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MESSENGERS OF EVIL

BEING A FURTHER ACCOUNT OF THE LURES AND DEVICES OF FANTOMAS

THE FANTOMAS DETECTIVE NOVELS

BY PIERRE SOUVESTRE AND MARCEL ALLAIN

AUTHORS OF "FANTOMAS," "THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE," ETC.

NEW YORK

BRENTANO'S

1917

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY BRENTANO'S

CONTENTS

I. THE DRAMA OF THE RUE NORVINS

II. THOMERY'S TWO LOVES

III. UNEXPECTED COMPLICATIONS

IV. A SURPRISING ITINERARY

V. MOTHER TOULOUCHE AND CRANAJOUR

VI. IN THE OPPOSITE SENSE

VII. PEARLS AND DIAMONDS

VIII. END OF THE BALL

IX. FINGER PRINTS

X. IDENTITY OF A NAVVY

XI. AN AUDACIOUS THEFT

XII. INVESTIGATIONS

XIII. RUE RAFFET

XIV. SOMEONE TELEPHONED

XV. VAGUE SUSPICIONS

XVI. DISCUSSIONS

XVII. AN ARREST

XVIII. AT THE BOTTOM OF THE TRUNK

XIX. CRIMINAL OR VICTIM?

XX. UNDER THE HOODED MASK

XXI. IN A PRISON VAN

XXII. AN EXECUTION

XXIII. FROM VAUGIRARD TO MONTMARTRE

XXIV. AT SAINT LAZARE

XXV. A MOUSE TRAP

XXVI. IN THE TRAP

XXVII. THE IMPRINT

XXVIII. COURAGE

MESSENGERS OF EVIL

I

THE DRAMA OF THE RUE NORVINS

On Monday, April 4th, 19--, the evening paper _La Capitale_ published

the following article on its first page:--

A drama, over the motives of which there is a bewildering host of

conjectures, was unfolded this morning on the heights of Montmartre. The

Baroness de Vibray, well known in the Parisian world and among artists,

whose generous patroness she was, has been found dead in the studio of

the ceramic painter, Jacques Dollon. The young painter, rendered

completely helpless by a soporific, lay stretched out beside her when

the crime was discovered. We say 'crime' designedly, because, when the

preliminary medical examination was completed, it was clear that the

death of the Baroness de Vibray was due to the absorption of some

poison.

The painter, Jacques Dollon, whom the enlightened attentions of Doctor

Mayran had drawn from his condition of torpor, underwent a short

examination from the superintendent of police, in the course of which he

made remarks of so suspicious a nature that the examining magistrate put

him under arrest then and there. At police headquarters they are

absolutely dumb regarding this strange affair. Nevertheless, the

personal investigation undertaken by us throws a little light on what is

already called: _The Drama of the Rue Norvins_.

_The Discovery of the Crime_

This morning, about seven o'clock, Madame Beju, a housekeeper in the

service of the painter, Jacques Dollon, who, with his sister,

Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon, occupied lodge number six, in the Close

of the rue Norvins, was on the ground-floor of the house, attending to

her customary duties. She had been on the premises about half an hour,

and, so far, had not noticed anything abnormal; however, astonished at

not hearing any movements on the floor above, for the painter generally

rose pretty early, Madame Beju decided to go upstairs and wake her

master, who would be vexed at having let himself sleep so late. She had

to pass through the studio to reach Monsieur Jacques Dollon's bedroom.

No sooner had she raised the door curtain of the studio than she

recoiled, horrorstruck!

Disorder reigned in the studio: a startling disorder!

Pieces of furniture displaced, some of them overturned, showed that

something extraordinary had happened there. In the middle of the room,

on the floor, lay the inanimate form of a person whom Madame Beju knew

well, for she had seen her at the painter's house many a time--the

Baroness de Vibray. Not far from her, buried in a large arm-chair,

motionless, giving no sign of life, was Monsieur Jacques Dollon!

When the good woman saw the rigid attitude of these two persons, she

realised that she was in the presence of a tragedy.

Stirred to the depths, she redescended the stairs, calling for help:

shortly afterwards, the entire Close was in a state of ferment: house

porters, neighbours, male and female, crowded round Madame Beju,

endeavouring to understand her disconnected account of the terrifying

spectacle she had come face to face with but a minute before.

Sudden death, suicide, crime--all were plausible suppositions. The more

audacious of these gossip-mongers had ventured as far as the studio

door; from that standpoint, a rapid glance round enabled them to get a

clear idea of the truth of the housekeeper's statements: they returned

to give a confirmation of them to the inquisitive and increasing crowd

in the principal avenue of the Close.

'The police! The police must be informed!' cried the Close portress.

Whilst this woman, with considerable presence of mind, and aided by

Madame Beju, exerted herself to keep out the people of the neighbourhood

who had got wind of the tragedy, two men had set off to seek the police.

_Lodge Number 6_

On the summit of Montmartre is the rue Norvins. In shape it resembles a

donkey's back, and at one particular spot it hugs the accentuated curve

of the Butte. The Close of the rue Norvins is situated at number 47. It

is separated from the street by a strong iron gate, the porter's lodge

being at the side. The Close consists of a series of little dwellings,

separated by wooden railings, up which climbing plants grow. Fine trees

encircle these abodes with so thick a curtain of leafage that the

inhabitants might think themselves buried in the depths of the country.

