Vinson. We must examine him on that point without delay.... Send for
him immediately, Lieutenant!... According to the prison register, he
occupies cell 26."
"Excuse me, Commandant; Vinson, who was registered this morning at the
Cherche-Midi prison, must actually be in the Council buildings, where
he occupied cell 27."
The commandant adjusted his eye-glasses, looked closely at a yellow
paper, and corrected in his turn:
"That is an error: in cell 27 is an individual named Butler."
"Yes, Commandant: Butler--he is Vinson!"
"I do not understand," objected Dumoulin. "You must have made a
mistake. Corporal Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazare
station: he was brought here and was registered for cell 26; besides,
I was immediately informed of this arrest by a private telegram."
"Commandant," persisted the lieutenant: "Corporal Vinson, who hid
himself under the name of Butler, was arrested early this morning at
the Calais station, when he landed from England. The arrest was
effected by Inspector Juve, who took his prisoner to Cherche-Midi
about six o'clock; and this Vinson occupied cell 27."
"Come, now, Lieutenant, you have lost your head!" grumbled the
commandant: "Since Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazare
station, it is evident that he was not arrested last night at Calais!
Vinson and Butler--that makes two."
"I beg your pardon, Commandant: that makes only one!"
The commandant looked severely at his subordinate.
"That is enough, Lieutenant!... Send for Corporal Vinson who occupied
cell 26."
"Right, Commandant!"
Some minutes later there was a knock at the door: two warders with a
prisoner stood on the threshold.
The commandant assured himself with a glance that the non-commissioned
officer, acting as reporter, was at his post, and that Lieutenant
Servin was seated at the desk next his own.
"Enter!" he commanded.
Dumoulin solemnly opened the voluminous bundle of papers set before
him, looked through the documents, affecting not to see the prisoner
stationed before him.... Ready at length to begin the interrogation,
the commandant raised his head, straightened himself, and ordered:
"Approach!"
The prisoner, a warder on each side of him, took a step forward.
"You are truly Corporal Vinson?"
"No, Commandant!"
Dumoulin was silent a moment, choking with anger, his hand trembling
slightly--did the fellow mean to mock him?... He frowned. He did not
like the manner of this fellow, with his bright, piercing eyes, his
scornful looks. He repeated:
"Are you Corporal Vinson?"
"No, Commandant."
Dumoulin was boiling with rage: he was about to explode. Lieutenant
Servin approached: in a low voice he said:
"Commandant! Someone wishes you to see him immediately."
Servin handed his superior a card. On it the commandant read:
_Inspector Juve,
Detective Force,
Police Headquarters._
"What does he want?"
"He is the detective who arrested Vinson."
"Well," exclaimed the exasperated Dumoulin, "he arrives at the right
moment! Let him come in!"
Juve entered and saluted Dumoulin with an amiable smile. He did not
take any notice of the prisoner, who was standing with his back to the
light.
"It is I, Commandant, who arrested Corporal Vinson; consequently, I
have come to place myself at your disposal."
"You have done the right thing!" cried Dumoulin. "Now, will you get
this prisoner to own up? Make him tell us whether or no he is Corporal
Vinson!"
Dumoulin pointed an irate finger at the prisoner.
Our detective stood rooted to the ground!... The prisoner moved
quickly towards him.
"Fandor!"
"Juve!"
"What does this mean, Fandor?"
"It means, Juve, that I am arrested in the place of Corporal Vinson!"
"Nothing of the sort!... I arrive from London. I arrested Vinson
yesterday evening at Calais!"
Fandor laughed: he could have roared with laughter.
"My dear Juve," said he, "I should have to talk to you for two mortal
hours before you would understand a word of this business!"
Fandor turned to the thunderstruck Dumoulin, and said in a voice of
the most exquisite politeness:
"Commandant, I must state once for all that I am not Corporal
Vinson!... I am a journalist, whom you perhaps know by name: Jerome
Fandor, on the staff of _La Capitale_.... If you see me in this
uniform, this disguise, that relates to a series of events, details of
which I will give you with pleasure, as soon as I have reduced my own
ideas to order.... As things stand, I am fortunate in meeting my
friend Juve, who, if you desire it, will confirm the truth of my
statement."
Dumoulin, more and more nonplussed, started in turn at the detective,
at the journalist, at his reporter.... With face red as a boiled
lobster, he turned to Lieutenant Servin....
When this farcical scene began, Servin had gone into his own office,
and had given his secretary an order. The secretary had just returned.
