there would ensue a struggle of every hour, day, and moment--a struggle
of the most terrible nature, a struggle in which man was pitted against
man, a struggle without pity, without mercy--a fight to the death!
Fantomas would assuredly defend himself with all the immense elusive
powers at his command: Jerome Fandor would pursue him with heart and
soul, with his very life itself! It was not only to satisfy his sense of
duty at the promptings of honour that the journalist would take action:
he would have as guide for his acts, and to animate his will, the
passion of hate, and the hope of avenging his friend Juve, fallen a
victim to the mysterious blows of Fantomas.
* * * * *
In his article for _La Capitale_ Fandor did not directly mention the
possible participation of Fantomas in the crime of the rue Norvins. When
it was finished he returned to his modest little flat on the fifth floor
in the rue Bergere. He was about to enter the vestibule, when he noticed
a piece of paper, which must have been slipped under his door. He
stooped and picked up an envelope:
"Why, it is a letter--and there is no name and no stamp on it!"
Entering his study, he seated himself at his table and prepared to begin
work. Then he bethought him of the letter, which he had carelessly
thrown on the mantelpiece. He tore it open, and drew out a sheet of
letter paper.
"Whatever is this?" he cried. His astonishment was natural enough, for
the message was oddly put together. To prevent his handwriting being
recognised, Fandor's correspondent had cut letters out of a newspaper,
and had stuck them together in the desired order. The two or three lines
of printed matter were as follows:
"Jerome Fandor, pay attention, great attention! The affair on which
you are concentrating all your powers is worthy of all possible
interest, but may have terribly dangerous consequences."
Of course there was no signature.
Evidently the warning referred to the Dollon case.
"Why," exclaimed Fandor, "this is simply an invitation not to busy
myself hunting for the guilty persons!... Who has sent this invitation
and warning? Surely the sender is the assassin, to whose interest it is
that the inquiry into the rue Norvins murder should be dropped!... It
must be Jacques Dollon!... But how could Dollon know my address? How
could he have found time between his flight from the Depot and the
present minute, to put this message of printed letters together, and
take it to the rue Bergere?... And that at the risk of encountering
someone who could recognise him, and might have him arrested afresh? Had
he accomplices?"
Fandor was puzzled, agitated:
"But I am mad!... mad! It cannot be Dollon!... Dollon is dead--dead as a
door nail--dead beyond dispute, because fifty men have seen him dead;
dead, because the Depot doctors have certified his death!"
Daylight was fading; evening was coming on; Fandor was still turning the
whole affair over in his mind. Every now and again he murmured:
"Fantomas! Fantomas has to do with this extraordinary, this mysterious
affair! Fantomas is in it!... Fantomas!"
IV
A SURPRISING ITINERARY
Jerome Fandor had passed a bad night!
Visions of horror had continually arisen in his troubled mind. Between
nightmare after nightmare he had heard all the horrors of the night
sound out in the darkness and the glimmering dawn. Then he had fallen
into a heavy sleep, which had left him on awaking broken with fatigue.
He had given himself a cold douche, and this had calmed his nerves; then
he had dressed quickly. When eight o'clock struck he was at his
writing-table, thinking things over:
"It's no laughing matter. I thought at first that the Dollon affair was
quite ordinary; but I am mistaken. The warning I received last night
leaves me no doubts on that head. Since the guilty person thinks it
necessary to ask me to keep quiet, it is evident he fears my
intervention; if he is afraid of that it is because it must be hurtful
to him; if disastrous to him, a criminal, it is evident that it must be
useful to honest folk. My duty, then, is to go straight ahead at all
costs...."
There was another motive besides this of duty which incited him to
follow more closely the vicissitudes of the rue Norvins drama, a motive
still indefinite, vague, but nevertheless terribly strong....
Jerome Fandor had sworn to Elizabeth Dollon that he would get at the
truth.
He recalled the girl's entreaty, her emotion; and when he closed his
eyes, now and again, he seemed to see before him the tall, graceful,
fair and fascinating sister of the vanished artist.... All Fandor would
admit to himself was a chivalrous feeling towards her--Elizabeth Dollon
was worth putting himself out for--that was all!
Our journalist spent the entire morning seated at his writing-table, his
head between his hands, smoking cigarette after cigarette, arranging his
plans for investigating the Dollon case:
"What I have to find out is how the dead man left the Depot. It is the
first discovery to be made, the first impossibility to be
explained--yes, and how am I to set about it?"
