, who was terrorising humanity.
Then implacable and dangerous pursuits, redoubtable struggles, were
the order of their days and nights.
Juve, Fandor, the representatives of justice, one and all, united to
reduce the circle in which this ruffian revolved, and at the moment
they were about to catch him, he would fade away, leaving them as
their only spoil, the temporary personality with which he had clothed
himself, and under which he had momentarily deigned to make himself
known.
Now behold, here was this little red-haired creature, Bobinette, who
asked for the solution of this formidable, incomprehensible,
unprecedented thing, wanted it straight away.
"Who is Fantomas?"
Fandor's attitude, his expression showed how surprised he was at such
a question.
M. de Naarboveck emphasised and justified the journalist's
astonishment.
Then, in a rather dry, hard voice, Monsieur de Loubersac gave his
opinion:
"My dear Baron, don't you think that for several years past we have
been made sufficient fools of with all these Fantomas tales? For my
part, I don't believe a word of them! Such a powerful criminal has no
chance nowadays, that is to say, if he exists. One must see life in
its true proportions and recognise that it is very commonplace."...
"But, Monsieur," interrupted Mademoiselle Berthe, who, covered with
blushes, scarcely dared raise her eyes to the handsome lieutenant,
"but, Monsieur, for all that, Fantomas has been much talked about!"
The young officer looked the red-haired beauty up and down, bestowing
on her but a cursory glance. Fandor noticed that Bobinette was greatly
troubled by it. Following this little by-play, he immediately got a
very clear impression that if the lieutenant did not consider the
pretty girl worthy of much consideration, she, on her side, seemed
very much influenced by all that this elegant and handsome young
officer said or did.
Fandor had noticed, too, while the talk went on, that Mademoiselle de
Naarboveck was deeply moved, and looked sorrowful. She was a graceful
girl, in all the freshness and brilliancy of her twenty years, with
large eyes, soft and luminous. Her natural disposition was evidently a
bright and gay one, but this evening sadness overshadowed her, and to
such a point that, in spite of her efforts to be lively and pleasant,
she could not hide her sad preoccupation.
M. de Naarboveck, who had been watching Fandor closely, said to him,
in a low voice:
"Wilhelmine has been very much upset by this terrible accident which
has overtaken our friend, Captain Brocq, and we."...
Just then, the harsh sarcastic tones of de Loubersac broke in afresh:
"In conclusion," exclaimed the lieutenant, "I maintain that Fantomas
is an invention, a more or less original one, I am ready to admit, but
an invention of not the least practical interest. Just an invention of
the detectives, this Fantomas; or, it may be of the journalists only,
who have made the gaping public swallow this hocus-pocus pill--this
enormous pill!" The lieutenant stared at Fandor defiantly. "And let me
add, I speak from knowledge, for, up to a certain point, I know all
these individuals!"
Fandor was not in the least impressed by the lieutenant's aggressive
declarations. He regarded him calmly--there was a touch of irony in
his gaze: at the same time, he did not clearly understand de
Loubersac's last phrase.
The excellent Monsieur de Naarboveck murmured in his ear:
"De Loubersac, you know, has to do with the Second Bureau at the
Ministry of War: the statistics department."...
* * * * *
It was only at half past eleven that Fandor had been able to tear
himself away from the de Naarboveck house.
Fandor wandered on the boulevards a long time before he returned to
his flat.
On his table, near his portmanteau ready strapped for departure, he
found the Railway Guide lying open at the page showing the lines from
Paris to the Cote d'Azur! He would not look at the seductive
time-table. He rushed to his portmanteau, undid the straps in furious
haste, dragged out his clothes, which he flung to the four quarters of
the room. For the moment he was in a towering rage.
"And now, confound it! That Brocq affair is not clear! It's no use my
trying to persuade myself to the contrary! There is some mystery about
it! Those officers! This diplomat! And then this questionable person,
neither servant, nor lady accustomed to good society, who has to me
all the appearance of playing not merely a double role, but at the
least a triple, perhaps a quadruple!... Good old Fandor, there's
nothing for it, if you want to go South, but to see friend Juve and
get some light on it all."
