He went to de Naarboveck's to fulfill a mission entrusted to him by
those in high places. The Minister of War."...
The Under-Secretary cut the inspector short.
"We know all about that, Monsieur Juve ... besides the person whom the
Minister wished to learn something about was not Monsieur de
Naarboveck's daughter, but her companion--a young woman named
Berthe."...
"And nicknamed Bobinette!" finished Juve.
"What do you think of her?" asked the Under-Secretary.
Juve's reply was an indirect one.
"The more I think about it, the more I am tempted to believe that
Wilhelmine de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress--oh, in the right way,
in all honour!--and that in the background, surreptitiously, a third
person pushed herself into their confidence was the recipient of their
secret, and on this account she could take a good many liberties with
them. Berthe, or Bobinette, was this third person, of course!... She
is known to have visited Brocq repeatedly.... Now, what was she doing
there--what was her object? Well, we have to get a clear idea of what
happened and draw our conclusions. Remember, Brocq left his flat in
great haste on the afternoon of his assassination; he took a taxi at
the des Saints-Peres, and drove off in pursuit of someone.... Why, we
do not know, yet; but this someone was a woman, and I am convinced the
woman was Bobinette."
"What is Bobinette's social position?"
"Gentlemen, I wish I could define it in a single word, but it is here
that I enter the region of enigmas. Here is mystery on mystery.
Without breaking the seal of professional secrecy, I may tell you that
this woman should be known to me; I say 'should' because I still lack
precise information about her; I await this information with
impatience--I fear it also, for, gentlemen."...
Juve stopped short, got up, and began pacing the immense room. Drawing
up before the Under-Secretary and Colonel Hofferman, he gazed at them.
His manner was impressive.
"Gentlemen," said he, in a quiet penetrating voice, and with an air of
intense conviction: "Gentlemen, if my conjectures are correct,
Bobinette is naught but a girl of low birth--of the lowest--a creature
who will stick at nothing, who has been mixed up with a band of
criminals, the most cunning, the most artful, the most unscrupulous,
the most dangerous band of criminals in all this round world--a band I
have, time and again, pursued, decimated, broken up, dispersed ...
only to see them spring to an associated evil life again, a ceaseless
rebirth of maleficent forces, forming and reforming, a malevolent,
hydra-headed monster, a band, gentlemen, of incarnated evil--the band
of Fantomas!"
Juve became silent. He wiped his forehead.
The harsh voice of Colonel Hofferman broke the silence:
"Hypotheses! True to this extent, Monsieur Juve, that Brocq may very
well have had a mistress--we are all agreed about that--but, in
reality, it is simply romance!"
There was a discreet knock at the door.
"What is it?" demanded the Under-Secretary. The form of an usher
showed itself in the half-opened doorway.
He entered, and, turning towards the Under-Secretary, said: "Excuse
me, sir." Then, addressing Colonel Hofferman: "Captain Loreuil sends
me to tell Colonel Hofferman that he has returned, and has a
communication of extreme urgency to lay before him."
"The captain must wait!" cried Hofferman, in a harsh, authoritative
tone.
But the usher, fulfilling his orders, replied:
"The captain anticipated this answer, Colonel, and told me to add that
the communication cannot wait."
The usher withdrew. Hofferman glanced questioningly at the
Under-Secretary.
"Go to him, Colonel, and return as soon as possible."
The Under-Secretary addressed Juve:
"The Government is greatly annoyed by all these incidents, which are
assuming enormous proportions.... Are you aware that rumours of war
are becoming wide-spread?... Public opinion is in a most unsettled
state.... Things are bad on the Bourse, too--going from bad to
worse!... Really, it is all most distressing!"
With a movement of sympathetic acquiescence, Juve said gently:
"I cannot help it, Monsieur!"
It was noon. Twelve was striking.
X
AUNT PALMYRA.
Early in the morning of the day on which the meeting took place in the
private office of the Under-Secretary of State, the proprietor of _The
Three Moons_ at Chalons was busy bottling his wine. Dawn was just
breaking, and the good man had a spirit lamp in his cellar to throw
light upon his task.
Suddenly his bottling operations were disturbed by an unknown voice
calling him insistently from the top of the steps.
"Hey, there! Father Louis! Where is Father Louis?"
Fuming and grumbling, the innkeeper mounted his cellar-steps, and
appeared on the porch.
"I am Father Louis! What am I wanted for?"
