probably, began to mount the first flight of stairs in leisurely
fashion, someone who could have no suspicion of the pursuit going on
in the house. Very likely the agent neither intended nor desired to be
recognised for what he was: it was quite probable that he did not wish
to be seen, for, on hearing this someone coming up towards him, he
stopped short in his descent.... It was his turn to hesitate a moment.
Then it suddenly occurred to him that this new-comer might be a
resident on one of the lower floors and so would not come higher. With
this, the agent retraced his steps, crossed the landing on to which
Fandor's flat opened, and began to mount the next flight leading to
the third floor.
This did not suit Vinson: he was on tenterhooks.
"If he keeps coming up," thought the corporal, "much use it will be
for me to retreat upwards! He will nip me on the sixth floor! It's a
dead cert!"
Then he had a brilliant idea. He began to walk on the landing with
heavy steps, imitating someone coming downstairs. Forthwith, the
agent, who was coming up, stopped short. He had no wish to be seen by
the person descending either! The only thing left for him to do was to
take refuge in the journalist's flat! Easy enough with his master-key!
He reopened the door, closing it just in time to escape being seen by
the resident coming upstairs.
Vinson, who had not lost a single movement of the agent's, gave a sigh
of satisfaction. He had perfectly understood the why and wherefore of
his pursuer's hesitations; he seemed now in high good-humour; had he
not caught sight of the new arrival! He was immensely amused!
The person who had just come upstairs was now ringing Fandor's bell.
Not getting any answer, he selected a key on his bunch, and it was his
turn to let himself in to the journalist's flat.
As he was closing the door, Corporal Vinson, from the landing above,
gave him an ironical salute.
"I much regret that I am unable to introduce you to each other! But,
by way of return, I thank you for the service you have unwittingly
done me."
The way was open: Vinson rapidly descended, gained the street, hailed
a cab.
"To the Eastern Station!"
"I have missed the express," he muttered; "but I shall catch the first
train for those on leave."
* * * * *
Whilst Corporal Vinson was congratulating himself on the turn of
events, the agent remained in Fandor's flat, feeling as if he were
the victim of an abominable nightmare. No sooner had he hurriedly let
himself into the flat in order to escape the resident coming upstairs,
than he heard the bell ring: he felt desperate: "Who the devil was
it!" Assuredly not the unknown who had fled so mysteriously--"Who
then?"
When the bell rang a second time, the man cried: "What's to be done?"
Well, the best thing was to wait in the journalist's study: it was
more than probable that, not obtaining any response, the visitor would
go away!... This was not at all what happened.
With the same assurance which he himself had had a few minutes before,
the agent of the Second Bureau heard the new arrival slip his key into
the lock, open the door, close it as confidently as though he were
entering his own home; and now, yes, he was coming towards the study!
There was no light burning in Fandor's study: some gleams from the
gas-lamps in the street dimly illumined the room. The agent, who was
leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece, could not clearly
distinguish the features of the person who now stood in the doorway.
It was certainly not the journalist. The intruder was a man of quite
forty; he wore a soft hat turned down at the edges, thus partially
concealing the upper half of his face, which was sunk in the raised
collar of an overcoat.
The intruder bowed slightly to the agent, then taking a few steps into
the room, went to the window, looked about outside. He seemed to be
someone on intimate terms with the master of the flat, and might be
going to await his return.
"He must be a friend of Jerome Fandor's," thought the agent. "He must
think the journalist will be here shortly, perhaps that he is actually
in the flat somewhere, and that I too am waiting for him." Evidently
the best thing to do was to stay where he was, and not to make any
remark which might attract attention.
Some minutes passed thus. Presently, the two men, tired with standing,
seated themselves.
"The old boy will get sick of waiting," thought the agent. "He will go
away, and I shall take my departure when he has cleared out."
But the new-comer, making himself very much at home, now relieved
himself of his greatcoat, removed his hat, and, having caught sight of
a lamp on the mantelpiece, took a box of matches from his pocket, and
proceeded to light it. At the moment when the match flared up, the
man, turning his back on the agent, could not see him: but the agent
could see the man distinctly. There could be no question that the man
lighting the lamp was someone the agent had not expected to meet, for
the emissary from the Second Board did the very reverse of what the
new-comer had done: he turned up the collar of his greatcoat!