Suddenly Fandor jumped up, marched rapidly up and down his room,
whistled a few bars of a popular melody, and in his exuberant gaiety
attempted an operatic air in a voice deplorably out of tune.
"There are eighty chances out of a hundred that I shall not succeed,"
cried he; "but that still leaves me twenty chances of arriving at a
satisfactory result--let us make the attempt!"
As Fandor was hurrying off, he called to the portress in passing:
"Madame Oudry, I don't know whether I shall be back this evening or no.
Perhaps I may have to leave Paris for awhile, so would you be kind
enough to pay particular attention to any letters that may come for
me--be very particular about them, please!"
Fandor went off. A thought struck him. He turned back. He had something
more to say to the good woman:
"I forgot to ask you whether anyone called to see me yesterday
afternoon!"
"No, Monsieur Fandor, no one!"
"Good! If by any chance a messenger should bring a letter for me, look
very carefully at him, Madame Oudry. I have a colleague or two who are
playing a joke on me, and I should not be sorry to get even with them!"
This time Fandor really went off, having set his portress on the alert.
In the rue Montmartre he hailed a cab:
"To the National Library! And as quick as you can!"
* * * * *
"By Jove! It's three o'clock! I've not a minute to lose!" cried Fandor
as he got back his stick from the cloak-room of the National Library: he
had handed it in there some hours ago. He entered the rue Richelieu. Now
for an ironmonger's shop! He caught sight of one and went in:
"I should like fifty yards of fine cord, please; very strong and very
pliable," said Fandor.
The shopkeeper stared at the smart young man:
"What do you want it for, sir?... I have various qualities."
Without the trace of a smile, and as if it were the most natural thing
in the world, he replied:
"It is for one of my friends: he wants to hang himself!"
A shout of laughter was the response to this witticism, and the amused
shopkeeper forthwith displayed various samples of cords. Fandor promptly
made his choice and left the shop.
"Now for a watchmaker's!" said our journalist. He entered a jeweller's
close by:
"I want an alarum clock--a small one--the cheapest you have!"
Provided with his alarum, Fandor looked at his watch again:
"Confound it all! It's half-past three!" he cried. He signalled to a
closed cab:
"To the Palais de Justice! As hard as you can lick!"
Directly Fandor was well inside the vehicle, he drew down the blinds;
took off his coat; unbuttoned his waistcoat!...
* * * * *
The great clock of the Palais de Justice had just struck four, and its
silvery tones were echoing harmoniously along the corridors when Jerome
Fandor entered the tradesman's gallery. He turned to the right, and
gained the little lobby in which the cloak-room is. He quietly entered
it. Barristers were coming and going, full of business, throwing off
their gowns, inspecting the letters put aside during the sittings of the
Courts. Fandor made his way among the groups with the ease of custom. He
seemed to be looking for someone, and finished by questioning one of the
women employed in the cloak-room:
"Is Madame Marguerite not here?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur, she is down below."
Madame Marguerite was an old friend of Fandor's. She was head of the
cloak-room staff, and by her kind offices she had often obtained an
interview for our journalist with one or other of the big-wigs of the
bar, who generally object strongly to being questioned by journalists.
When she appeared, Fandor told her he only wanted a little bit of
information from her.
"Oh, yes, I know all about that! There is someone you wish to see, and
you want me to manage it for you!"
"No! Not a bit of it! What I want to know is, where these gentlemen of
the Court of Justice robe and unrobe? I mean the Justices of the Assize
Courts!"
This seemed to astonish Madame Marguerite considerably:
"But, Monsieur Fandor, if you wish to interview one of the puisne
judges, it would be ten times quicker for you to go and see him at his
own home: here, at the Palais, it's almost certain he will refuse to
answer you...."
"Don't bother about that, Madame Marguerite! Just tell me where these
worthy guardians of order, defenders of right and justice, divest
themselves of their red robes?"
Madame Marguerite was too much accustomed to our young journalist's
ridiculous questions and absurd requests and remarks to argue with him
any longer.
"The robing-room of these gentlemen," said she, "is in one of the outer
offices of the court, near the Council Chamber."
"There is an assistant in that room, isn't there?"
"Yes, Monsieur Fandor."