The publican found himself face to face with an enormously stout
woman: a grotesque figure clad in light-coloured garments, so cut that
they exaggerated her stoutness; a large, many-coloured shawl was
thrown round her shoulders; on her head was a big round hat, tied with
strings in a bow under her chin. This odd head-gear was topped with a
bunch of gaudy feathers, ragged and out of curl. A veil of flowery
design half hid this woman's features: though far from her first
youth, she no doubt wished to appear young still. The skin of her face
was covered with powder and paint, so badly laid on, that daubs of
white, of red, and blue, lay side by side in all their crudity: there
was no soft blending of tints: it was the make-up of no artist's hand.
"What an object!" thought the publican, staring at this oddity, who
had seated herself on the porch seat and had placed on the ground a
great wicker basket filled with vegetables.
"Ouf!" she cried. "It is a long step to your canteen, Father Louis!
My word, I never thought I should get here! Well now, how is my little
pet of a girl?"
Nonplussed, suspicious, Father Louis looked hard at this strange
visitor: never had he seen anyone like her! What astonished him was to
hear her calling him by the name used only by his familiars.
"Whoever are you?" he asked in a surly tone. "I don't remember you!"
"That's not surprising," cried the visitor, who seemed of a gay
disposition, for she always laughed at the close of every sentence.
"My goodness! It would be queer if you did not recognise me,
considering you have never seen me before!... I am Aunt Palmyra, let
me tell you!"
The innkeeper, more and more out of countenance, searched his memory
in vain.
"Aunt Palmyra?" he echoed.
"Why, of course, you big stupid! Nichoune's aunt--a customer of yours,
she is! She must have mentioned me often--I adore the little pet!"
Father Louis had not the slightest recollection of any such mention,
but, out of politeness, he murmured:
"Of course! Why, of course!"
"Well, then, old dear, you must tell me where she hangs out here! I
must go and give her a hug and a kiss!"
Mechanically, the innkeeper directed Aunt Palmyra.
"On the ground floor--end of the passage!... But you're never thinking
of waking Nichoune at this early hour! She'll make a pretty noise if
you do!"
"Bah!" cried Aunt Palmyra: "Wait till the little dear sees who it
is!... Just look at the nice things I've brought her!" and, showing
him the vegetables in her basket, she began to drawl in a sing-song
voice:
"Will you have turnips and leeks? Here's stuff to make broth of the
best! It will make her think of bygone days when she lived with us in
the country!"
"My faith!" thought Father Louis, "if Nichoune opens her mouth!"
Aunt Palmyra was knocking repeatedly at Nichoune's door, but there was
no response.
"Well, what a sleep she's having!"
"Likely enough," replied Father Louis, "considering she was not in bed
till four o'clock!"
All the same, this persistent silence puzzled the innkeeper. He tried
to peep through the keyhole, but the key was in it. Then he quietly
drew a gimlet from his pocket and bored a hole in the door. Aunt
Palmyra watched him smiling: she winked and jogged his elbow.
"Ho, ho, my boy! I'll wager you don't stick at having a look at your
customers this way, when it suits you!"
With the ease of practice the innkeeper glued his eye to the hole he
had just made. He uttered an exclamation:
"Good heavens!"
"What is it?" cried Nichoune's aunt in a tone of alarm. "Is her room
empty?"
"Empty? No! But."...
Father Louis was white as paper. He searched his pocket in feverish
haste, drew from it a screwdriver, rapidly detached the lock, and
rushed into the room, followed by Aunt Palmyra, who bawled:
"Oh, my good lord! Whatever is the matter with her?"
Nichoune was stretched out on her bed, and might have seemed asleep to
an onlooker were it not for two things which at once struck the eye:
her face was all purple, and her arms, sticking straight up in the
air, were terrifyingly white and rigid. Approaching the bed, the
innkeeper and Aunt Palmyra saw that Nichoune's arms were maintained in
this vertical position by means of string tied round her wrists and
fastened to the canopy over the bed.
"She is dead!" cried Father Louis. "This is awful! Good heavens! What
a thing to happen!"
Aunt Palmyra, for all her previous protestations of affection for her
charming niece, did not seem in any way moved by the tragic discovery.