The two men were now face to face in the lighted room.... There was a
silence which lasted some minutes: the agent broke it.
"You await Monsieur Fandor?" asked the agent.
"Yes, Monsieur, and you also, no doubt?"
"Quite so ... and I have more than an idea that we shall have to wait
a long time for him.... I saw him a short while ago, he had a piece of
pressing business on hand, and I do not think he will be back
before."... The agent was quite obviously trying to get the new-comer
to retire.
"Bah!" retorted the latter: "I am in no hurry." Whilst speaking the
unknown visitor stared strangely at the emissary of the Second Bureau:
he was thinking.
"Where have I seen that long beard--that remarkably heavy
moustache?... And then this bundle he has put down!... If I am not
jolly well mistaken, I know this individual!"
"Well, now," he said pleasantly, "since chance has thrown us into each
other's company, allow me to introduce myself, Monsieur! I am
Brigadier Juve of the detective force, from Police Headquarters."
"In that case, we might almost count ourselves colleagues, Monsieur! I
am the agent Vagualame, attached to the vigilance department of the
Secret Service!"
With that, Vagualame held out his hand to his colleague, Juve! It was
done with an unmistakable air of constraint.
It really seemed as if Juve had been awaiting this very action; for,
at the precise moment Vagualame held out his hand, the detective
extended his, and prolonged the hand-clasp as if he never meant to let
go--a regular hand-grip!
Juve was thinking hard.
"Vagualame! Here is this Vagualame at Fandor's!... It's
significant!... and then?... No, there's no doubt about it! This beard
is false! That moustache is artificial!... This individual is made
up!"
Perceiving that he was face to face with a disguised man, Juve was
about to hurl himself on this masquerader, when that individual,
forestalling the detective's movement, seized the initiative with
lightning rapidity. He tore his hand from Juve's tenacious grip,
bounded to the mantelpiece, threw down the lamp with a jerk of his
elbow, thrust Juve violently aside, and rushed to the door.
Like lightning Juve tore off in pursuit.
The masquerader had the advantage by some yards. Banging door after
door in Juve's face, he rushed towards the entrance hall, gained the
staircase, racing down it by leaps and bounds, four steps at a
time!... Juve at his heels, risked breaking his neck in hot
pursuit....
Vagualame reached the porch of the house door: Juve was close on his
quarry....
"I shall get him!" thought Juve: "In the street the people will lend
me a helping hand!"
Vagualame fled through the doorway: in passing, he seized the massive
door and pulled it to with a resounding bang....
Juve, borne forward by the impetus of his dashing pursuit, staggered
backwards and rolled to the ground....
Instantly Juve sprang to the porter's lodge and demanded the string!
In the twinkling of an eye and Juve was out in the street! He was
furious, he was breathless.... The whole length of the pavements not a
soul was in sight! Vagualame had vanished!
* * * * *
Taking advantage of the fact that Fandor's concierge knew him well,
and was aware of his standing as an officer of the detective force,
Juve, after having explained in a few words to the honest creature the
cause of the commotion mounted to Fandor's flat once more.
"What the deuce is the meaning of all this?" he was asking himself.
"Two hours ago, Fandor telephones me that he must see me on a matter
of the utmost urgency ... he telephones me that he cannot go out, that
he is waiting for me.... And now, not only is he not here, but I
stumble on an agent from the Second Bureau.... I encounter a Vagualame
disguised, who runs as if all the devils of hell were after him ...
who makes off with extraordinary agility, whose presence of mind in
burking pursuit is marvellous!... Who is this fellow?... What was he
up to in Fandor's flat?... Where is Fandor?"
Our detective had just re-entered the journalist's study. There, on
the floor, lay the bundle which had excited his curiosity when
Vagualame was present.
"The enemy," thought he, "has retired, but has abandoned his baggage!"
Juve relighted the lamp, and undid the black serge covering of the
bundle.
"Ah! I might have guessed as much, it is an accordion, Vagualame's
accordion!"
Mechanically turning and returning the instrument of music, Juve
slipped his hands into the leather holders, wishing to relax the
bellows, which were at full stretch.... To his surprise the bellows
resisted.
"Why, there must be something inside the accordion!" he exclaimed.