"Ah! That is just what I wanted to know! Many thanks, madame," and
Fandor, grinning with satisfaction, made off in the direction of the
Court of Assizes. He ran up the steps leading to the Council Chamber,
and spying the messenger asked:
"Can President Guechand see me, do you think?"
"Monsieur le President has gone."
Fandor seemed to be reflecting. He gazed searchingly round the room. As
a matter of fact, he was verifying the correctness of Madame
Marguerite's information. All round the room Fandor saw the little
presses where the men of law kept their red robes. Yes, it was the
robing and unrobing room of the puisne judges, the magistrates, right
enough!
"So the President has gone? Ah, well ..." Fandor hesitated: he must
think of some other name. He noticed the visiting cards nailed to each
press, indicating the owner. He read one of the names and repeated it:
"Well, then, could Justice Hubert see me--could he possibly? Will you
ask him to let me see him for five minutes?"
"What name shall I say?"
"My name will not tell him anything. Please say it is with reference to
the--er--Peyru case--and I come from Maitre Tissot."
"I will go and see," said the messenger, moving off.
Whilst he was in sight Fandor walked up and down in the regulation way,
murmuring:
"Maitre Tissot!... The Peyru case!... Go ahead, my good fellow! You will
have a nice kind of reception down below there--with those made-up
names."
Some minutes later, the messenger returned to his post, prepared to
inform the importunate young man that he could not possibly be received
by Justice Hubert. He stopped short on the threshold: not a soul was to
be seen!
"Wherever has that young man got to? Taken himself off, most likely!...
I expect he was one of those lawyer's clerks--confound them! A nice fool
I should have looked if his Honour, Justice Hubert, had said he would
receive him!"
With this reflection the messenger went back to his newspaper, not
without having ascertained that it was four o'clock, and therefore he
had still an hour to wait before he could have his coffee and cigar at
the "Men of the Robe."
* * * * *
Through the great windows of the Court of Assizes, carefully closed as
they were, not a ray of moonlight filtered into the court room. And this
obscurity lent an added terror to a silence as profound as the grave, a
silence which, with the falling shades of night, assumed possession of
the vast hall, where so many criminals had listened to the fatal
sentence--the sentence of death.
* * * * *
When the Court had risen, the assistants had, as usual, proceeded to put
the place in order; then the police sergeant had made his rounds, and
had gone away, double locking the doors behind him. After this the
chamber had gradually sunk into complete repose: a repose which would be
broken the following morning when the bustling routine of the legal day
commenced once more.
Little by little, too, the many and varied noises, which had echoed and
re-echoed the whole day through in the galleries of the Palais de
Justice, had died down, and sunk into silence.
The custodians had made their last round; the barristers had quitted the
robing-room; the poor wretches who had slunk in to warm themselves at
the heating apparatus in the halls had shuffled back to the cold
street, and the whistling blasts of the north wind. The immense pile was
entirely deserted.
A clock began to strike.
Then, hardly had the last stroke of eleven sounded, awakening the echoes
of the empty galleries, than in the Court of Assizes itself, under the
monumental desk, before which the justices sat in state by day, a noise
made itself heard, long, strident, nerve-racking--the noise of an alarum
clock!
Just as the alarum ceased its raucous call, a loud yawn resounded
through the empty spaces of the chamber. The sleeper, who had selected
this spot that he might indulge, all undisturbed, in a revivifying
sleep, evidently took no pains to smother the sound of his voice, for,
after yawning enough to dislocate his jaws, he uttered a loud: "Ah!" He
accompanied his yawns with exclamations:
"It's a fact, the Republic doesn't do things up to the scratch! The rugs
here are of poor quality!... I'm aching all over!... The floor is strewn
with peach kernels--surely?... At any rate, it's a quiet hotel, and one
is not disturbed--a truly delectable refuge to have a jolly good snore
in!"
The sleeper sat up:
"What's the time exactly? Let us have a light on it!" A match was
struck, and a tiny flare of light shone from under the desk of the
presiding judge:
"Ten past eleven! I've still five minutes to be lazy in--and I shall
need all of it, for I've a rough night before me! I can rest awhile, and
think things over!"