Lodge Number 6 is even more isolated than the others. It consists of a

ground floor and a first floor, with an immense studio attached. Three

years ago, Number 6 was leased to Monsieur Jacques Dollon, then a

student at the Fine Arts School. It has been continuously occupied by

the tenant and his sister, Miss Elizabeth Dollon, who has kept house for

her brother. For the last fortnight the painter has been alone: his

sister, who had gone to Switzerland to convalesce after a long illness,

was expected back that same day, or the day following.

The reputation of the two young people is considered by their neighbours

to be beyond criticism. The artist has led a regular and hard-working

life: last year the Salon accorded him a medal of the second class.

His sister, an affable and unassuming girl, seemed always much attached

to her brother. In that very Bohemian neighbourhood she is highly

thought of as a girl of the most estimable character.

The Baroness de Vibray visited them frequently, and her motor-car used

to attract attention in that high, remote suburb--the wilds of

Montmartre. The old lady liked to dress in rather showy colours; she was

considered eccentric, but was also known to be good and generous. She

took a particular interest in the Dollons, whose family, so it was said,

she had known in Provence. Jacques Dollon and his sister highly valued

their intimacy with the Baroness de Vibray, who was known all over Paris

as a patroness of artists and the arts.

_First Verifications_

Already slander and imagination between them had concocted the wildest

stories, when Monsieur Agram, the eminent police superintendent of the

Clignancourt Quarter, appeared at the entrance to the Close. Accompanied

by his secretary, he at once entered Number 6, charging the two

policemen, who were assisting him, on no account to allow anyone to

enter, excepting the doctor, whom he had at once sent for.

He requested the portress to hold herself at his disposal in the garden,

and made Madame Beju accompany him to the studio. Barely twenty minutes

had elapsed since the housekeeper had been terror-struck by the dreadful

spectacle which had met her eyes there. When she entered with the

superintendent of police nothing had been altered. Madame de Vibray,

horribly pale, her eyes closed, her lips violet-hued, lay stretched on

the floor: her body had assumed the rigidity of a corpse. That of

Jacques Dollon, huddled in an arm-chair, was in a state of immobility.

Monsieur Agram at once noticed long, intersecting streaks on the floor,

such as might have been traced by heavy furniture dragged over the waxed

boards of the flooring. A pungent medicinal odour caught the throats of

the visitors: Madame Beju was about to open a window: the superintendent

stopped her:

'Let things remain as they are for the present,' was his order. After

casting an observant eye round the room he questioned the housekeeper:

'Is this state of disorder usual?'

'Never in this world, sir!' declared the good woman. 'Monsieur Dollon

and his sister are very steady, very regular in their habits, especially

the young lady. It is true that she has been absent for nearly a month,

but her brother has often been left alone, and he has always insisted on

his studio being kept in good order.'

'Did Monsieur Dollon have many visitors?'

'Very seldom, monsieur. Sometimes his neighbours would come in; and then

there was that poor lady lying there so deathly pale that it makes me

ill to look at her....'

_Jacques Dollon lives_

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor employed

in connection with relief for the poor. The superintendent of police

pointed out to this Dr. Mayran the two inanimate figures. A glance of

the doctor's trained eye sufficed to show him that Madame de Vibray had

been dead for some time. Approaching Jacques Dollon, Dr. Mayran examined

him attentively:

'Will you help me to lift him on to a bed or a table?' he asked. 'It

seems to me that this one is not dead.'

'His bedroom is next to this!' cried Madame Beju. 'Oh, heavens above! If

only the poor young man would recover!'

Silently the doctor, aided by the superintendent and a policeman,

transported young Dollon into the next room.

'Air!' cried the doctor, 'give him air! Open all the windows! It seems

to me a case of suspended animation! There is partial suffocation. This

will probably yield to energetic treatment.'

Whilst good Madame Beju, whose legs were shaking under her, was carrying

out the doctor's orders, the superintendent of police kept watch to see

that nothing was touched. The doctor's attention was concentrated on

Jacques Dollon. Monsieur Agram was searching for some indication which

might throw light on the drama. So far he had been unable to formulate

any hypothesis. Should the moribund painter return to consciousness, the

explanation he could give would certainly clear up the situation. At

this point in the superintendent's cogitations, the doctor called out:

'He lives! He lives! Bring me a glass of water!'

Jacques Dollon was returning to consciousness! Slowly, painfully, his

features contracting as at the remembrance of a horrible nightmare, the

young man stretched his limbs, opened his eyes: he turned a dull gaze on

those about him, a gaze which became one of stupefaction when he

perceived these unknown faces gathered round his bed. His eyes fell on

his housekeeper. He murmured:

'Mme ... Be-ju ... je...,' and fell back into unconsciousness.

'Is he dead?' whispered Monsieur Agram.

The doctor smiled:

'Be reassured, monsieur: he lives; but he finds it terribly difficult to

wake up. He has certainly swallowed some powerful narcotic and is still

under its influence; but its effects will soon pass off now.'

The good doctor spoke the truth.

In a short time Jacques Dollon, making a violent effort, sat up. Casting

scared and bewildered glances about him, he cried:

'Who are you? What do you want of me?... Ah, the ruffians! The bandits!'

'There is nothing to fear, monsieur. I am simply the doctor they have

called in to attend to you! Be calm!... You must recover your senses,

and tell us what has happened!'

Jacques Dollon pressed his hands to his forehead, as though in pain:

'How heavy my head is!' he muttered. 'What has happened to me?... Let me

see!... Wait.... Ah ... yes ... that's it!'