Having come to this conclusion, Fandor went to bed. He could not
sleep. There was one word which ceaselessly formed itself in luminous
letters before his mind's eye--a word he dare not articulate. It was a
synthetic word which brought into a collected whole facts and ideas;
it was the summing up of his presentiments, of his conclusions, of his
fears; the word which said all without defining anything, but
permitted everything to be inferred: that word was--_Spying_!
V
THEY ARE NOT AGREED
As one who had the privilege of free entry to the house, Fandor opened
the front door of Juve's flat with the latchkey he possessed as a
special favour, traversed the semi-darkness of the corridor and went
towards his friend's study.
He raised the curtain, opened the door half-way, and caught sight of
Juve at his desk.
"Don't disturb yourself, it is only Fandor!"
The detective was absorbed in the letter he was writing to such a
degree that he had never even heard the journalist enter. At the sound
of his voice Juve started.
"What! You! I thought you had flown yesterday, flown South!"
Fandor smiled a woeful smile.
"I did expect to get away yesterday evening. Juve, in my calling, as
in yours, it is the height of stupidity to make plans. You see! Here I
am still--stuck here!"
Juve nodded assent.
"Well, what then?" he asked.
"Well, what do you think, Juve?"
The detective leaned back in his chair and considered his young
friend.
"Well, my dear Fandor, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
Fandor did not seem much disposed to answer. He had taken off his hat
and overcoat. Now he drew from his pocket a cigarette-case. He
selected one and lighted it carefully, seeming to find a veritable
delight in the first whiffs which he sent towards the ceiling.
"It's a fine day, Juve!"
The detective, more and more astonished, considered the journalist
with the utmost attention.
"What's the matter with you, Fandor?" he said at last.
"Why are you carrying on like this? Why are you not on your
travels?... Without being inquisitive, I suppose you have your head
full of other things than the state of the weather?"
"And you, Juve?"
"How? I?"
"Juve, I ask you why you are so upset?"
The detective folded his arms.
"My word, Fandor, but you are losing your head. You think, then, that
I am thoroughly upset?"
"Juve, you look like a death's-head!"
"Really?"
"Juve, you have not been to bed!"
"I have not been to bed, have I not? How do you know that?"
Fandor approached the writing-table and pointed to the corner, where a
series of half-smoked cigarettes were ranged side by side.
"Ah, I do not doubt, Juve, but that they tidy up your study every
morning; but, here are twenty-five cigarette ends, lying side by side:
you certainly have not smoked all those in one morning, consequently
you have lighted them during the night, and consequently you have not
gone to bed."
Juve's tone was bantering.
"Continue, little one, you interest me."
"And, to cap it all, the ends of your cigarettes have been
chewed, bitten, mangled,--an indisputable sign of high nervous
tension--therefore."...
"Therefore, Fandor?"
"Therefore, Juve, I ask what is wrong with you--that's all!"
The detective fixed the journalist with a piercing look, trying to
guess what he was aiming at. But Fandor was too good a pupil of Juve
to let him have the slightest inkling of his feelings. There was an
enigmatic smile on his lips whilst he awaited Juve's reply.
The detective quickly decided to speak out.
"I am looking into a very serious affair which interests me greatly."
"Grave?"
"Possibly."
This did not satisfy Fandor. He seated himself on the corner of the
writing-table and considered his friend.
"See now, Juve, answer me if you can see your way to it.... Your
attitude makes me sure that important things are in the air: you are
in a very emotional condition, and that for some reason I have not
fathomed. Can I be useful to you? Will you not let me share this
secret?"
"Will you tell me yours?"
"In three minutes."
Juve sat for a few minutes deep in thought. Then in a changed voice, a
solemn voice with a sharp note in it, he said:
"You know about Captain Brocq's sudden death, of course?... Let me
tell you that I have discovered it was an assassination. It's this
affair I am giving all my attention to."
When there was mention of the Brocq affair, Fandor started. Here was a
strange coincidence. Since last night had not his own mind been
distressed by the mysteries he divined in this strange death? And now
here was Juve also upset by his examination of this same affair.
Fandor drew up a chair, placed himself astride it, facing Juve,
putting his elbows on the back and holding his head between his hands.
"You are looking into this Brocq affair, Juve?... Very well! So am
I!... You have read my articles?"
"They are very interesting."