The lieutenant, having recorded the answer brought him, had just that
moment returned to the commandant's office.
Lieutenant Servin looked upset.
"Commandant!" he gasped out.
He turned to our detective.
"Monsieur Juve!"
He continued staring first at one man, then at the other.
"An incredible thing has happened!... I have just heard of it!... I
had given the order to have Corporal Vinson brought here
immediately--the real Corporal Vinson--he whom Monsieur Juve arrested
under the name of Butler: well, Commandant, it appears that on
entering his cell they found him--dead!"
"What is that you say?" asked Dumoulin and Juve together.
"I say that he is dead," repeated the lieutenant.
"But how?" questioned Juve.
The lieutenant made a sign to the sergeant in charge.
"Go for the medical officer."
Some minutes passed in a silence that hummed with questions.
A young assistant surgeon appeared.
"Kindly explain what is wrong, Monsieur!" commanded Dumoulin.
The surgeon spoke.
"My commandant sent for me, about an hour ago. I was to attend to a
prisoner who had fainted. This man, when crossing the rue du
Cherche-Midi, had suddenly lost consciousness. His warders could not
revive him. They carried him to his cell. They laid him on his
palliasse. When I arrived the man was dead."
"Dead of what?" demanded Dumoulin.
"A bullet in his heart," replied the surgeon.... "I ascertained this
when undressing him. The bullet will be found at the post-mortem: it
has probably lodged in the vertebral column."
Dumoulin rose: paced the floor: he was greatly agitated.
"Oh, come, come!" he cried. "People are not killed like that in the
open street!... It is unheard of! Unbelievable!... A bullet
presupposes a revolver--a weapon of percussion of some description--a
detonation!... There is a noise, a sound!"
Dumoulin went up to the young surgeon. There was a note of suspicious
contempt in his question:
"Are you quite sure of what you say?"
"I am quite sure, Commandant."
During this discussion Juve had approached Fandor. When the surgeon
made his statement, Juve murmured in Fandor's ear:
"Vinson shot through the heart by a bullet!... Like Captain Brocq!...
Killed undoubtedly by a noiseless weapon ... when crossing the
street!... Here, again, is--Fantomas!"
Things calmed down somewhat. Fandor addressed Dumoulin:
"Excuse me, Commandant, for having troubled you. I should be most
grateful if you would set me at liberty. One tragedy follows hard on
another! It is phenomenal!... I shall have to."...
Commandant Dumoulin burst out:
"By Heaven!" he shouted, thumping the table with his fist: "You are
the limit!... The take-the-cake limit!... You flout me! You practise
on my credulity!... Now you would steal a march on me! Try it on--will
you?... Ah! You are not Corporal Vinson!... No?... You are a
journalist!... You have got to prove that!... Even if you do prove
it, you have got yourself into a pretty pickle by your fooling, by
making a laughing-stock of the entire army in your own preposterous
person--by assuming that uniform!...
"Guards!" shouted Dumoulin. "Take this man back to his cell! Be sharp
about it!... Double his guard!"
Fandor was not allowed time to protest: he was marched off at the
double.
Juve tried to get in a word of explanation.
"I assure you, Commandant, it is certainly Jerome Fandor you are
deal----"
"You!" yelled the commandant. "Get out! Foot it!... Leave me in peace,
can't you!... Out with you, or I'll know the reason why!...
Begone!"...
Dumoulin was apoplectic with rage.
XXVIII
AT "THE CRYING CALF"
"What's your drink?"
"What's your offer?"
Hogshead Geoffrey, also nicknamed "The Barrel," thumped the table with
a formidable fist, at the risk of upsetting a pile of saucers, which,
at this advanced hour of the evening, showed clearly how he had spent
the hours passed in the wine-shop.
"What do I offer?" he retorted. "I offer what's wanted. I don't
haggle. When I ask a fellow: 'Old man, what do you want to wet your
gullet?' that means: 'Choose.' There now!"
Hogshead Geoffrey's companion merely said:
"Pass the programme!"
Once in possession of the wine-list--if such could be called the
crumpled, dirty paper on which the owner of the house had scribbled in
pencil the fresh drinks, composed of indescribable mixtures specially
recommended to his clients--the guest of Hogshead Geoffrey became
absorbed in the list of strange beverages.