At a sign from the doctor, the superintendent had stationed himself

beside the bed, behind the young painter.

Keeping a finger on his patient's pulse, the doctor asked him, in a

fatherly fashion, to tell him all about it.

'It is like this,' replied Jacques Dollon.... 'Yesterday evening I was

sitting in my arm-chair reading. It was getting late. I had been working

hard.... I was tired.... All of a sudden I was surrounded by masked men,

clothed in long black garments: they flung themselves on me. Before I

could make a movement I was gagged, bound with cords.... I felt

something pointed driven into my leg--into my arm.... Then an

overpowering drowsiness overcame me, the strangest visions passed before

my eyes; I lost consciousness rapidly.... I wanted to move, to cry

out ... in vain ... there was no strength in me ... powerless ... and

that's all!'

'Is there nothing more?' asked the doctor.

After a minute's reflection Jacques answered:

'That is all.'

He now seemed fully awake. He moved: the movement was evidently painful:

'It hurts,' he said, instinctively putting his hand on his left thigh.

'Let us see what is wrong,' said the doctor, and was preparing to

examine the place when a voice from the studio called:

'Monsieur!'

It was Monsieur Agram's secretary. The magistrate left his post by the

bed and went into the studio.

'Monsieur,' said the secretary, 'I have just found this paper under the

chair in which Monsieur Dollon was: will you acquaint yourself with its

contents?'

The magistrate seized the paper: it was a letter, couched in the

following terms:

_Dear Madame,_

_If you do not fear to climb the heights of Montmartre some

evening, will you come to see the painted pottery I am preparing

for the Salon: you will be welcome, and will confer on us a great

pleasure. I say 'us,' because I have excellent news of Elizabeth,

who is returning shortly: perhaps she will be here to receive you

with me._

_I am your respectful and devoted_

_Jacques Dollon._

The magistrate was frowning as he handed back the letter to his

secretary, saying: 'Keep it carefully.' Then he went into the bedroom,

where the doctor was talking to the invalid. The doctor turned to

Monsieur Agram:

'Monsieur Dollon has just asked me who you are: I did not think I ought

to hide from him that you are a superintendent of police, monsieur.'

'Ah!' cried Jacques Dollon. 'Can you help me to discover what happened

to me last night?'

'You have just told us yourself, monsieur,' replied the

magistrate.... 'But have you nothing further to tell us? Can you not

recollect whether or no you had a visitor before the arrival of the

men who attacked you?'

'Why, no, monsieur, no one called.'

The doctor here intervened:

'The pain in the leg, Monsieur Dollon complained of, need not cause any

anxiety. It is a very slight superficial wound. A slight swelling above

the broken skin possibly indicates an intra-muscular puncture, which

might have been made by someone unaccustomed to such operations, for it

is a clumsy performance. It is a queer business!...'

Monsieur Agram, who had been steadily observing Jacques Dollon,

persisted:

'Is there not a gap, monsieur, in your recollections of what

occurred?... Were you quite alone yesterday evening? Were you not

expecting anyone?... Are you certain that you did not have a visitor?

Did not someone pay you a visit--someone you had asked to come and see

you?'

Jacques Dollon opened his eyes--eyes of stupefaction--and stared at the

superintendent:

'No, monsieur.'

'It is that----' went on Monsieur Agram. Then stopping short, and

drawing the doctor aside, he asked:

'Do you consider him in a fit state to bear a severe moral shock?... A

confrontation?'

The doctor glanced at his patient:

'He appears to me to be quite himself again: you can act as you see fit,

monsieur.'

Jacques Dollon, astonished at this confabulation, and vaguely uneasy,

was, in fact, able to get up without help.

'Be good enough to go into your studio, monsieur,' said the magistrate.

Jacques Dollon complied without a word. No sooner did he cross the

threshold than he recoiled, terror-struck.

He was shaking from head to foot; his lips were quivering; every feature

expressed horrified shrinking from the spectacle confronting him.

'The--the--the Baroness de Vibray!' he barely articulated: 'how can it

be possible?'

The superintendent of police did not lose a single movement made by the

young painter, keeping a lynx-eyed watch on every expression that

flitted across his countenance. He said:

'It certainly is the Baroness de Vibray, dead--assassinated, no doubt.

How do you explain that?'

'But,' retorted Jacques Dollon, who appeared overwhelmed: 'I do not

know! I do not understand!'

The magistrate replied:

'Yet, did you not invite her to your studio? Had you not asked her to

come some evening soon? Had you not certain pieces of painted pottery to

show her?'

'That is so,' confessed the painter: 'but I was not aware.... I did not

know....' He seemed about to faint. The doctor made him sit down in the

chair where he had been found unconscious. Whilst he was recovering,

Monsieur Agram continued his investigations. He opened a little

cupboard, in which were several poisonous powders: this was shown by the

writing on the flasks containing them. He spoke to the doctor, taking

care that Jacques Dollon should not overhear him:

'Did you not say that this woman's death is due to poison?'

'It certainly looks like it.... A post-mortem will ...'

_The Arrest_

Interrupting the doctor, Monsieur Agram went up to Jacques Dollon:

'In the exercise of your profession, monsieur, do you not make use of

various poisons, of which you have a reserve supply here?'

'That is so,' confirmed Jacques Dollon, in a faint voice: 'But it is a

very long time since I employed any of them.'