"They lack conclusiveness, however!... But, as things are, I could not
do better, not having any precise information and facts to go upon.
Are you quite certain about the facts yourself? Do you know who has
struck the blow?"
"Don't you suspect, Fandor?"
Juve did not give him time to reply. He half rose from his seat, and,
bending close to Fandor, looked him straight in the eyes.
"Tell me, my boy! Suppose that after six months of truce, six months
of tranquillity, your whole existence is again violently upset? If you
understood that the efforts and dangers and struggles and tenacity of
six long years were entirely wasted, and that the results you thought
you had achieved did not exist--that you had to begin all over
again--that once more you had to play a match with not only your life
for stakes, but your honour as well--tell me, Fandor, would you not be
stirred to your depths?"
Our journalist feigned indifference: it was the best way to draw Juve
on, he well knew.
"What do you mean, Juve?"
"What do I mean, my boy? You shall hear! Do you know who killed
Captain Brocq?"
"No! Who?"
"Fantomas!"
At this sinister name Fandor jumped up as though thunderstruck.
"Fantomas?... You accuse Fantomas of having killed Captain Brocq?"
Juve nodded assent.
The two men stared at each other in horror-struck silence.
Fantomas!
What a flood of memories, horrid, menacing, that name evoked! There
flashed through Fandor's mind all that he knew of the atrocities which
could be imputed to Fantomas. He seemed to live over again the recent
years of continual struggle, of almost daily contest with the
mysterious criminal--Fantomas!... But had not Juve declared--and not
so long ago--after the drama of rue Norvins,[2] when the elusive
monster had been driven to flight--had not Juve declared that Fantomas
had vanished for good and all! Now, at this precise moment, he was
accusing this criminal of a fresh crime!... Fandor thought, too, of
the conclusions he had himself arrived at, whilst studying the Brocq
affair from his own point of view: that it was a drama of spies and
spying.... Surely either he was mistaken--or Juve was!... Was it a
murder, or a political assassination?... No longer pretending
indifference, he questioned Juve anxiously:
[Footnote 2: See _The Exploits of Juve_, vol. ii, _Fantomas Series_.]
"You accuse Fantomas? In the name of death and destruction, why?"
Juve had regained his self-possession. By pronouncing the word
"Fantomas," by giving utterance to his secret fears, he had relieved
his feelings.
"Fandor!" said he, in a quiet voice: "Consider carefully all the
details and circumstances of this drama! In open day, on one of the
most frequented promenades of Paris, an officer falls mortally wounded
when passing in a taxicab, going possibly to some appointed
meeting-place in one of the restaurants of the Bois. His taxi is
surrounded by a crowd of vehicles, and without having time even to see
his attacker, without anyone having seen him, Brocq collapses,
mortally wounded, killed as though in battle, by a shot, a mysterious
shot, fired from a weapon of the most perfect kind.... Come now,
Fandor! Is that not a crime worthy of Fantomas?"
But the journalist was not convinced.
"True, this crime is worthy of Fantomas, but I do not think Fantomas
has committed it.... You go too far, Juve! You are the victim of your
hobby. Believe me, you exaggerate--you cannot trace every strange and
subtle crime to this criminal!"
"If you do not attribute this crime to Fantomas, then at whose door do
you lay it?" demanded the detective, who was well aware that he must
guard against being the victim of a Fantomas obsession.
"Juve," replied Fandor, "I have been charged by Dupont to look into
the Brocq affair, and have had to postpone my holiday to do it--that
is how you see me this morning.... Well, I have begun my enquiry, and
am trying to find out the exact truth regarding this unfortunate
officer's death.... I have visited certain of his relations,
interviewed the people who have known him, I have been able to get
into touch with this Bobinette, who seems to be the last person who
approached him a little before his assassination, and I have also
arrived at a conclusion."
"And that is--Fandor?"
"A conclusion, Juve, which does not involve Fantomas in the slightest
degree, a conclusion which, I assure you, has the advantage of being
more certain, plainer, more absolutely definite than yours."...
"And that is--Fandor?"
"Juve, this officer belonged to the Second Bureau of the Staff
Officer's Headquarters."...
"Yes, and?"...
"Juve, when an officer of the Second Bureau disappears in such tragic
conditions, do you know what one presumes to be the reason of that
disappearance?"