Juve drew from his pocket a dagger knife and slit open the bellows
with one sharp cut.... Something black fell out--a piece of stuff,
Juve picked it up, spread it out, and considered it.... He grew pale
as he looked, staggered like a drunken man, and sank on a chair,
overcome. What he held in his hand was a hooded cloak, long and black,
such as Italian bandits wear--a species of mask.
Sunk in his chair, his eyes staring at this sinister garment, Juve
seemed to see rising before him a form at once mysterious and clearly
defined--the form of an unknown man enveloped in this cloak as in a
sheath, his face hidden by the hooded mask, disguised, by just such a
cloak as he had exposed to view when he slashed open the bellows of
this accordion!
This form, mysterious, nameless, tragic, thus evoked, Juve had rarely
seen; but each time that figure in hooded black had appeared, it was
in circumstances so serious, under conditions so tragic, that it was
graven on his memory--graven beyond mistake--graven ineffaceably!
Had not Juve been haunted by this form, this figure so mysteriously
indicated, haunted by this invisible face hidden by its hooded cloak
of black--haunted for years! Never had he been able to get close to
it!
Never had he been able to seize it in his hands, outstretched to grasp
it!
Whenever this sinister garment had met his eyes, it had been the sign
of some frightful deception! He did not know the countenance it masked
so darkly, but that same cloak he knew!... So well did he know it,
that never could he confuse it with another hooded cloak of
black--never! Its shape was peculiar; its cut singular--unmistakable!
It was the impenetrable mask of one of those counterfeit personalities
assumed at the pleasure of that enigmatic, sinister, formidable
bandit, whom Juve had pursued for ten years, without cessation,
without mercy; there had been no truce to this hunting.
Now he turned, and returned, this cloak of dark significance with
trembling hands, as if he would tear its secret from its sinister
folds. This hooded cloak which his knife had revealed, which he had
torn from its hiding place in the accordion of Vagualame, was none
other than the cloak of Fantomas.
Suddenly there was brought home to Juve the comprehension of all this
adventure signified--a distracting, a maddening adventure!
"Fantomas! Fantomas!" Juve murmured. "Great Heavens! I saw Fantomas
before me!... Vagualame! He is Fantomas!... Curse it! He has slipped
through my hands, thrice fool that I am! Never again will he appear as
this beggarly accordion player--never will he dare to show himself in
that make-up!... What new form will he take?... Fantomas! Fantomas!
Once again you have escaped me!"
* * * * *
Our detective remained in Fandor's flat all night. He awaited the
journalist's return.
Fandor did not come.
XII
A TRICK ACCORDING TO FANDOR
It was a November Sunday evening. A crowd of leave-expired soldiers
were entraining at the Eastern Station. They would be dropped at their
respective garrisons along the line of some 400 kilometres separating
the capital from the frontier.
They had dined, supped, feasted with friends and relatives: now they
were voicing regretful farewells by medley of songs and ear-splitting
serenades. They scrambled into the third-class compartments, fifteen,
sixteen at a time, filling the seats and overflowing on to the floor.
Little by little the deafening din of the "wild beasts," as they were
jokingly called, diminished; their enthusiasm died down as the night
advanced, while the train rushed full steam ahead for the frontier of
France.
They fell asleep, knowing that kind comrades would awaken them when
the train drew up at their various garrisons. At Reims, the
compartments disgorged the dragoons pell-mell; at Chalons, so many
gunners and infantry had got out that the train was half emptied. At
Sainte-Menehould, a large contingent of cuirassiers and infantry had
cleared out. Towards four in the morning the express was nearing
Verdun.
As the train steamed out of Sainte-Menehould, a corporal of the line,
who had been forced to sit up as stiff as a poker for several hours,
stretched himself at length on the compartment seat with a sigh of
relief. But the jerks and jolts of the carriage, the hard seat, made
sleep impossible: the epaulettes of his uniform were an added source
of discomfort. The corporal sat up, rubbed the musty glass of the
window, and watched for the coming day. On the far horizon, beyond a
shadowy stretch of country, a pallid dawn was breaking. Trees were
swaying in a gusty wind. At intervals, when the clatter of the
onrushing train lessened, the heavy pattering of rain on the roof
became audible.
"Confound it!" growled the corporal. "Detestable weather! Hateful
country!"