'Very good, monsieur.'

Monsieur Agram now made Madame Beju leave the room. He asked her to

transmit an order to his policemen: they were to drive back the crowd.

Soon a cab brought by a constable entered the Close, and drew up before

the door of Number 6.

Jacques Dollon, supported by two people, descended and entered the cab.

Immediately a rumour spread that he had been arrested.

This rumour was correct.

_Our Inquiry--Silence at Police Headquarters--Probable Motives of

the Crime_

Such are the details referring to this strange affair, which we have

been able to procure from those who were present. But the motives which

determined the arrest of Monsieur Dollon are obscure.

There are, however, two suspicious facts. The first is the puncture made

in Monsieur Jacques Dollon's left leg: this puncture is aggravated by a

scratch. According to the doctors, soporific, injected into the human

body by the de Pravaz syringe, acts violently and efficaciously. It is

beyond a doubt that Monsieur Jacques Dollon has been rendered

unconscious in this manner.

To begin with, the painter's first version was considered the true one,

namely, that he had been surprised by robbers, who rendered him

unconscious; but, on reflection, this explanation would not hold water.

Murderous house-thieves do not send people to sleep: they kill them. Add

to this that nothing has been stolen from Monsieur Dollon: therefore,

mere robbery was not the motive of the crime.

Besides, Monsieur Dollon maintained that he was alone; yet at that time

Madame de Vibray was in his studio, and was there precisely because the

artist himself had asked her to come. We know that the Baroness de

Vibray, who was very wealthy, took a particular interest in this young

man and his sister.

We should consider ourselves to blame, did we not now remind our readers

that the names of those personages--Dollon, Vibray--implicated in the

drama of the rue Norvins, have already figured in the chronicles of

crimes, both recent and celebrated.

Thus the assassination of the Marquise de Langrune cannot have been

forgotten, an assassination which has remained a mystery, which was

perpetrated a few years ago, and brought into prominence the

personalities of Monsieur Rambert and the charming Therese

Auvernois....

Madame de Vibray, who has just been so tragically done to death, was an

intimate friend of the Marquise de Langrune....

Monsieur Jacques Dollon is a son of Madame de Langrune's old steward....

We do not, of course, pretend to connect, in any way whatever, the drama

of the rue Norvins with the bygone drama which ended in the execution of

Gurn,[1] but we cannot pass over in silence the strange coincidence

that, within the space of a few years, the same halo of mystery

surrounds the same group of individuals....

[Footnote 1: See _Fantomas_.]

But let us return to our narrative:

Monsieur Jacques Dollon, interrogated by the superintendent of police,

declared that he very rarely made use of the poisons locked up in the

little cupboard of his studio....

Notwithstanding this, it was discovered, during the course of the

perquisition, that one of the phials containing poison had been recently

opened, and that traces of the powder were still to be found on the

floor. This powder is now being analysed, whilst the faculty are engaged

in a post-mortem examination of the unfortunate victim's body; but, at

the present moment, everything leads to the belief that there does not

exist an immediate and certain link between this poison and the sudden

death of the Baroness de Vibray.

It might easily be supposed, and this we believe is the view taken at

Police Headquarters, that for a motive as yet unknown, a motive the

judicial examination will certainly bring to light, the artist has

poisoned his patroness; and, in order to put the authorities on the

wrong scent (perhaps he hoped she would leave the studio before the

death-agony commenced), he has devised this species of tableau, invented

the story of the masked men.

In fact, the doctor who first attended him has declared that the

puncture, clumsily made, might very well have been done by Jacques

Dollon himself.

It is worth noting that not a soul saw the Baroness de Vibray enter

Monsieur Dollon's house yesterday evening: as a rule, she comes in her

motor-car, and all the neighbourhood can hear her arrival.

It seems evident that Jacques Dollon will abandon the line of defence he

has adopted: it can hardly be described as rational.

There is little doubt but that we shall have sensational revelations

regarding the crime of the rue Norvins.

_Last Hour_

Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon, to whom Police Headquarters has

telegraphed that a serious accident has happened to her brother, has

sent a reply telegram from Lausanne to the effect that she will return

to-night.

The unfortunate girl is probably ignorant of all that has occurred.

Nevertheless, we believe that two detectives have left at once for the

frontier, where they will meet her, and shadow her as far as Paris, in

case she should get news on the way of what had occurred, and should

either attempt to escape, or make an attempt on her life.

Decidedly, to-morrow promises to be a day full of vicissitudes.

* * * * *

This article, published on the first page of _La Capitale_, was signed:

JEROME FANDOR.

II

THOMERY'S TWO LOVES

Two days before the sinister drama, details of which Jerome Fandor had

given in _La Capitale_, the smart little town house inhabited by the

Baroness de Vibray, in the Avenue Henri-Martin, assumed a festive

appearance.

This did not surprise her neighbours, for they knew the owner of this

charming residence was very much a woman of the world, whose

reception-rooms were constantly opened to the many distinguished

Parisians forming her circle of acquaintances.

It was seven in the evening when the Baroness, dressed for dinner,

passed from her own room into the small drawing-room adjoining. Crossing

a carpet so thick and soft that it deadened the sound of footsteps, she

pressed the button of an electric bell beside the fireplace. A

major-domo, of the most correct appearance, presented himself.

"The Baroness rang for me?"

Madame de Vibray, who had instinctively sought the flattering approval

of her mirror, half turned:

"I wish to know if anyone called this afternoon, Antoine?"