So mean-looking an individual was this guest that he had been
nicknamed "The Scrub." He also answered to the more aristocratic title
of "Sacristan." Once he had been sacristan at the church of
Saint-Sulpice, but intemperate habits had led to his dismissal. What
odd link there was between this sorry little fellow and the robust
Geoffrey?[7]
[Footnote 7: See _Fantomas_: vol. i, Fantomas Series]
The Scrub ordered: "A thick 'un--jolly thick!" He eyed his host.
"What's been your lay? I haven't clapped eyes on you for days!"
Hogshead Geoffrey emptied his glass at one go. Leaning his head
against the wall, his fists on the table, his legs stretched out, he
stared at the ceiling.
The atmosphere of this den in the rue Monge was poisonous with the
odours of stale wine and rank tobacco. The musty air was thick, the
shop was ill-lighted by one jet of gas in the centre of the room.
"Well, old Scrub," said Geoffrey at last. "You haven't seen me because
you haven't!... You remember I passed the Markets' test and was
nominated market porter?"
"Jolly well I do!... We had a famous drinking bout that time!"
"That's so, Scrub!... And my sister Bobinette paid the piper!... You
remember I was rejected?... Well, I got into the Markets all the
same!... Then--one fine day I gave a tallykeeper a regular
knock-down-and-outer!"
"You did?"
"Just didn't I?... I gave him such a oner--just like this!"...
Lifting his enormous hairy fist, Hogshead Geoffrey brought it down on
the table with disastrous results: the ancient worm-eaten board was
split from end to end!
Flattering remarks were showered on this colossus from all sides.
"Ho! ho! Nothing can resist me!" shouted Hogshead Geoffrey.... "Give
me anything you choose!... Every table in the room! No matter what!
I'll break it in two--man or woman! Wood or stone!... It's all one to
me!"
True or not, Hogshead Geoffrey, when not too much in liquor, was a
gentle soul, a simple, kind creature; quick-tempered, kind-hearted.
Liable to sudden gusts of anger, he was equally capable of knocking
the life out of a comrade with his gigantic fist or of comforting some
sniveling street urchin crossing his path.
Well did the Scrub know it. He too was a contradictory mixture. This
mean little human specimen had been newsboy, seller of post cards,
opener of cab doors, Jack of any little trade, the companion of
pickpockets and other light-fingered gentry, also adored the good
manners of bygone vestry days, the polished phrases, the benedictory
gestures!
When in hospital, chance had given him Hogshead Geoffrey for
bed-neighbour. It did not take him long to realise that he would be
the gainer by a friendship with this kindly giant: it would be a
partnership of brain and muscle.... The Scrub commanded: Geoffrey
executed.
When the admiration for his prowess had died down, Hogshead Geoffrey
continued his story:
"When I had given the chief the knock-out, the next day they gave me
the order of the boot, if you would believe me!... I was properly down
and out! I hadn't saved a sou--was in debt right and left, to the
wine-shops--was all but run in!"...
"What did you do?" enquired the Scrub.
"Bobinette helped me."
"Your sister?"
"Oh, she's a sharp one!... She's studied, too!... She did the bandages
at Lariboise!... She had the sous!... I told her my troubles!... She
let me have the dibs, so I could hang on!"
"Until you got a billet at _The Big Tun_?"
"No!... Bobine said: 'Here's gold, little brother! It's all I have ...
don't come for more!... You must find a way out of the mess!'"
"And you did?... How?"
Hogshead Geoffrey hesitated: he sipped his absinthe.
"Oh ... well ... I found a way out."...
"How? I ask you."...
"I tell you I managed all right! And then I got my job at _The Big
Tun_."
"Where you are now?"
"Where I am."
"You paid back your sister?"
Hogshead Geoffrey roared with laughter.
"I paid her back so little that I didn't know what had become of
her!... She had turned her back on Lariboise without leaving an
address.... Thought she must have kicked the bucket!... I would have
been sorry for that!... She's a good sort!... But yesterday I had word
from her.... Bobinette asked me to meet her."...
"You told her to come here?"
"Sure!"
"And how did she know your address?"
Hogshead Geoffrey scratched his big head.
"Lordy! I don't know!... Probably she saw my name quoted the other day
in the _Petit Journal_, among the conquerors in the Who's Strongest
Competition. She wrote putting the number of my old shanty, rue de la
Harpe!... No good being astonished at what she does!... I tell you she
has education--she has!"...
It was half an hour after midnight. The owner of _The Crying Calf_
shouted in a stentorian voice:
"Now, boys! It's only seven sous drinks now!"
It was the accustomed warning, taken as a matter of course.