She glanced rapidly round the room without a sign of emotion. This
attitude only lasted a moment. Suddenly she broke out into loud
lamentations uttering piercing cries: she threw herself into an
arm-chair, then sank in a heap on the sofa, then returned to the
table! She was making a regular nuisance of herself. The innkeeper,
scared and bewildered, did not know how to act: he was staring fixedly
at the unfortunate Nichoune, who gave no sign of life. Involuntarily
the man had touched the dead girl's shoulder: the body was quite cold.
The innkeeper, who had been driven into a state of distracted
bewilderment by Aunt Palmyra's behaviour, now bethought him of his
obvious duty: of course he must call in the police, and also avoid
scandal. Also he must stop this old woman's outrageous goings-on.
"Be quiet!" he commanded. "You are not to make such a noise! Stay
where you are! Don't stir from that corner until I return ... and,
above all, you must not touch a single thing before the arrival of the
police."
"The police!" moaned Aunt Palmyra. "It is frightful! Oh, my poor
Nichoune, however could this have happened?"
Nevertheless, scarcely had the innkeeper retired than the old woman,
with remarkable dexterity, rummaged about among the disordered
furniture, and seized a certain number of papers, which she hid in her
bodice.
Hardly had she pushed them out of sight when the innkeeper returned,
accompanied by a policeman. It was in vain that Father Louis
endeavoured to get the policeman into the tragic room. He did not wish
to do anything.
"I tell you," he repeated in his big voice, "it's not worth my while
looking at this corpse ... for the superintendent will be here
shortly, and he will take charge of the legal procedure."
At the end of about ten minutes the magistrate appeared, accompanied
by his secretary, and immediately proceeded to a summary interrogation
of the innkeeper; but, in the presence of Aunt Palmyra, it was
impossible to do any serious work. This insupportable old woman could
not make head or tail of the questions, and answered at random.
"Leave the room, Madame, leave the room, and I will hear what you have
to say presently."
"But where must I go?" whined Aunt Palmyra.
"Go where you like! Go to the devil!" shouted the exasperated
inspector.
"Oh, well, I suppose I ought not to say so," replied the old woman,
looking seriously offended, "but, though you are an inspector, you
have a very rude tongue in your head!"
To emphasise her majestic exit, Aunt Palmyra added:
"Fancy now! Not one of you have thought of it! I am going as far as
the corner to look for flowers for this poor little thing."
* * * * *
Either florists were difficult to find, or Aunt Palmyra had no wish to
see them as she passed by, for the old woman walked right through the
town without stopping. When she reached the railway station she looked
at the clock.
"By the saints! I have barely time," she ejaculated.
The old termagant traversed the waiting-room, got her ticket
punched--it was a return ticket--and stepped on to the platform at the
precise moment a porter was crying in an ear-piercing voice:
"Passengers for Paris take your seats!"
Aunt Palmyra installed herself in a second-class compartment: "_For
ladies only._"
* * * * *
The train rolled out of the station.
An inspector was examining the tickets at the stopping-place at
Chateau-Thierry.
"Excuse me, sir," said he, waking a passenger who had fallen fast
asleep--a stout man, with a smooth face and scanty hair--"Excuse me,
Monsieur, but you are in a '_For ladies only_!'"
The man leapt up and rubbed his eyes; instinctively, with the gesture
of a short-sighted man, he took from his waistcoat pocket a large pair
of spectacles in gold frames, and stared at the inspector.
"I am sorry! It's a mistake! I will change into another compartment!"
The stranger passed along the connecting corridor, carrying a small
bundle of clothes wrapped in a shawl of many colours!... An hour
later, the train from Chalons arrived at Paris, ten minutes behind
time. Directly he stood on the platform the traveller looked at his
watch.
"Twenty-five past eleven! I can do it!"
He jumped into a taxi, giving his orders:
"Rue Saint Dominique--Ministry of War!... and quick!"
* * * * *
Shortly after the unexpected departure of Colonel Hofferman, Juve,
judging it useless to prolong the conversation, had quitted the
Under-Secretary of State's office. Instead of mounting to the Second
Bureau, he sent in his name to Commandant Dumoulin. Although their
acquaintance was but slight, the two men were in sympathy: each
realised that the other was courageous and devoted to duty; both were
enamoured of an active life and open air.
Juve was hoping that at all events he would hear something new, if not
facts about the affair he had in hand, at least with regard to the
attitude which the military authorities meant to take up. Commandant
Dumoulin, however, knew nothing or did not wish to say anything, and
Juve was about to leave, when Colonel Hofferman entered.