"For the Baroness?"

"Of course!" she replied, a note of impatience in her voice: "I want to

know if anyone called to see _me_ this afternoon?"

"No, madame."

"No one has telephoned from the Barbey-Nanteuil Bank?"

"No, madame."

Repressing a slight feeling of annoyance, Madame de Vibray changed the

subject:

"You will have dinner served as soon as the guests arrive. They will not

be later than half-past seven, I suppose."

Antoine bowed solemnly, vanished into the anteroom, and from thence

gained the servants' hall.

Madame de Vibray quitted the small drawing-room. Traversing the great

gallery with its glass roof, encircling the staircase, she entered the

dining-room. Covers were laid for three.

Inspecting the table arrangements with the eye of a mistress of the

house, she straightened the line of some plates, gave a touch of

distinction to the flowers scattered over the table in a conventional

disorder; then she went to the sideboard, where the major-domo had left

a china pot filled with flowers. With a slight shrug, the Baroness

carried the pot to its usual place--a marble column at the further end

of the room:

"It was fortunate I came to see how things were! Antoine is a good

fellow, but a hare-brained one too!" thought she.

Madame de Vibray paused a moment: the light from an electric lamp shone

on the vase and wonderfully enhanced its glittering beauty. It was a

piece of faience decorated in the best taste. On its graceful form the

artist had traced the lines of an old colour print, and had scrupulously

preserved the picture born of an eighteenth-century artist's

imagination, with its brilliancy of tone and soft background of tender

grey. Madame de Vibray could not tear herself away from the

contemplation of it. Not only did the design and the treatment please

her, but she also felt a kind of maternal affection for the artist:

"This dear Jacques," she murmured, "has decidedly a great deal of

talent, and I like to think that in a short time his reputation...."

Her reflections were interrupted by the servant. The good Antoine

announced in a low voice, and with a touch of respectful reproach in his

tone:

"Monsieur Thomery awaits the Baroness in the small drawing-room: he has

been waiting ten minutes."

"Very well. I am coming."

Madame de Vibray, whose movements were all harmonious grace, returned by

way of the gallery to greet her guest. She paused on the threshold of

the small drawing-room, smiling graciously.

Framed in the dark drapery of the heavy door-curtains, the soft light

from globes of ground glass falling on her, the Baroness de Vibray

appeared a very attractive woman still. Her figure had retained its

youthful slenderness, her neck, white as milk, was as round and fresh as

a girl's; and had the hair about her forehead and temples not been

turning grey--the Baroness wore it powdered, a piece of coquettish

affection on her part--she would not have looked a day more than thirty.

Monsieur Thomery rose hastily, and advanced to meet her. He kissed her

hand with a gallant air:

"My dear Mathilde," he declared with an admiring glance, "you are

decidedly an exquisite woman!"

The Baroness replied by a glance, in which there was something

ambiguous, something of ironical mockery:

"How are you, Norbert?" she asked in an affectionate tone.... "And those

pains?"

They seated themselves on a low couch, and began to discuss their

respective aches and pains in friendly fashion. Whilst listening to his

complaints, Madame de Vibray could not but admire his remarkable vigour,

his air of superb health: his looks gave the lie to his words.

About fifty-five, Monsieur Norbert Thomery seemed to be in the plenitude

of his powers; his premature baldness was redeemed by the vivacity of

his dark brown eyes, also by his long, thick moustache, probably dyed.

He looked like an old soldier. He was the last of the great Thomery

family who, for many generations, had been sugar refiners. His was a

personality well known in Parisian Society; always first at his office

or his factories, as soon as night fell he became the man of the world,

frequenting fashionable drawing-rooms, theatrical first-nights, official

receptions, and balls in the aristocratic circles of the faubourg

Saint-Germain.

Remarkably handsome, extremely rich, Thomery had had many love affairs.

Gossips had it that between him and Madame de Vibray there had existed a

tender intimacy; and, for once, gossip was right. But they had been

tactful, had respected the conventions whilst their irregular union had

lasted. Though now a thing of the past, for Thomery had sought other

loves, his passion for the Baroness had changed to a calm, strong,

semi-brotherly affection; whilst Madame de Vibray retained a more

lively, a more tender feeling for the man whom she had known as the most

gallant of lovers.

Thomery suddenly ceased talking of his rheumatism:

"But, my dear friend, I do not see that pretty smile which is your

greatest charm! How is that?"

Madame de Vibray looked sad: her beautiful eyes gazed deep into those of

Thomery:

"Ah," she murmured, "one cannot be eternally smiling; life sometimes

holds painful surprises in store for us."

"Is something worrying you?" Thomery's tone was one of anxious sympathy.

"Yes and no," was her evasive reply. There was a silence; then she said:

"It is always the same thing! I have no hesitation in telling you that,

you, my old friend: it is a money wound--happily it is not mortal."

Thomery nodded:

"Well, I declare it is just what I expected! My poor Mathilde, are you

never going to be sensible?"

The Baroness pouted: "You know quite well I am sensible ... only it

happens that there are moments when one is short of cash! Yesterday I

asked my bankers to send me fifty thousand francs, and I have not heard

a word from them!"

"That is no great matter! The Barbey-Nanteuil credit cannot be shaken!"

"Oh," cried the Baroness, "I have no fears on that score; but, as a

rule, their delay in sending me what I ask for is of the briefest, yet

no one has come from them to-day."