"What?"
"Juve, I assert that if Captain Brocq is dead it is because there is a
spy in the pay of a foreign power, who, being under supervision,
perhaps on the point of being arrested, has resolved that the captain
must die in order to save himself.... A document has been stolen, and
it is precisely this fact which makes me disbelieve in the
intervention of Fantomas."...
"You do not believe me, Juve?"
The detective shrugged his shoulders.
"No, I do not think you are right.... In the first place, Fantomas is
capable of everything--capable of the theft of a document for which a
foreign power would pay him very highly, just as there is no other
kind of theft he is not capable of.... And then, dear boy, a spy, a
traitor in the pay of a foreign power would not dare to attempt the
crime to which we are giving all our attention--not in that particular
way at any rate. There is only one person who would risk
that--Fantomas."
Fandor's laugh had a note of mockery in it. He let Juve see that he
thought his ideas on this subject were very simple indeed.
"It is your hobby which always inspires you," he repeated.... "Beyond
question I am the first to believe in the audacity of Fantomas ... and
if I do not know all the secrets of terror hidden in this word
'spying,' I am ready enough to be convinced.... But, look here, Juve,
I know the world of spies, I have studied them, I know what they are
capable of attempting, ... and I do not speak lightly when I tell you
that the assassination of Brocq is a political crime."
Juve continued to shake his head, quite unconvinced.
Fandor continued:
"Juve, believe me! Who says 'spy,' says 'capable of anything.' The
officers of the Second Bureau are, in short, the true directors of the
police spy system; they know all the shameful mysteries whereby some
individual reputed honest, honourable in appearance, is in the pay of
the foreigner. They know the traitors. They know who sells France and
who buys France. Every day they are in relation with the agents
belonging to all classes of society, lawyers, commercial men, small
shopkeepers, commercial travellers, railway servants, women of the
world, women of the pavement, thousands of individuals who continually
travel about the country, holding it in a network of observations,
notes, remarks, the result of all of which might be that some one
power would have immediately the advantage over some other, because it
knew the weak points where it could launch its attack.... You know,
Juve, that they are people who do not shrink from anything when their
interest is at stake. You know that the man who betrays, who spies,
who is an informer, is always disavowed by the country who employs
him.... You know that those who are taken in the act are punished to
the utmost, consequently they will stick at nothing to save themselves
from being caught. Do you not think that in this spy-world there might
be found a man who, driven into a corner by circumstances, would be
daring enough to commit the crime which is occupying our attention
now? You say: 'It is a crime worthy of Fantomas!' Agreed. But I reply
to you: 'There must be spies worthy of being compared to
Fantomas!'"...
Fandor stopped short. Suddenly Juve threw himself back in his chair:
the detective laughed aloud, a burst of ironic laughter. "My dear
boy," said he, "do not be angry with me."
"What nonsense, Juve--You know very well that I would not be that!"
"Well, my dear Fandor, you see in the assassination of Captain Brocq
an affair of spying because you have had your hobby for some time
past--the hobby of spying."
Fandor smiled. Juve continued:
"Come! Is it not true that six months ago--it was just after the
Dollon assassination--you published in _La Capitale_ a whole series of
papers relating to affairs of treason?"
"True, but."...
"Is it correct that you learned just then that one could define the
Second Bureau as the world of spies, and that you were extremely
struck by this, extremely surprised?"
"That is so, Juve. It is precisely because I had this information, and
was able to get a fair knowledge of the terrible secrets existing in
this dark Government department, that I am in a position now to
ascribe the Brocq affair to the action of some group of spies."
"Your hobby again, Fandor! The assassination of the captain has
occurred under such circumstances that it can only be imputed to
Fantomas. Let us look the truth in the face! We are going to enter
into a fresh struggle with Fantomas! That is a certainty!"
"It's your hobby now, Juve! There's no Fantomas in this affair. No! We
are face to face with a very serious business, there I agree with you;
but it is wholly a spy job--nothing else!"
Getting up, the journalist added:
"This very evening I shall publish in _La Capitale_ an article in
which I shall explain exactly what spies are, the real part they play
in the body politic, their terrible power; that it is a mistake to
consider them only cowards; that owing to the exigencies of their
sinister profession, they very often give proof of an exceptional
courage--bravery--and in which I shall."...