Hofferman looked radiant. Catching sight of Juve, he smiled.
"Ah! Upon my word! I did not expect to find you here, Monsieur ...
but, since you are, you will be glad to get some news of the Brocq
affair."...
Juve's eyes were shining notes of interrogation.
"I rendered due homage to your perspicacity just now," continued the
colonel: "you were absolutely right in your prognostication that Brocq
had a mistress; unfortunately--I am sorry for the wound to your
self-esteem--the correctness of your version stops there! Brocq's
mistress was not a society woman, as you thought: on the contrary, she
was a girl of the lower orders ... a music-hall singer, called
Nichoune ... of Chalons!"
"You have proof of it?"
The colonel, with a superior air, held out a packet of letters to
Juve.
"Here is the correspondence--letters written by Brocq to the girl! One
of my collaborators seized them at girl's place."...
Juve scrutinised the letters.
"It's curious," he said, half to himself.... "An annoying coincidence ...
but the name of Nichoune does not appear once in these letters!"
"No other name appears," observed the colonel: "Consequently, taking
into consideration the place where these letters have been found ...
we must conclude."...
"These letters had no envelopes with them?" questioned Juve.
"No, there were none, but what matters that?" cried the colonel.
"Very queer," said Juve, in a meditative tone. Then raising his voice:
"I suppose, Colonel, that your ... collaborator, before taking
possession of these letters, had a talk with the person who had
received them. Did he manage to extract any information?"
Hofferman interrupted Juve with a gesture.
"Monsieur Juve," said he, crossing his arms, "I am going to give you
another surprise: my collaborator could not get the person in question
to talk, and for a very good reason: he found her dead!"
"Dead?" echoed Juve.
"That is as I say."
The detective, though he strove to hide it, was more and more taken
aback. What could this mean? No doubt he would soon secure additional
information; but what was the connecting link? where, and who was the
mysterious person who was really pulling the strings? The sarcastic
voice of the colonel tore Juve from his reflections and questionings.
"Monsieur Juve, I think it is high time we had some lunch ... but
before we separate allow me to give you a word of advice.
"When, in the course of your career, you have occasion to deal with
matters relating to spies and spying, leave us to deal with them, that
is what we are here for!... As for you, content yourself with ordinary
police work, that is your business, and, if it gives you pleasure,
continue your hunt for Fantomas, that will give you all the occupation
you require!... Yes," continued the colonel, while Juve was clenching
his fists with exasperation at this irony which was like so many
flicks of a whip on his face, "Yes, leave these serious affairs to
us--and occupy yourself with Fantomas!"
XI
THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTOMAS
Leaning on his window-sill, Jerome Fandor was apparently keeping a
strict watch on the comings and goings of the passers-by, who, having
finished their Sunday walk, were bending their steps towards dinner, a
quiet evening, and a reposeful night. Seven o'clock sounded from a
neighbouring clock, its strokes borne through the misty atmosphere,
darkened by fog: it was a peaceful moment, made for pleasurable
relaxation ofter the activities of the day. Jerome Fandor, however,
was not enjoying the charm of the hour. Although his attitude was
apparently tranquil, listless even, inwardly he was in a state of
fury, a condition of feverish enervation.
"To be so near success," he thought; "to be on the point of bringing
in a magnificent haul, and then to get myself locked up, like a fool!
No! Not if I can help it! Why it would be enough to make me strangle
myself with my handkerchief as they believed that wretched Dollon, of
sinister memory, did in the past!"
He smoked cigarette after cigarette, raving to himself, yet never
taking his eyes off the pavements, where tirelessly, ceaselessly, a
stream of pedestrians passed up and down the street.
"Was I mistaken, I wonder!" he went on. "Still, I cannot help fancying
that youth--he was fifteen at the most--that sickly young blackguard
of the Paris pavements who followed me into the tube, then took the
same train as I did, who was behind me as I crossed the Place de la
Concorde, who was continually and persistently on my tracks--I cannot
think he was there by chance!... Well, it is no use worrying myself
into a fever over it!"
Fandor found it almost impossible to recover his tranquillity of mind.
Again and again, in the course of the day, he had come across the same
individuals during his peregrinations, which took him from one end of
Paris to the other: was it accident, coincidence, fatality, or was a
very strict watch being kept over his movements? Thus Fandor had asked
himself whether the Second Bureau had been warned of the part he had
played with regard to Vinson? Was he not being watched and shadowed in
the hope of running the treacherous corporal to earth? If the Second
Bureau had decided to arrest Fandor, he certainly would not escape. "I
shall be jailed within twenty-four hours," thought our journalist.