Thomery began scolding her gently:

"Ah, Mathilde, that you should be in such pressing need of so large a

sum must mean that you have been drawn into some deplorable speculation!

I will wager that you invested in those Oural copper mines after all!"

"I thought the shares were going up," was Madame de Vibray's excuse: she

lowered her eyes like a naughty schoolgirl caught in the act.

Thomery, who had risen, and was walking up and down the room, halted in

front of her:

"I do beg of you to consult those who know all the ins and outs, persons

competent to advise you, when you are bent on plunging into speculations

of this description! The Barbey-Nanteuil people can give you reliable

information; I myself, you know..."

"But since it is really of no importance!" interrupted Madame de Vibray,

who had no wish to listen to the remonstrances of her too prudent

friend: "What does it matter? It is my only diversion now!... I love

gambling--the emotions it arouses in one, the perpetual hopes and fears

it excites!"

Thomery was about to reply, to argue, to remonstrate further, but the

Baroness had caught him glancing at the clock hanging beside the

fireplace:

"I am making you dine late," she said in a tone of apology. Then, with a

touch of malice, and looking up at Thomery from under her eyes, to see

how he took it:

"You are to be rewarded for having to wait!... I have invited Princess

Sonia Danidoff to dine with you!"

Thomery started. He frowned. He again seated himself beside the

Baroness:

"You have invited her?..."

"Yes ... and why not?... I believe this pretty woman is one of your

special friends... that you consider her the most charming of all your

friends now!..."

Thomery did not take up the challenge: he simply said:

"I had an idea that the Princess was not much to your taste!"

The eyes of Madame de Vibray flashed a sad, strange look on her old

friend, as she said gently:

"One can accustom oneself to anything and everything, my dear

friend.... Besides, I quite recognise that the Princess deserves

the reputation she enjoys of being wonderfully beautiful and also

intellectual...."

Thomery did not reply to this: he looked puzzled, annoyed....

The Baroness continued:

"They even say that handsome bachelor, Monsieur Thomery, is not

indifferent to her fascinations!... That, for the first time in his

life, he is ready to link ..."

"Oh, as for that!..." Thomery was protesting, when the door opened, and

the Princess Sonia Danidoff rustled into the room, a superbly--a

dazzlingly beautiful vision, all audacity and charm.

"Accept all my apologies, dear Baroness," she cried, "for arriving so

late; but the streets are so crowded!"

"... And I live such a long way out!" added Madame de Vibray.

"You live in a charming part," amended the Princess. Then, catching

sight of Thomery:

"Why, you!" she cried. And, with a gracious and dignified gesture, the

Princess extended her hand, which the wealthy sugar refiner hastened to

kiss.

At this moment the double doors were flung wide, and Antoine, with his

most solemn air, his most stiff-starched manner, announced:

"Dinner is served!"

"... No," cried she, smiling, whilst she refused the arm offered by her

old friend; "take in the Princess, dear friend; I will follow ... by

myself!"

Thomery obeyed. He passed slowly along the gallery into the dining-room

with the Princess. Behind them came the Baroness, who watched them as

they went: Thomery, big, muscular, broad-shouldered: Sonia Danidoff,

slim, pliant, refined, dainty!

Checking a deep sigh, the Baroness could not help thinking, and her

heart ached at the thought:

"What a fine couple they would make!... What a fine couple they will

make!"

But, as she seated herself opposite her guests, she said to herself:

"Bah!... I must send sad thoughts flying!... It is high time!"

"My dear Thomery!" she cried playfully: "I wish--I expect you to show

yourself the most charming of men to your delicious neighbour!"

Ten o'clock had struck before Madame de Vibray and her guests left the

dinner-table and proceeded to the small drawing-room. Thomery was

allowed to smoke in their presence; besides, the Princess had accepted a

Turkish cigarette, and the Baroness had allowed herself a liqueur. A

most excellent dinner and choice wines had loosened tongues, and, in

accordance with a prearranged plan, Madame de Vibray had directed the

conversation imperceptibly into the channels she wished it to follow.

Thus she learned what she had feared to know, namely, that a very

serious flirtation had been going on for some time between Thomery and

the Princess; that between this beautiful and wealthy young widow and

the millionaire sugar refiner, the flirtation was rapidly developing

into something much warmer and more lasting. So far, the final stage

had evidently not been reached; nevertheless, Thomery had suggested,

tentatively, that he would like to give a grand ball when he took

possession of the new house which he was having built for himself in the

park Monceau!... And had he not been so extremely anxious to secure a

partner for the cotillion which he meant to lead!... Then Madame de

Vibray had suggested that the person obviously fitted to play this

important part was the Princess Sonia Danidoff! Who better!

The suggestion was welcomed by both: it was settled there and then.

"Yes," thought the Baroness, "Thomery's marriage is practically

arranged, that is evident!... Well, I must resign myself to the

inevitable!"

It was about half-past eleven when Sonia Danidoff rose to take leave of

her hostess. Thomery, hesitating, looked first at his old friend, then

at the Princess, asking himself what he ought to do. Madame de Vibray

felt secretly grateful to him for this momentary hesitation. As a woman

whose mourning for a dead love is over, she spoke out bravely:

"Dear friend," said she, "surely you are not going to let the Princess

return alone?... I hope she will allow you to see her safely home?"