Whilst attempting some muscular exercises to unstiffen his aching
limbs, he muttered:
"And only to think of that wretch Vinson enjoying the benefit of my
first-class permit!... Started off to-night under my name, and is now
rolling along in a comfortable sleeping-car towards the sunny South
with a nice bit of money in his purse!"
The corporal in the inhospitable third-class of the Verdun train made
mental pictures of Vinson's progress south. He talked to himself
aloud.
"Good journey to you, you jolly dog!... In six weeks' time, if you
have a thought to spare for me, you will send your news as we
arranged!"
The corporal began breathing warm breaths on his numbed fingers.
"By Jove! The company is not prodigal of foot-warmers, that's certain!
It's an ice-house in here!"
He continued to soliloquise:
"It's a deuce of a risky business I have let myself in for!... To take
Vinson's place, and set off for Verdun, where his regiment is doing
garrison duty, the regiment to which he has just been attached!... It
would run as smooth as oil if I had done my military service, but,
owing to circumstances, I have never been called up!... A pretty sort
of fool I may make of myself!"...
After a reflective silence, he went on:
"Bah! I shall pull through all right! Have I not crammed my head with
theory the last eight days, and pumped Vinson for all he was worth
about the rules and regulations, and the ways of camp life!... All the
same ... to make my debut in an Eastern garrison, in the 'Iron
Division,' straight off the reel takes some nerve!... What cheek!...
It's the limit!... But, my dear little Fandor, don't forget you are at
Verdun not to play the complete soldier but to gather exact
information about a band of traitors, and to unmask them at the first
opportunity--a work of national importance, little Fandor, and don't
you forget it!"
Thus our adventurous Vinson-Fandor lay shivering in the night train on
the point of drawing up at Verdun.
Having saved the wretched Vinson from suicide, Fandor had made him
promise to leave France and await developments, whilst Fandor, posing
as Vinson, studied at close quarters the spies who had drawn the
miserable corporal into their net. Fandor could personate Vinson with
every chance of success, because the 257th of the line had never set
eyes on the corporal.
After a week of perplexity, Fandor had come to a decision the previous
night. Wishing to let his "dear master" know of his audacious project,
he had telephoned to Juve on the Sunday evening to ask him to come to
the flat. Then Vagualame had appeared on the scene. Fandor knew him to
be an agent of the Second Bureau. Evidently Vagualame was after
Vinson. If Fandor had let himself be caught in the corporal's uniform,
which he had just put on, his spy plans would have been ruined, and
the corporal, to whom he had promised his protection, would have been
caught.
Fandor fled. The situation would have to be made clear when
opportunity offered.
"Certainly," said Fandor to himself, with a smile: "things are pretty
well mixed up at present! That meeting between Vagualame and Juve at
the flat must have been a queer one! Two birds of a feather, though
differing in glory, who would not make head or tail of so unexpected a
conference!"
To clear up the imbroglio, Fandor had meant to send Juve a wire on his
arrival at Verdun; on second thoughts he had decided against it.
Probably the spies, or the Second Bureau, or both, were keeping a
sharp watch on Vinson: it would be wiser to refrain from any
communication which might reveal the fact that the corporal Vinson,
who joined the 257th of the line at Verdun, was none other than Jerome
Fandor, journalist.
Though stiff with cold and fatigue, Fandor's brain was clear and
active.
It is all right! Juve would be surprised, anxious, would make
enquiries at the Company's offices, would learn that on the Sunday
evening Fandor had occupied the place reserved for him in the
sleeping-car, would be reassured, would not worry about Fandor's
abrupt departure and silence--Fandor was holiday making!
"Yes, it is all right!" reiterated Fandor. "What I have to do is to
throw myself wholeheartedly into my part, and play it as jovially as
possible!"
The train whistled, slowed down, entered the station of Verdun.
Fandor let the crowd of soldiers precede him, as well as one or two
civilians whom the night express had brought to this important
frontier fortress. Having readjusted his coat, the fringes of his
epaulettes, and put on his cap correctly, this corporal of the 257th
line, stepped on to the platform, reached the exit, passed out on to a
vast flat space, and found himself floundering in a sea of mud.
The men who had arrived with him had hurried off: Fandor was alone on
the outskirts of the silent town.
What to do? Which way to go?
Under the flame of a gas-jet struggling against the onslaughts of the
wind, Fandor caught sight of the honest face of a constable enveloped
in a thick hooded coat. He eyed Fandor.