With a shrug, Juve interrupted:
"In which you will write nonsense, old boy.... Anyhow, you are free!"
"That's true! Free to spend a fortnight in the Sunny South, where I
shall be in a few hours' time! Anyhow, read my article in _La
Capitale_; I tell you I am going to take a lot of trouble over it!"...
"A fortnight hence, then, Juve!" He added in a bantering tone:
"Don't dream too much of Fantomas.... What!"
VI
CORPORAL VINSON
With one knee resting on his portmanteau, Jerome Fandor was pulling
with all the force of his powerful arms at the straps in order to
buckle them up.
It was Sunday, November the thirteenth, and five o'clock in the
afternoon. The flat was brilliantly illuminated, and the greatest
disorder reigned throughout.
At last Fandor was off for his holiday! Not to risk losing his train,
our journalist meant to dine at the Lyons railway station.
"Ouf!" cried he, when he had succeeded in cramming his mass of
garments sufficiently tight, and had then closed the portmanteau.
Fandor uttered a sigh of satisfaction. This time there could be no
doubt about his departure--the thing was certain. He was casting a
final glance round when he stopped short in the middle of the passage.
The door-bell had been rung: evidently someone was at the entrance
door. Who was it? What was it? Had something arisen which was going to
prevent his departure? He went quickly to the door. He opened it to
find a soldier on the landing.
"Monsieur Fandor?" he enquired in a gentle, rather husky voice.
"Yes. What is it you want?" replied the journalist crossly.
The soldier came forward a step: then, as if making an effort, he
articulated painfully:
"Will you permit me to enter? I am most anxious to speak to you."
Fandor, with a movement of the hand, signified that the importunate
stranger might come inside. He observed the man closely. He was quite
young, and wore infantry uniform: his stripes were those of a
corporal. His hair was brown, and his light eyes were in marked
contrast to the much darker tones of his face. A slight moustache
shaded his lip.
The corporal followed Fandor into his study, and stood still with an
embarrassed air. The journalist considered him an instant, then asked:
"To whom have I the honour of speaking?"
This question appeared to tear the soldier from a kind of dream. He
jumped, then mechanically stood at attention, as if before a superior
officer.
"I am Corporal Vinson."
Fandor nodded, tried to remember him, but in vain. The name told him
nothing....
"I have not the honour to be known to you, Monsieur, but I know you
very well through your articles."
Then he continued in almost a supplicating tone:
"I greatly need speech with you, Monsieur."...
"Another bore," said Fandor to himself, "who wants to get me to give
him a recommendation of some sort!"
Our journalist boiled with impatience at the thought of the precious
minutes he was losing. He would have to cut his dinner short if he did
not wish to miss the night express. Nevertheless, wishing to lessen
the unpleasant reception he had given this unwelcome visitor, he
murmured in a tone which was cold, all the same:
"Pray be seated, Monsieur: I am listening to you!"
Corporal Vinson seemed greatly agitated.
The invitation was evidently very opportune, for the visitor let
himself fall heavily into an arm-chair. Great drops of perspiration
were on his forehead, his lips were pallid: at intervals he looked at
the journalist, whose impassible countenance did not seem to invite
confidences. The poor trooper lost countenance more and more: Fandor
remained silent.
At last Vinson managed to say, in a voice strangling with emotion:
"Ah! Monsieur, excuse me for having come to disturb you like this, but
I was determined to tell you ... to know you--to express to you ...
how I appreciate your talent, your way of writing ... how I like the
ideas you express in your paper!... There was your last article, so
just, so ... charitable!"
"You are very kind, Monsieur," interrupted Fandor, "and I am much
obliged to you; but, if it is the same to you, we might arrange a
meeting for another day, because now I am very pressed for time."...
Fandor made as if to rise to emphasise his statement; but Corporal
Vinson, far from imitating the movement, sank deeper and deeper in the
large arm-chair, into which he had literally fallen a few minutes
before, and with an accent of profound anguish, for he understood
Fandor's desire to shorten the conversation, he cried with a groan:
"Ah, Monsieur, do not send me away! If I keep silence now, I shall
never have the courage to speak--but I must."...