The Princess pressed the hands of her generous hostess: she was radiant:

"What a good kind friend you are!" she cried in an outburst of sincere

affection. Then, with a questioning glance, in which there was a touch

of uneasiness, a slight hesitation, she said:

"Ah, do let me kiss you!"

For all reply Madame de Vibray opened her arms; the two women clung

together, sealing with their kiss the treaty of peace both wished to

keep.

When the humming of the motor-car, which bore off the Princess and

Thomery, had died away in the distance, Madame de Vibray retired to her

room. A tear rolled down her cheek:

"A little bit of my heart has gone with them," she murmured. The poor

woman sighed deeply: "Ah, it is my whole heart that has gone!"

There was a discreet knock at the door. She mastered her emotion. It was

the dignified mistress of the house who said quietly:

"Come in!"

It was Antoine, who presented two letters on a silver salver. He

explained that, believing his mistress to be anxiously awaiting some

news, he had ventured to bring up the last post at this late hour.

After bidding Antoine good night, she recalled him to say:

"Please tell the maid not to come up. I shall not require her. I can

manage by myself."

Madame de Vibray went towards the little writing-table, which stood in

one corner of her room; in leisurely fashion she sat down and proceeded

to open her letters with a wearied air.

"Why, it's from that nice Jacques Dollon!" she exclaimed, as she read

the first letter she opened: "I was thinking of him at this very

minute!" ... "Yes," she went on, as she read, "I shall certainly pay him

a visit soon!"

Madame de Vibray put Jacques Dollon's letter in her handbag, recognising

on the back of the second letter the initials B. N., which she knew to

be the discreet superscription on the business paper of her bankers,

Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil. It was long and closely written, in a fine,

regular hand. When she began to read it her attention was wandering, for

her mind was full of Sonia Danidoff and Thomery, and what she had

ascertained regarding their relation to each other; but little by little

she became absorbed in what she was reading, till her whole attention

was taken captive. As she read on, however, her eyes opened more and

more widely, there was a look of keenest anguish in them, her features

contracted as if in pain, her bosom heaved, her fingers were trembling

under the stress of some intense emotion:

"Oh, my God! Ah! My God!" she gasped out several times in a half-choked

voice.

* * * * *

Silence had reigned for a long while in the smart town house of the

Baroness de Vibray in the Avenue Henri-Martin....

From without came no sound; the avenue was quiet, deserted; the night

was dark. But when three o'clock struck, the bedroom of Madame de Vibray

was still flooded with light. She had not left her writing-table since

she had read the letter of her bankers, Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil. She

wrote on, and on, without intermission.

III

UNEXPECTED COMPLICATIONS

At nine o'clock in the morning, the staff of that great evening paper,

_La Capitale_, were assembled in the vast editorial room, writing out

their copy, in the midst of a perfect hubbub of continual comings and

goings, of regular shindies, of perpetual discussions.

A stranger entering this room, which among its frequenters went by the

name of "The Wild Beasts' Cage," might easily have thought he was

witnessing some thirty schoolboys at play in recreation time, instead of

being in the presence of famous journalists celebrated for their reports

and articles.

Jerome Fandor had no sooner appeared on the threshold than he was

accorded a variety of greetings--ironical, cordial, fault-finding,

sympathetic. But he ignored them all; for, like most of those who came

into the editorial room at this hour, he was preoccupied with one thing

only--where the caprice of his editorial secretary would send him flying

for news, in the course of a few minutes? On what difficult and delicate

quest would he be despatched? It depended on the exigencies of passing

events, on how questions of the hour struck the editorial secretary, in

relation to Fandor.

Just as he had expected, the editorial secretary called him.

"Hey! Fandor, come here a minute! I am on the make-up: what have you got

for to-day?"

"I don't know. Who has charge of the landing of the King of Spain?"

"Maray. He has just left. Have you seen the last issue of _l'Havas_?"

"Here it is...."

The two men ran rapidly through the night's telegrams.

"Deplorably empty!" remarked the editorial secretary. "But where am I to

send you?... Ah, now I have it! That article of yours on the rue Norvins

affair, yesterday evening, was interesting--it made the others squirm, I

know! Isn't there anything more to be got out of that story?"

"What do you want?"

"Can't you stick in something just a little bit scandalous about the

Baroness de Vibray? Or about Dollon? About no matter whom, in fact?

After all, it's our one and only crime to-day, and you must put in

something under that head!..."

Jerome Fandor seemed to hesitate.

"Would you like me to rake up the past--refer to what happened before?"

"What past?"

"Come now, you must have an inkling of what I refer to!"

"Not I!"

"Ah, my dear fellow, it will not be the first time we have had to

mention these personages in our columns!... Just cast your mind back to

the Gurn affair!..."

"Ah, the drama in which a great lady was implicated ... to her

detriment! Lady ... Lady Beltham?"

"You have got it! These Dollons--Jacques and Elizabeth--did you know

it?--happen to be the children of old Dollon, who was murdered in the

train--an extraordinary murder!--when on his way to Paris, to give

evidence in the Gurn case?"

"Why, of course! I remember perfectly!" declared the editorial

secretary: "Dollon, the father, was the Marquise de Langrune's

steward!... The old lady who was murdered!... Isn't that so?"

"That's it!... But, after the death of his mistress, he entered the

service of the Baroness de Vibray, she who was assassinated yesterday!"

"Well, I must say they have not been favoured by fortune," said the

secretary jokingly. "But, look here, Fandor--like father, like son,

eh?... If this young Dollon has murdered Madame de Vibray, doesn't that

make you think that his father was the murderer of the Marquise de

Langrune?"