The speaker calmly lay down again, trying to find a comfortable position
on what he christened mentally: "The administrative peach kernels":
"Let me see, now!" he went on aloud. "At five in the afternoon it was
known that Jacques Dollon had committed suicide; was probably innocent,
and that his corpse had disappeared. Yesterday, at half-past five, _La
Capitale_ announced that he had a very pretty sister.... To-night at
ten past eleven behold me, shut up quite alone in the Palais de Justice,
free to proceed to the little investigation I think of making.... Jerome
Fandor, my dear friend, I congratulate you! You have not managed
badly!...
"Yes," went on our journalist, "what a joke it is! Here have I got
myself shut up in the Palais without the slightest difficulty! It is
true, that if the assistant had been obliged to open, and verify, the
contents of all the robing-rooms of all the judges, he would never have
finished. As for me, in my cupboard, I followed all the good fellow's
movements, and he never suspected my presence. If I am to be
congratulated, he cannot be blamed for it! There I was, there I
remained, and now I must be off!"
Fandor drew a small wax taper from his pocket and lighted it with a
match.
"What's to be done with the alarum?" he went on. "To leave it will be to
betray my having passed this way--what of it?... In any case, even if
this reporting job fails, I shall make a story out of it ... and how can
they accuse me of stealing if I leave my cloak as a gift for his
judgeship!"
Laughing, Fandor piled up the law books lying on the desk, and placed
the alarum on the top; that done, he went to the principal entrance, the
only one with double doors. He seized the heavy iron bar placed across
the door and worked it loose. He drew the two leaves of the door towards
him; and, although it had been locked as usual, he effected his escape,
after a considerable trial of strength.
Out on the stairs, lighted taper in hand, the laughing Fandor closed the
two leaves of the door with the utmost care, and went forward whistling
a marching tune. His objective was a certain little staircase leading to
the top story of the Palais, and this he mounted with vigorous
determination. There was no likelihood of chance encounters, for there
was not a soul in the vast building: the police were making their rounds
outside it. Our adventurous journalist did not make his way upwards with
stealthy tread--there was no need for that. Having gained the top floor,
he went straight to a corner where an ebony ladder was ensconced, a
ladder which had long been the joy and pride of the grand master of this
part of the Palais, the amiable Monsieur Peter.
"Pretty heavy!" grumbled Fandor, as he carried it upwards. Under the
roof he caught sight of a skylight, rested his ebony ladder against it,
and climbed briskly on to the roof.
From thence Fandor had a view that was fairy-like. Spread out in the
distance were the sparkling lights of Paris. He was divided from them by
the vast mass of roofs about him, by a gulf of empty space, and beyond,
by a dark blur--the two arms of the Seine flowing on either side of the
Palais de Justice.... The mysterious darkness! The fascination of the
sparkling points of light!... Fandor gave himself a mental shake....
This was no moment for dreaming under the stars!
From his pocket he took a tiny, folding dark lantern; from his
pocket-book he drew a paper, which he spread out and proceeded to study.
As he bent over it, he murmured:
"A bit of good luck that I was able to get hold of a complete and
detailed plan of the Palais de Justice! Without it I never could have
found my way among these roofs!"
He examined the plan for some minutes; made a note of various landmarks;
then refolding it, he gained one of the sloping roofs facing the quay of
the Leather Dressers:
"Now," thought Fandor, "I must be just above the Depot! And now to find
out how Jacques Dollon, dead or living, has got out of the Depot! No use
thinking of a window, for the cell has not got one! Fuselier has reason
on his side when he declares that you do not get out of the cells of the
Depot, nor out of the Palais!... Well, now--to carry off Dollon, dead
or living, by way of the Palais Square, or by the boulevard, is out of
the question: there are too many people about!... To carry him off by
one of the exits, on to either of the quays, is equally out of the
question: there are the sentries, in the first place, and then comes the
Seine--then Jacques Dollon has left the Depot, or he has not, or, at any
rate, he is still somewhere in the Palais--unless ..."
Fandor interrupted his cogitations to light a cigarette: smoking helped
him to think things out:
"It is equally certain that if Dollon is still in the Palais, he cannot
be in the Depot, for the Depot has been rigorously searched since his
disappearance, and he would most certainly have been found, had he been
anywhere about the Depot. It is also certain that he is not inside the
Palais, because the only means of communication between the Depot and
the Palais is a single staircase, and it is certain that a corpse could
not have been taken that way unperceived.... Then it follows that
Jacques Dollon must have got out by the only ways which are in
communication with the Depot: that is to say, the drains and the
chimneys!"