"Excuse me," said Corporal Vinson-Fandor, rolling his r's, in
imitation of a rustic fresh from the country, "but could you tell me
where I shall find the 257th of the line?"
"What do you want with the 257th of the line?" queried the constable.
"It is like this, Monsieur: I was in the 214th, garrisoned at Chalons.
I have had eight days' leave, and they inform me I am attached to the
257th."
The constable nodded.
"And now you want to get to your new regiment?"
"Precisely."
"Well, the 257th is in three places: at bastion 14; at the Saint
Benoit barracks; and at Fort Vieux--which are you bound for,
Corporal?"
"I don't know--I've no preference," murmured Corporal Vinson-Fandor.
The two men stood staring at each other in the rain.
Despite the chill and melancholy dawn, with its darkly reddening
skies, Fandor felt he was on the very verge of bursting into wild
laughter.
"Let us see your route instructions," quoth the constable.
Corporal Vinson-Fandor showed his paper.
"That's it!" cried the constable triumphantly. "You are down to report
yourself at the Saint Benoit barracks. You're in luck, my lad! It's
only fifty yards or so from here!... Go down the road, and you will
see the barrack wall on the left. The entrance is in the middle."
Fandor saluted the friendly constable, hurried off, and reached the
Saint Benoit gate in a few minutes.
"The 257th?" he asked the sentry.
"Here!... You will find the sergeant in the guard-room."
Fandor entered a smoke-filled room; several soldiers were stretched at
full length on a bench, slumbering: a snoring non-commissioned officer
was lying on three straw bottomed chairs close to a stove.
At Fandor's entrance he was wide awake in a moment: he swore: it was
the sergeant.
"What do you want?" he demanded roughly.
Adopting a military manner, Fandor announced:
"Corporal Vinson, just arrived from Chalons, exchanged from the 214th,
sergeant!"
"Ah! Quite so. Wait! I will show you your company."
Stretching himself, the sergeant marched to the end of the room,
turned up a gas-jet, opened a book, looked through the pages slowly.
His finger stopped at a name.
"Orderly!"
A man presented himself.
"Conduct Corporal Vinson to A block, second floor."
Turning to Fandor, the sergeant informed him:
"You are attached to the third of the second."
While plodding through the mud of the courtyard, Fandor said to
himself:
"The third of the second means, I suppose, that I have the honour of
belonging to the third company of the second battalion."
Fandor gazed with lively curiosity at the immense building in which he
was to pass his days and nights for he did not know how long a time.
As he scrutinised this enormous pile, standing harsh and stark in its
uncompromising and ordered strength, as he took stock of the vast
courtyards and the stony lengths of imprisoning walls, he got an idea
of that formidable organisation called a regiment, which itself is but
an infinitesimal part of that great whole we call an army.
Appreciating as he now did the importance, the immutability, the
regularity of the movements of the military machine, with its wheels
within wheels, Fandor asked himself if it were possible to carry
through the programme he had drawn up for himself. Could he, at one
and the same time, trick the French Army and save it?... He had taken
his precautions: he had read and reread Vinson's manual, now _his_
manual. Mentally he had put himself in the skin of a corporal: he was
letter perfect, and now he must cover himself with the mantle of
Vinson--for the greater glory of France!
He could not help laughing when he read the list of his facial
characteristics: chin, round; nose, medium; face, oval; eyes, grey.
Vague enough this to be safe! Fandor's hair was dark chestnut:
Vinson's was brown. Vinson and Fandor were sufficiently alike as to
height and figure: besides, soldiers' uniforms were not an exact fit.
"Here you are, Corporal!" announced the orderly. He pointed to a vast
room at the end of a corridor. The bugle had just sounded the reveille
and the barrack-room was humming like a hive of awakened bees. The
orderly had vanished. Fandor stood at the threshold, hesitating: his
self-confidence had gone down with a run. It was a momentary lapse.
Pulling himself together he walked into the room.
When giving him his instructions, Vinson had warned Fandor, that when
it came to settling down in barracks he would find nothing to hand.
"Among other little items, your bed will be missing. As corporal you
have a right to round on them. Row them hot and good--start reprisals
straight away. The men will pretend not to understand, but
insist--don't take no for an answer; take whatever you want right and
left--in the end you will get properly settled in."