Protesting in a squeaky voice that his constitution was weakly, that
his doctor had ordered him not to sit up late, the Scrub, who feared a
meeting with Bobinette, knowing she had little liking for him, now
took himself off.
Geoffrey ordered two drinks. He was bored. Bobinette was behind her
promised time. He would have left, but Bobinette would pay for his
drinks--a nice little total!
At last she appeared: an out-of-breath Bobinette, and somewhat
flustered.
She was quietly dressed--almost shabby. This was no place for one of
the elegant toilettes affected by Mademoiselle de Naarboveck's
companion!... After her Rouen journey, after her meeting with
Lieutenant de Loubersac in the train, she had thought it wiser not to
go back to the baron's house. She had written to say she was ill. Then
she had taken refuge in a quiet little inn in la Chapelle
neighbourhood, there to await events.
Vagualame's arrest had made a terrible impression on her.... Vagualame
had not betrayed her; but she sensed snares, pitfalls all about her:
she might be trapped any minute: she must disappear! After Vagualame's
arrest she had had but one idea: to get rid of the gun piece, hand it
to the foreign power, and receive the promised reward.... When,
instead of Corporal Vinson, whom she had summoned in accordance with
her orders, she had perceived Fandor, she was puzzled, suspicious.
If Bobinette went to the meeting place in her own undisguised person,
and met Fandor as Fandor, it was because she had had the same idea as
the journalist.
"I will walk through the arcades as Bobinette, and I shall see if
Corporal Vinson is there, or if, by chance, he is not alone!"
That same day at Rouen she had had a bad shock. The telegram she had
received at the garage was from Vagualame!... How could an arrested
Vagualame send her a telegram, and such a telegram?
This telegram, in their usual cypher, informed her that at all costs,
and at once, she must separate herself from Corporal Vinson, who was
not the real Vinson, but a counter-spy!... Bobinette all but fainted
from fright.... She must escape from this counter-spy!... Yet, owing
to the false Vinson's insistence, she had been forced to share his
room!... He did not mean to let her out of his sight, that was
plain!...
No sooner had the false Vinson gone down to the car in the morning
than Bobinette had slipped off, hot foot for Rouen. The gun piece was
left behind! The chauffeur would bear the brunt of that, thought
Bobinette, as she sped on her way. Later, she read of his arrest and
release.
Her meeting with Lieutenant de Loubersac and the sight of the false
Vinson's arrest at the Saint Lazare station showed the terrified girl
that things had gone mysteriously, hopelessly wrong!...
Without resources, Bobinette had pawned her few jewels. Then a letter
from Vagualame had reached her. She had obeyed the instructions it
contained.... That he had learned her address did not surprise her:
she knew he never lost track of those it was to his interest to keep
an eye on.
Before Vagualame's note reached her she had been worried and bored.
"I must make sure of shelter and protection if needs be," she
reflected: "I will look up Geoffrey. We will meet at _The Crying
Calf_, it is safe there!"
"Sit you down here, little Bobine!" suggested Hogshead Geoffrey....
"And now, what will you take?"
Bobinette ordered a gooseberry syrup.
"Quite the lady's drink," remarked mine host of the wine-shop with a
humorous air.
Brother and sister exchanged confidences.... The good Geoffrey told of
his fight, of situations obtained and lost, of fisticuff encounters,
of quarrels and blows.... Bobinette went so far as to say that she was
very happy, very much at her ease.
"Just imagine," said she: "I am companion to an old lady, a Russian,
who in her time has had trouble with the police of her country, I
think."
"The police? I don't like the police!" interrupted her brother.
"Who does?" ejaculated Bobinette. "Lots of people come to her house. I
go to all the dinners, all the parties!"
"Ah, then, you'll foot the bill, Bobine, if you have such a rich
situation?"
"I will pay, Geoffrey," said Bobinette: "This old lady, I think."...
Bobinette stopped. She went white as a sheet.... An old man had just
entered the wine-shop. His steps were uncertain, his back was bent
under the weight of an old accordion.
It was Vagualame....
XXIX
I AM TROKOFF
Bobinette's astonishment was so evident that Hogshead Geoffrey, whose
powers of observation were small, was struck by his sister's
expression.
"You know that old fellow?" he asked. "If he bothers you you've but to
pass the word, you know, and I'll soon put him on the other side of
the door!"
This amiable offer terrified the girl. She felt sure Vagualame was not
at _The Crying Calf_ by chance. He had probably followed her--wished
to have a word with her.... She must fall in with his wishes. She must
cut short this interview with her brother. After all, it was only to
pass the time she had come.