"How could he have got out, or been got out by the drains? As far as I
know, there is no system of pipes large enough to allow of the passage
of a man through the pipes which join the main sewers; but, as a set-off
to that, there is a chimney--the ancient chimney of Marie
Antoinette--which communicates with the Depot, and the roof I am now on:
it must have been by this chimney that the escape was made! Let us see
whether this is so or not!"
By the light of his tiny dark lantern Fandor studied afresh the plan of
the Palais, and tried to identify the various chimneys about him. He
soon picked out the orifice of Marie Antoinette's chimney. After a
considering glance at it, he remarked:
"That's odd! Here is the only chimney whose opening is below the ledge
of the roofs! It is certain that unless one had been warned, and had
examined this roof from some neighbouring building, the orifice of this
chimney would not be noticed. If Jacques Dollon passed out by it, no one
would notice his exit!"
Our journalist continued his examination, full of excitement. Surely he
was on the right track!
"Ah! Ah! Here are stones freshly scraped and scratched!" he cried
delightedly. "And this white mark is just the kind of mark which would
be made by a cord scraping against the wall! And look what a size this
chimney is! It's not only one Jacques Dollon who could pass out by it,
but two! But three! A whole army! Ah, ha, I believe I am on the right
track! Now for it!"
Fandor bent over and looked down the interior of the chimney; and, at
the risk of toppling over, he managed to reach something he saw shining
in the darkness of the opening; he drew himself up, radiant:
"By Jove! There are irons fixed in the walls of the chimney to climb up
and down by; and, what is more, they bear traces of a recent
passage--the rust has been rubbed off here and there!... Yes, it is by
this way Dollon has come out!... To whom else could it be an advantage
to use this as an exit from the interior of the Palais, on to the
roofs?"
Fandor was keen on the scent! Here, indeed, was matter for an article
which would bring him into notice--good business for a journalist!
"If Dollon had been alive," reflected Fandor, "it is evident that, once
on the roofs, he had a choice of three ways to escape: he could do what
I have just done, but the other way about; he could break a skylight,
jump into a garret, and lie hidden under the tiles, awaiting the
propitious moment when he could gain the corridors below and, mingling
with the crowd, slip unobserved into the street; or, he could hide among
the roofs, and stay there; or, he could search for an opening--one of
those air holes which put the cellars and drains in communication with
the exterior.... But I have come to the conclusion that Dollon is dead!
Then his corpse could only remain up here; or, it has been put down into
some place where nobody goes. The garrets of the Palais are so
incessantly visited by the clerks and registrars that no corpse could
remain undiscovered in any of them. Therefore, either Jacques Dollon's
corpse is somewhere on the roofs of the Palais, or there is some sort of
communication between the roofs and the drains--it is obvious!"
Evidently the next step was to search every hole and corner of these
same roofs. Armed with revolver and lantern, Fandor started on his tour
of investigation; but prudently, for he was now almost certain that
there were a number of accomplices involved in this Dollon affair.
To go carefully over the enormous roof of the Palais de Justice was no
light task! One has only to consider the immensity of this monumental
pile, its complicated architecture, the numberless little courts
enclosed within its vast confines, to understand the difficulties with
which our intrepid journalist had to contend. But Jerome Fandor was not
the man to be discouraged in the face of difficulties: he was determined
to brave them--conquer them! He examined, minutely, the entire roofing
of the Palais; he did not leave a corner or a morsel of shadow
unexplored; there was not a gutter which he had not searched from end to
end. When, after two hours of strenuous exertion, he returned to his
starting-point, the chimney of Marie Antoinette, he was fain to confess
that if Jacques Dollon had mounted to the roof of the Palais de Justice
he certainly had not remained there.
Fandor unfolded his plan once more. It fluttered in the night breeze, as
he carefully numbered all the chimneys opening on to this roof; then,
one by one, he identified them with the real chimneys before his eyes.
He exclaimed joyfully:
"There, now! It's just what I suspected!"
He had discovered there was one chimney not down on the plan: "Whither
did it lead?" At all costs he must find out--make sure. He hastened to
this extra chimney. Its orifice was large enough to allow of the passage
of a man; also, here again, stones had been recently loosened, and a
rope had rubbed against them:
"What the deuce is this chimney?" thought Fandor. "Another mystery! This
chimney is not a chimney; there is not a trace of soot on it, even old
soot!"
After a moment's reflection, he added: