help smiling at the bewilderment of the two soldiers: it was evident
they could be made to say anything.
The commandant was growing more and more exasperated.
"What's that!" he shouted: "I will give you eight days in the cells if
you continue to play the fool like this!... Try to understand what you
are doing! Do you even know why you are here?"
After consulting each other with a look as to who should answer,
Tarbottin explained:
"It is the sergeant who told us that we were being sent to Paris to
recognise Corporal Vinson--well, then?"
"Well," continued Hiloire: "we recognised him!"
Then, speaking together, with an air of proud satisfaction:
"Yes, we got our orders. We have carried them out!"
The commandant was scarlet. With a violent blow of his fist he sent
three sets of case papers flying to the ground. He turned to
Lieutenant Servin.
"I fail to understand why the staff captain has expressly sent us the
biggest fools he could lay hands on.... What the deuce can you get out
of such a pair?... Has the counter verification been carried out? Have
they been shown the body of the real Corporal Vinson?"
Lieutenant Servin replied that this had been done.
"And what did they declare?"
"Nothing definite.... I may say they were very much moved at the sight
of the corpse--also, that it is decomposing rapidly."
Here Fandor broke in:
"Commandant, I am extremely surprised that you thought it necessary to
summon only two soldiers! It is at least strange!... I have the right
to expect that in the conduct of the enquiry connected with the action
you wish to bring against me you should proceed more seriously than
you are doing at present.... A magistrate should be impartial!"...
The commandant had risen. He bent towards Fandor across his
writing-table. Fandor also had risen--Dumoulin's air was threatening:
he was furious.
"What do you mean by that?" he shouted.
"I mean to say," burst out Fandor, "that for the last forty-eight
hours you have given proofs of a revolting partiality--against me!"
For a minute Dumoulin drew himself up, crimson, choking: he was an
embodied protest. Suddenly he dropped the official and became the
fellow-citizen. He cried:
"But I am an honest man!"
Dumoulin was a worthy official of the old school. Whatever his
temperamental drawbacks, he undoubtedly aimed at a conscientious
conduct of any case he had in charge. Fandor had made an exceedingly
bad impression on him. He had been scandalised that a civilian, a mere
journalist, had dared to treat the army with contempt, by so lightly
taking the place of a real soldier. Unquestionably there were grave
presumptions of Fandor's guilt: that was Dumoulin's opinion.
Considering the importance of the affair, the terrible consequences
which might ensue for the accused were the case to go against him, it
was imperative that the enquiry should be thorough down to the
minutest detail.... The commandant well knew the weak points in his
procedure. There was this confrontation, with the absurd testimonies
of the two soldiers: it had proved a ridiculous fiasco. Also, he would
have great difficulty in showing conclusively that Fandor had been a
certain time at Chalons under Vinson's uniform.
Dumoulin, mastering his emotion, resumed his official tone.
"Fandor!"...
He stopped short, glared indignantly at the two soldiers planted in
the middle of the room.
"What are you two up to now?" he cried.
The ridiculous pair saluted, but did not reply.
"Lieutenant, remove those men! We do not want any more of them here!
Take them out of my sight!" growled Dumoulin.
The commandant felt he must have a breath of fresh air, collect his
thoughts, and calm down before resuming conduct of the case.
"We shall continue this interrogation in ten minutes' time," he
announced and left the room.
* * * * *
The short interval had done its work. The commandant had calmed down,
Fandor had regained his self-possession. No longer was it an irascible
officer facing an inimical accused: two men, fellow-citizens, were
prepared to argue and talk together.... The formal interrogation
recommenced.
"Fandor," began the commandant in an amiable tone, "you have evidently
been drawn on by unforeseen events to commit irregularities. Name your
accomplices!"...
Fandor replied in a similar tone.
"No, Commandant, I have not been drawn into the spy circle really, nor
have I practised spying.... I considered it right to assume the
personality of Corporal Vinson solely to obtain information regarding
the relations this unfortunate maintained, compulsorily and quite
against his better judgment, with the agents of a foreign power. When
I had obtained the facts I sought, my intention was to leave the law
to deal with them."
"In other words," said Dumoulin: "you aimed at playing the
counter-spy!"
"If you like to put it so!"
The commandant smiled ironically.