"Keep quiet, Geoffrey," she said: "I do not know the old boy, and you
deceive yourself if you think he annoys me!... Besides, my dear
Geoffrey, I must be off!"
"Be off!... Whatever's come to you, Bobine?"
"I have business on hand elsewhere.... And now that I know you are
quite well, Geoffrey, I shall continue my walk."
"True?" protested the bewildered giant: "You're going to cut your
stick already?"
"Call the governor!... There's a twenty-franc piece for you! Pay for
your drinks and keep the rest," was Bobinette's effective reply.
Hogshead calmed down at once.
"As long as you pay up, Bobine, I've nothing to say; but, all the
same, you have queer ideas.... You bring me here to keep an
appointment, and then, we're not five minutes together, when up you
get on the trot again!"
Bobinette caught her brother's huge fist in a quick handshake, made
for the door of _The Crying Calf_, turned out of rue Monge at a slow
pace, convinced that Vagualame would join her.
The street was deserted. Bobinette kept in the shadow, avoiding the
bright patches cast on the silent roadway from the wine-shops and
taverns still open and alight.
She had been walking about five minutes when she felt that someone was
walking behind her, hastening to overtake her.... A hand was laid on
her shoulder: Vagualame was beside her, regulating his steps by hers.
"Is that species of giant your brother?" he asked.
Bobinette nodded.
"You are free, then?" she asked, breathing hard.
"It looks like it!"
"Who released you?"
"Let us hurry!" said Vagualame: "Let us seek shelter."
"Where?"
"You will see--with friends."
What did it matter to Bobinette where they were going while strange
doubts and horrid fears filled her mind?
"Who released you?"
They were passing beneath a street lamp. Vagualame noted that
Bobinette was regarding him with defiant eyes. Was this really
Vagualame? Was he an impostor?
Vagualame read her thoughts.
"Bobinette, you are nothing but a fool!" announced the old accordion
player: "The man arrested at your place was a detective, who had got
himself up like me to take you in!... You let him trick you! You are
an imbecile!"
Bobinette stopped.
"But then ... if a detective made himself up to resemble you, it means
they know you are guilty! It means they are after you! Why, it's a mad
thing you are doing, coming to meet me in that rig out! Why have you
not disguised yourself?"
Vagualame smiled.
"Possibly I have reason for it, a plan you know nothing about,
Bobinette!... But, let us return to the false Vagualame. How was it
you did not detect the fraud, if only by the voice?... How is it you
have not guessed the truth since?... When you received my telegram at
Rouen it should have been as clear as daylight to you!... Eh!"
Bobinette kept silence.
"Well, we will not dwell on the past," declared Vagualame, with an air
of magnanimity: "Fortunately your extraordinary simplicity has not had
any particular consequences--save the stupid way you let them get hold
of the gun piece, and allowed the false Corporal Vinson to escape!"...
In a menacing tone he said: "We will return to that question later."
"But," faltered Bobinette: "How could I act otherwise?"
Vagualame threw her such a look, a look so charged with fierce
contempt that she could no longer doubt that she was face to face with
her master. This master would not allow argument, discussion: well she
knew that!
She screwed up her courage to ask:
"How did you learn my address?"
"That is my business!" he declared: "What I want to know I get to
know--you must have seen that by this time!"
"How is it, then, you called at _The Crying Calf_ to-day?... Geoffrey
did not know you: he alone knew I was coming to see him!... You
followed me?"
"Suppose I did follow you?"... Vagualame's tone changed: it became
imperious.
"Have you quite finished asking me silly questions?... I consider it
is my turn to put a question or two to you--What are you doing?"
Bobinette bent her head.
"You have a right to know," she murmured: "When you sent me that
letter, after I took refuge in La Chapelle, telling me to go to the
house of a Madame Olga Dimitroff and present myself for the post of
companion, I went. She engaged me. I am still with her."
"To take refuge in an hotel was an idiotic thing to do, Bobinette....
The police could easily have nabbed you there if they had had a mind
to. That is why I sent you to one of my old friends--to a person to
whom I could recommend you!... Well, Bobinette, you will have to
leave that house!"
The young woman bent her head, mastered, ready to accept any orders of
Vagualame's before they were issued. All she asked, in a timid voice,
was: "Where am I to go then?"
"Far from here."
"Why?"
Vagualame's smile was evil. His reply was like a series of sword
thrusts.