Jerome Fandor shook his head:

"No, old boy, yesterday's crime was ordinary, even common-place, but the

assassination of the Marquise de Langrune, on the contrary, gave the

police no end of bother."

"They did not find out anything, did they?"

"Why, yes!... Don't you remember?... Naturally enough, it must all seem

rather remote to you, but I have all the details as clearly in mind as

if they had happened only yesterday.... The Gurn affair was one of the

first I had a hand in, with Juve ... it was in connection with that very

affair I made my start here on _La Capitale_."[2]

[Footnote 2: See _Fantomas_.]

Fandor grew pale:

"And you were jolly proud of it, eh, Fandor?... Good Heavens, how you

did hold forth about this Juve! And you regularly fed us up with this

villain, so mysterious, so extraordinary, who was never run to earth,

could not be captured, was capable of the most inhuman cruelties,

capable of devising the most unimaginable tricks and stratagems--this

Fantomas!"

Fandor grew pale:

"My dear fellow," said he, "never speak sneeringly or jokingly of

Fantomas!... No doubt it is taken for granted, by the public at any

rate, that Fantomas is an invention of Juve and myself: that Fantomas

never existed!... And that because this monster, who is a man of genius,

has never been identified; because not a soul has been able to lay hands

on him ...; and because, as you know, this fruitless pursuit has cost

poor Juve his life...."

"The truth is, this famous detective died a foul death!"

"No! You are mistaken! Juve died on the field of honour! When, after a

terribly difficult and dangerous investigation, he succeeded (by this

time it was no longer the Gurn-Fantomas affair, but that of the

boulevard Inkermann at Neuilly) in cornering Fantomas, he was well aware

that he risked his life in entering the bandit's abode. What happened

was that the villain found means to blow up the house, and to bury Juve

underneath the ruins.[3] Fantomas has proved the stronger; but,

according to my ideas, Juve has had, none the less, the finest death he

could desire--death in the midst of the fight--a useful death!"

[Footnote 3: See _The Exploits of Juve_.]

"Useful? In what way?..."

"My dear fellow," cried Fandor, in a tone of vigorous denial, "in the

opinion of all unprejudiced minds, the death of Juve has proved, proved

up to the hilt, the existence of Fantomas.... More, it has forced this

villain to disappear; it has restored peace, tranquillity to

society.... At the cost of his life, Juve has scored a final triumph,

he has deprived Fantomas of the power to do harm--pared his claws in

fact."

"The truth is he is never mentioned now by a soul ... for all that,

Fandor, only to see you smile! Why--," and the editorial secretary shook

a threatening finger at his colleague: "I'll wager you still believe in

Fantomas!... That one fine day you will write us a rattling good

article, announcing some fresh Fantomas crime!"

Jerome Fandor made no direct reply to this--it was useless to try and

convince those who had not closely followed the records of crimes

perpetrated during recent years: you could not make them believe in the

existence of Fantomas. Fandor _knew_; but, Juve dead, was there another

soul who could know the true facts?

All he said was:

"Well, my dear fellow, this does not tell us what we are to fill up the

paper with now!... If the doings connected with Fantomas are frightful,

rousing our feelings in the highest degree, I repeat that yesterday's

crime bears no resemblance to them: we can put in a paragraph or

so--that is all!"

"No way, is there, of compromising anyone with our Baroness de Vibray?"

"I don't think so! It's a perfectly common-place affair. An elderly

woman patronises a young painter, whose mistress she may or may not be,

and she ends up by getting herself assassinated when the young man

imagines he is mentioned in her will."

"Ah! good! Well, I think you will have to fall back on the opening of

the artesian well. That suit you?"

"Oh, quite all right!... If you like I can give you my copy in half an

hour. I know who are going to speak at the inauguration ceremony, and I

can add names this evening! You know I am a bit of a specialist as

regards reports written beforehand!"

Fandor had got well on with his article: at the rate he was going he

would have finished that morning, he thought with pleasure, and would

have a free afternoon. Just then an office boy appeared:

"Monsieur Fandor, you are being asked for at the telephone."

Like most journalists, Fandor was accustomed to reply in nine cases out

of ten, in similar cases, that he was not to be found. On this occasion,

however, some interior prompting made him say:

"I will come."

A few minutes later Fandor went up to the editorial secretary:

"Look here, old fellow, something unexpected has happened.... I must go

to the Palais de Justice ... you don't want me for anything else this

morning, do you?"

"No, go along! But what's up?"

"Oh ... this Jacques Dollon, you know, the assassin of the rue Norvins?

Well, this imbecile has gone and hanged himself in his cell!"

* * * * *

At the exit door of _La Capitale_, in the noisy rue Montmartre, crowded

with costermongers' barrows, Jerome Fandor hailed a taxi.

"To the Palais!"

Some minutes later he was crossing the hall of the Wandering Footsteps

(as it is called), giving rapid, cordial greetings to all the barristers

of his acquaintance--one never knew when they might impart a special

piece of information which let an enterprising journalist into the know,

or put him early on to a good thing--and finally reached the lobbies of

the Law Courts proper. He was saying to himself as he went along:

"He is a good fellow, Jouet! The news is not known yet! He telephoned me

first!"

His friend Jouet met him, with a warm handshake:

"You did not seem to be in a good temper at the telephone just now,

although I was giving you a nice bit of information!"