"They always say that!... In the course of my career, Monsieur Fandor,
I have had to examine three or four spy cases: well, the defence of
the guilty man is always the same--you have taken up an identical
position: I sell secret documents in exchange for more important
ones!... This system of defence will not hold water!"
"I cannot take up any other position!" declared Fandor.
"The Council will take that at its proper value," announced the
commandant.
Fandor was asking himself how he was going to get out of a position
that was growing worse, and that in a very curious way!
The commandant's next question struck a shrewd blow at the accused.
"Fandor--How about those accomplices you refuse to name?... Have they
not remunerated you for your pains?"
"What do you mean to imply by that?" demanded Fandor.
"Have they not given you money?"
"No!"
"Think carefully, and be frank!"
Fandor ransacked his memory.... Ah!... What of that interview in the
printing works of the Noret brothers? Would it be best in accordance
with his aims to deny it? It went against the grain of his naturally
frank nature to tell such a lie.... Nevertheless he had vowed to
himself a well-considered vow that he would not reveal what he had
learned: it would be a grave mistake at present.
He lowered his head as he persisted in his declaration:
"No, Commandant! I have not received money from the spies."
The commandant called to the reporter:
"Make a special note of that: underline it with red pencil. This is a
most important statement!"
The commandant turned over some papers in his drawer, drew out a
sealed envelope, opened it, extracted another envelope.
Fandor asked himself, with a thrill of foreboding, what this new move
of the commandant's meant.
From a third envelope, Dumoulin took out several bank-notes, yellowed
and crumpled. He held them up for Fandor to see.
"Here are three fifty franc bank-notes--new ones!... They bear the
following numbers: A 4998; O 4350; U 5108. They were found, with
others, concealed in your baggage at the Saint-Benoit barracks at
Verdun. Do you recognise these notes as having been in your
possession?"
"How do you think I can know that?" countered Fandor. "One bank-note
is not distinguishable from another!"
"Yes they are: by the numbering," asserted the commandant.... "I
willingly admit that it is not usual to write down for reference the
number of every bank-note which passes through one's hands!... We have
a better way of demonstrating that the notes I have in my hand were in
your possession."
"What exactly is he going to spring upon me now?" Fandor asked
himself.
There was an impressive pause.
"These notes," declared Dumoulin, "have been carefully examined by the
anthropometric service. It has been demonstrated that they bear
distinct traces of your finger-marks.... I hope, Monsieur Fandor, that
you do not contest the exactitude of the Bertillion method?"
"No," replied Fandor simply. "I accept the evidence of the
anthropometric method."
The commandant looked more and more satisfied.
"You acknowledge then, that these notes were in your possession?"
"Yes, I do."
The commandant again addressed the reporter:
"Note that important confession! Underline it with red pencil!"
Dumoulin fired a point-blank question at Fandor.
"Did you know Captain Brocq?"
"No."
"You did know him," insisted the commandant.
"No," repeated Fandor. He questioned in his turn:
"Why?"
"Because."... The commandant hesitated, then continued:
"You are not ignorant of the fact that an important document was
stolen from the domicile of this mysteriously murdered man?"
"I know it," admitted Fandor.
"That is not all," continued Dumoulin: "A certain amount of money was
also stolen from this unfortunate officer. Now, Brocq was in the habit
of putting down in his pocket-book the exact sums he possessed
and--mark this well--also entering the numbers of his bank-notes!...
Now, bank-notes have disappeared from his cash drawer. The missing
notes bear the numbers: A 4998; O 4350; U 5108; the very notes found
in your pocket-book!"
There ensued a dreadful silence. Fandor was thunderstruck....
Everything seemed in league against him.... Oh, he was caught like a
mouse in a trap!... These must be the notes that the red-bearded
man--probably one of the Noret brothers--had slipped into his hand!...
Evidently, from the time of his leaving Paris in Corporal Vinson's
uniform, the traitorous gang he meant to expose had known him for what
he was! Without suspecting it, he had been the hunted instead of the
hunter: and this chaser of damaged goods and trumpery wares had been
caught in his trap like a fool!... These unscrupulous wretches had
hatched an abominable plot against him!... Fandor felt that each
instant saw him deeper in the toils! His whole being was invaded by a
terrible anxiety, an immense fear. Who could be so powerful, so
subtle, so formidable as to have made a fool of him in such a fashion,
to have led him into such traps that even Juve himself could do
nothing to save him?