"This branch of the detective service is so marvellously organised,
that should the heads of it look upon me as Vinson's accomplice they
will arrest me before I have time to parry the blow. In that case, the
band of traitors I pursue, and am on the point of unearthing, will
gain enough time to take their bearings, make all their arrangements,
and disappear, without counting that this miserable Vinson, who relies
on my help, will be caught at once."
Suddenly Fandor left his post of observation, shut his window, and
went to the telephone.
"I must put Juve in possession of all the facts up to now, then, if I
am caught, Juve will see to it that I am set free--he will put his
heart into it, I know."
Unfortunately, it was not Juve who was at the other end of the line.
He had gone out; his old servant took Fandor's message.
"Tell Monsieur Juve directly he comes in that I cannot go out, but
that I absolutely must see him. Tell him the matter is most urgent."
* * * * *
It was ten o'clock at night. Corporal Vinson was dressing in haste.
"Plague take it!" he cried. "I mustn't lose a moment if I don't want
to miss my train."
Vinson was dressing in Fandor's bedroom. There must have been a time
when Corporal Vinson was very proud of putting on the uniform of a
French soldier; but at this particular moment his feelings were the
very opposite. However, he clad himself in this same uniform with
lightning rapidity. Careful of his smart appearance, the corporal
examined himself in the glass: the reflection was so satisfactory that
he broke into smiles--undoubtedly his uniform suited him.
There was a violent ring at the door-bell. Vinson jumped: he began to
tremble.
"Who can it be at this hour?" he asked himself. "I was sure something
would happen! I was bound to catch it somehow!"
Vinson dared not risk a movement: he stood rigid, motionless. Whoever
was at the door must be led to think that there was not a living soul
in Fandor's flat.
Again the bell rang, a violent ring: it was the ring of someone who
does not mean to go away, who knows that the delay in opening the door
is deliberate.
"Plague take that porter!" murmured the corporal. "I'll wager."...
Again the bell rang violently.
Something had to be done. Drops of sweat rolled down the corporal's
face.
"By jingo, this business is going to end very badly!"
The young soldier rapidly drew off his shoes and tiptoed to the
vestibule. Through the keyhole he looked to see who was ringing for
the fourth time, and more violently than ever.
No sooner had Vinson looked than he swore softly.
"Good Heavens! What I feared! It's an agent from the Second Bureau!...
I recognise him!... I am sold--there's not a doubt of it!"
Ghastly from terror, Vinson watched the visitor put his hand in his
pocket, then choose a key from his bunch.
"Ah! This individual has a master-key! And I--I have an idea!"
Vinson leaped backwards, just as the agent was putting his key in the
lock, and rushed towards Fandor's study. He locked the door at the
precise moment the agent entered the flat.
"Halt!" cried he: Vinson's movements had been heard.
The corporal's answer was to double-lock the door. "What you are
doing there is childish!" cried the agent. "I have master-keys! Give
yourself up!" Taking a fresh key, he unlocked the door Vinson had just
closed. The corporal was not in the room. The agent rushed to another
door which led from the study to the dining-room. He opened that door,
entered the dining-room; it was empty also: Vinson had fled to the
room adjoining.
"You cannot keep at it!" cried the agent. "You see the doors cannot
offer a moment's resistance! I shall corner you!"
But Vinson, retreating from room to room, aimed at drawing on his
pursuer to the last room of the flat. Directly the agent entered the
dining-room, Vinson, quick as lightning, leapt into the corridor,
crossed the vestibule at a bound, opened the door leading to the
staircase, slamming it behind him.
On the landing he hesitated a second.
"Must he go down the stairs?"
The agent would follow in his track, the pursuit would develop, for,
seeing a soldier in uniform racing along, the passers-by would join in
the running: it would be fatal--Vinson would be caught.
"I'll double back," thought he, "back and up!"
Hurriedly he mounted the next flight of stairs, gaining the third
story. No sooner had he reached the landing which dominated Fandor's
flat than the agent, in his turn, reached the staircase and ran to the
balustrade to try and catch sight of Vinson on his way down to the
street. He did not doubt that this was the soldier's way of escape.
The agent could not see a soul.
"Got off, by Jove!" He was furious.