One being, and one only, was capable of such a diabolically clever
performance; and Fandor, who would not believe it some weeks before,
when discussing the question with Juve, had now to accept his
hypothesis as a certainty: his acts caused his unseen personality to
hit you in the eyes! Only one person could pull the strings with such
a demon hand!... Yes, Fandor could no longer doubt that his desperate
plight was due to the terrific, odious, elusive Fantomas!
Our journalist was now in the lowest depths. He attempted to keep calm
and cool, but he had lost grip of himself.... He stammered, he mumbled
confusedly, justifications, excuses, charging the Noret brothers with
having given him those terrible bank-notes.
Dumoulin, on his side, was convinced that his examination had made an
immense step in the right direction. He considered that the
interrogation might well end with a last word, a last sentence. He
turned to the wretched, over-strained Fandor, and in tones of the
utmost solemnity administered his finishing stroke.
"Jerome Fandor, not only are you accused of the crimes of treason and
spying, but, taking into account the formal avowals you have just
made, I, here and now, declare you guilty of the assassination of
Captain Brocq, of the theft of his documents, and of his money!"
XXXI
A CARAVAN DRAMA
The night was dark and stormy. On the Sceaux road a gipsy was braving
the tempest, making difficult headway in the teeth of a gale which
flapped her long cloak with impeding force, soaked her to the skin,
dashed masses of water in her face, plastered streaming locks to her
forehead, taking her breath with its suffocating rush. Shielding her
mouth with her hand, the gipsy pressed steadily forward.
A church struck eleven slow strokes, borne on the wind. Lashed by the
tempest, the gipsy pressed on, muttering as she moved:
"Vagualame told me that he would be at the first milestone beyond the
aviation sheds.... I must get there! I will get there!"
It was Bobinette, struggling on in blind obedience to him whom she
considered her master, towards the strange meeting-place fixed by the
bandit five days ago.
Under her looks of Parisian delicacy, Bobinette had a valiant spirit,
a high-strung temperament and a will of steel.... Bobinette wished to
reach the appointed trysting-place: she would reach it.
But gipsy Bobinette had her fears. She was painfully impressed by the
obscurity of the night--sinister, menacing. From the marshy fields
flanking her to right and left unaccustomed sounds, weird noises
reached her straining ears through the gusty darkness.
Then what did her master want with her here, and at such an hour?
Never had Bobinette confessed to herself that Vagualame's real
identity was unknown to her. What dark personality was hid behind that
familiar figure? She asked herself that now, with shuddering
apprehension. She had remarked certain coincidences, noted certain
details: she divined that this enigmatic accordion player might well
be none other than--Fantomas.
Fantomas! That name was it not a frightful symbol of all the crimes,
all the atrocities, the monstrous synthesis of unpunished evil?
In her tormented brain those three syllables of sinister intent were
sounding like a funeral knell.... At thought of Fantomas and Vagualame
co-mingled, Bobinette's terror-filled heart fainted within her. Yet,
prey to haunting terrors as she was, Bobinette pressed unfalteringly
forward towards what Fate held for her.
One reassuring thought came to hearten her. At every step she took the
sequins of her gipsy circlet moved and shook and tinkled on her
forehead. They reminded her of the words chanted by the old
second-hand dealer when he sold her the string of sequins, words from
the celebrated song of the Andalusian gipsies.:
_"The coral shines on my skin so brown--
The pin of gold in my chignon:
I go in search of my fortune."..._
Was she truly hastening towards good fortune through this night of
wind and rain?... Why not? Bobinette felt comforted. She said to
herself that since Vagualame had summoned her to meet him in gipsy
costume, it must be because he intended to help her to escape:
otherwise why had he foreseen the necessity for such a disguise?
To make sure of finding the rendezvous, she had taken a reconnoitering
journey along the Sceaux road the night before.... She knew now she
was close to the famous milestone.
Bobinette jumped as though she would leap out of her skin!
On the left side of the road tall trees, stripped of their leaves,
stood swaying like skeletons in the wind. Just there her eyes had seen
something dark, a black patch, blacker than the surrounding night.
What was it?
A strange sound issued from the darkness, a low, dull, deep,
complaining sound breathed from some infernal throat! Was it a cry, a
growl, a snarl?... She halted, shivering with fright, her ears
humming, her heart contracted in the grip of an indescribable terror,
doubting her senses, doubting the reality of the sound she had heard.
Bobinette stood motionless.
The wind whistling through the branches conveyed another sound to her
senses. She heard a mocking voice, harsh, imperious, a menacing voice,
a voice whose orders she had obeyed many a time and oft, a voice she
had never heard without secret terror, the voice of her
master--Vagualame!
"Go forward, you fool! Why do you halt?"
As though galvanised, Bobinette with a supreme effort of will obeyed.
A few seconds and she was by the side of Vagualame, who had come to
meet her.
"Did you hear?" she gasped.
"I heard the bellowing of the wind," laughed Vagualame: "I heard the
sound of sleety rain, I heard the noise of trees writhing and creaking
in the wind--nothing more!"
"Someone or something cried out!"
"Who could?... We are alone here!... Bobinette you are alone here with
me!"
There was a pause. Vagualame's voice was once more mocking.
"Am I to think you are afraid?"
"No, Vagualame, I am not afraid; but."...
"But you are trembling like a leaf!" cried Vagualame, with a burst of
laughter which sounded strangely false. He seized Bobinette in an iron
grip and forced her forward.
"Come! Come under shelter!" They moved towards the black blot
Bobinette had not yet identified. Almost directly they were leaning
against a gipsy van drawn up at the side of the road.
"Your future domicile," said Vagualame, showing the van to the
bewildered Bobinette. "But this is not the time to install
yourself--there are things to be said first--between you and me,
Bobinette!"
The bandit was enveloped from head to foot in a dark cloak. All
Bobinette could see of him was his profile: his features were
concealed by a soft felt hat with turned-down brim, which showed at
intervals against the sky when the lightning flashed and flickered.
The girl shivered: her master's last words were full of some dark
menace.
"What do you want to say?" she murmured.
Vagualame took a few steps forward, then returned to where the girl
was leaning against the van.
"Listen to me, Bobinette, listen, for, by Heaven, the words I am about
to utter are the last you will ever hear."
Before Bobinette could interrupt, Vagualame continued:
"Tell me, do you know of anything more wicked, more contemptible, more
vile, more shameful than treachery, than betrayal, than a trap set, a
snare laid to catch one who has always been your friend, your
defender?... Tell me, Bobinette, who is more hateful than the Judas
who sells you with a kiss?... Tell me, Bobinette, who is less worthy
of pity than the cowardly criminal who betrays his accomplice?... Than
the bandit who delivers up his chief for money, perhaps for less than
money--because of fear--who betrays his master to save his own
skin?"...
Bobinette did not seem to understand one word of this apostrophe. She
kept silence, terrified, crushed, in front of the awful abyss she
divined.
Vagualame seized her by the shoulders and shook her brutally,
thrusting her fiercely against the side of the van.
"Speak! Reply, Bobinette! I command you!"
"I do not understand you! I am afraid!"
A shout of ferocious laughter burst from Vagualame.
"You do not understand me! You are afraid?... Ah! If you are afraid it
is because you understand well enough!... Bobinette! You know well
enough what I have to reproach you with!... What I have to force you
to expiate!"...
A hoarse cry escaped the girl's parched lips:
"You are mad, mad, Vagualame!... Pity!... Pity!"
In a voice so hard, so biting, that the words seemed arrows piercing
her quivering flesh, the bandit addressed his victim:
"Bobinette, you deceive yourself strangely! I am not of those to whom
one cries for pity!... I know not the word, nor such weakness. I have
never had it, and never shall have it for any living soul."
The bandit paused. Then, in a tone of rising anger, he continued:
"And you think me mad? But what sort of woman are you, Bobinette, to
try and deceive me? What madness is yours to think, to imagine you can
dupe me?... To confess that with such words and speeches as your
feminine mind can think of you are going to ensnare me, make me alter
my decision, turn me from my vengeance--that you should decide how I
shall act--I?... I?... Vagualame?"
The bandit pronounced "I?" with such an accent of authority, with such
terrific pride, that Bobinette, with a sound as though the death
rattle were in her throat, cried:
"Vagualame! Who are you? Tell me!... Tell me!"...
"You ask me who I am?... You wish to know?... It be according to your
wish!... Who am I?... Look!"...
Slowly, with a movement firm and dignified, Vagualame unfolded the
long cloak which enveloped him. He tore off his hat and flung it at
his feet. With arms crossed he apostrophied Bobinette:
"Dare to utter my name! Dare to name me!"
Before Bobinette's distracted eyes a terrifying outline showed
itself.... The beggar of a moment ago, his cloak removed, his hat
thrown to the ground, appeared no more a bent old man: he stood there,
upright, young, vigorous, superbly muscular. He was sheathed from head
to foot in a tight-fitting garment, black as Erebus!
Bobinette could not see his face, a black hood covered it: two
gleaming eyes alone were visible, eyes that to the distraught girl
seemed lit by fires from hell!
This vision, the vision of this man without a face, resembling no
other man, this apparition with nameless mask, its body like some
statue cut from solid darkness, was yet so definite in its mystery
that Bobinette, uttering the indescribable cry of some inhuman thing,
articulated:
"Fantomas!... You are Fantomas!"
The bandit spoke:
"I am Fantomas!... I am he for whom the entire world is searching,
whom none has ever seen, whom none can recognise!... I am Crime
incarnated!... I am Night!... No human sees my face, because Crime and
Night are featureless!... I am illimitable Power!... I am he who mocks
at all the powers, at all the efforts, at all the forces!... I am
master of all, of everything; of all times and seasons.... I am
Death!... Bobinette, thou hast said it--I am Fantomas."
His wretched listener could not breathe. She felt death in her veins:
she felt the earth dissolving into dust.... She sank on her knees.
"Pity, master! Pity!... Fantomas, have pity!"...
"You join those words together!... Fantomas and Pity!"... A furious
anger seized the bandit. "Fantomas knows not what mercy is, I tell
you!... Fantomas ordains that whoso resist him shall perish--shall
disappear!"
"But, Master!... What have I done?... Master!... Fantomas, what have I
done?"
Slowly the bandit enveloped himself once more in his cloak....
Bobinette was on her knees, as one nailed to the earth!... Fantomas
had hypnotised her into immobility, as the bird is hypnotised by the
cat watching its prey. He played with her. He could seize and master
her at his pleasure.
In a voice cold and hard as the nether millstone, he denounced his
victim:
"Bobinette, you aimed at my betrayal!... You pointed out the
Nihilist's haunt to Juve, to Fandor, to my most personal enemies, to
those who would hound me to the guillotine!"
"I never did!... I did not do it!... I swear it!" shrieked the
maddened girl.
Fantomas, convinced that Bobinette, and she alone, was the traitor
here....
"You are to die; but not by my hand!... The hand of Fantomas does not
deal death to those who once served him, to the traitorous wretches
once in his employ!... But you shall die, Bobinette! I deliver you to
death!"...
Fantomas laughed. He laughed because the body of this woman, huddled
in the mud, crushed to the earth, was a pleasing thing, because
Fantomas was happy when he made human creatures suffer, when he
tortured, when he wrought sweet vengeance....
Far away sounded the church bells.... The carillon was ringing....
Church bells were chiming through the night. To Bobinette, the abject
creature grovelling in the mire of the roadway, the bells sounded
vaguely serene, far, far away....
She seemed to be floating in some indefinable element, floating like
thistledown on an irresistible breeze.... Suddenly she had the
sensation that she was sinking, falling, that she was rolling down,
down, into the depths of a bottomless abyss....
When she opened her eyes, tried to move, sat up, she knew she was not
dreaming.... She knew she had lost consciousness and was coming back
to life.... She asked herself could she possibly be alive? Fantomas
had threatened her with death, and yet she lived.... Where was she?...
Bobinette felt so weak and giddy that she remained in a sitting
posture.... What exactly had happened?... Ah!--yes!--when Fantomas had
announced she was to die, she had fallen down on the road: her skirt
was still wet and muddy, her testing fingers told her that! She was
cold! What had happened since?... Bobinette heard the wind blowing
rain as still falling, but she noticed none fell on her face.
"Where am I?" she asked aloud. Clear came the mental answer: