of the Salad Basket what street they were passing along.
"Smooth going ... evidently we are still in the rue de la Pompe, so I
have about a quarter of an hour more of it!"
Fandor examined the tiny cell in which he had been imprisoned of his own
free will.
"Not much to be said for it!" ran his thoughts. "There is scarcely room
to sit ... impossible to stand up or turn around ... nearly dark ... and
precious little air comes in through those wooden shutters!... I
shouldn't think there ever had been an escape from these vans!..."
Fandor smiled broadly.
"Even if I don't succeed, it is worth while making the attempt!... But I
shall succeed--see if I don't!... I settled it in my mind that I was to
leave the cells after this costermonger: he is in front of me, therefore
the cell behind me is empty. It will be deucedly queer if, at Auteuil
police station, they don't put that confounded Jules in it, whom I
intend to interview under the nose of the police!... I shall start
talking to him by tapping on the partition in prisoner's language. The
fellow is pretty sure to be an old offender, so he will know the
system.... If he doesn't, when we get to the Depot, I will push up to
him somehow and get a few words with him.... If the Depot is full, we
shall be stuck into the common cell until morning.... So, I take it as
certain that my interview with this true and faithful servant will come
off, and I shall get to know a good deal about the mystery!..."
As an afterthought, it occurred to Fandor that probably there had never
been such a light-hearted occupant of this cell as he....
"Ah, that's the sound of the trams!... One jolt! Two jolts! Good!... The
rails!... We are crossing rue Mozart! We are going faster--in five
minutes we shall be at the Auteuil police station, and there we can
start our little operations!"
There was one thing that attracted Fandor's attention, which was keenly
on the alert. There was a violent jolt, and he had a distinct impression
that the vehicle turned to the right.
"Why, where the deuce are they taking us?" Fandor asked himself. "To the
boulevard Exelmans station?... We had not reached the end of the rue
Mozart, surely!... Where did we turn then? Rue du Ranelagh?... No, there
is a channel stone at the entrance, and I should have felt it!... Rue de
l'Assomption!... Again no. The roadway is up: I should be knocked about
more than this on my wooden seat. We are going over a perfectly kept
road, which cannot have much traffic!... Why, of course, it is rue du
Docteur-Blanche!... Isn't rue Mozart barred at the end? Yes. The driver
must be going round by the boulevard Montmorency.... Ah, well! I am in
no hurry! There will be time enough for me to pay my respects to the
illustrious Jules!"
Just as Fandor was thus congratulating himself, he was thrown against
the side of his cell! The van seemed to have come into violent collision
with some object and had tilted over to a considerable extent.
Muffled oaths came from neighbouring cells; a stifled exclamation
reached Fandor's ears; then louder still, came the intermittent humming
and snorting of a motor-car.
"Confound you!... can't you pay attention to where you are going?...
Keep to your right!"
Slightly stunned, Fandor heard some one knocking.
A voice asked:
"Are you hurt?"
"No, but ..."
Already the questioner had moved away.
"Evidently," thought Fandor, "the driver wants to know whether his human
packages are damaged or not! We have collided with another vehicle!...
Cheerful!"
Fandor's cell was now at such an angle that he could only suppose that
the Salad Basket had had one of its wheels broken.
"What a nuisance!" he murmured. "Before they have finished their palaver
as to how the accident happened and have repaired the damage, we shall
have been here a full half-hour.... Jules will be in a temper!"
Minute succeeded minute, long, interminable minutes, and Fandor could
not hear clearly what was said, what was being done to put the Salad
Basket on its legs again.... The atmosphere in the little cell was
becoming intolerable; for the movement of the vehicle had driven fresh
air inside the shutter, and now that the Salad Basket was stationary,
the air was becoming almost unbreathable.
Fandor's nerves were on edge.
"It cannot be that they are going to leave us stranded here!" thought
he.... "Ah, now they have started repairs!" Fandor noticed that his cell
was gradually regaining its ordinary level.... A lifting-jack must have
been slipped under the vehicle, for there was a melancholy creaking
sound. They must be putting the wheel on again!...
"No," thought Fandor, after some time had passed. "Never would I have
supposed that it could have taken so much time to repair a Salad
Basket!... Why we shall soon have been stuck here for two mortal
hours!... I hope it won't make any difference to our going to the Depot,
nor stop my getting into close touch with that villain Jules!"
There was a further period of waiting. Then our exasperated journalist
heard the driver pass down the centre of the van. The van door
slammed.... Once more the Salad Basket was loosed from its moorings.
"Something queer is going on!" said Fandor suddenly. He felt certain the
van had turned completely round and was going in the direction it came
from.
"Now where in the world are we going?... By what kind of a route are we
making for that blessed police station?"
There were spaces of asphalt, succeeded by wood pavement, then by hard
stones, then asphalt and wood again, and turning succeeded turning,
whilst a new Tom Thumb was doing his possible to guess the route the
Salad Basket was taking. Presently Fandor gave it up. He had to admit
that he was completely lost.... Which way the Salad Basket was going he
knew no more than the Man in the Moon!
"We have been trotting along for more than half an hour; therefore we
cannot be going to the boulevard Exelmans police station ... the
distance from the rue du Docteur-Blanche to the Point-du-Jour is not
great...."
As Fandor was murmuring these words, the van slowed down, turned round;
then, with a bump and a jolt, it mounted the footpath.
"Now for it," said Fandor. "This is certainly not the Point-du-Jour
station!... We are passing under an archway--now we are turning
again.... Ah, we draw up, at last!... Not too soon!"
The van did stop.
Again a wait. Fandor cocked both ears; he wondered who was going to
enter the cell next his. Then a man approached the door of his little
cell, where he was indeed "cribbed, cabined and confined"; inserted a
key in the lock, opened, and shouted in a brutal tone:
"Out with you!... March! Quick now!"
Fandor had no choice but to obey the orders hurled at him. But no sooner
had he descended the steps of the prison van than he exclaimed:
"By Jove! The Depot!"
This was not the moment to express all the surprise he felt at being
landed at Police Headquarters in this fashion.... All round the Salad
Basket the police were ranged in irregular order. They shouted to him to
be quick.
"Come on with you! Hurry there!"
Fandor, followed by the costermonger, was pushed towards a little open
door in the grey wall which led into a kind of office, where an old
frowning man was already looking through the papers, which had been
respectfully handed to him by a warder.
"So you have brought only two of the birds?" remarked the frowning
official.
"Yes, superintendent."
"Good, that will do!..."
Turning to the warders, the frowning little superintendent ordered:
"Take them away!... Cell 14.... Useless to rouse the whole place!"
Once more the warders pushed Fandor before them, as well as the poor
costermonger: they were driven into a dark corridor on to which a row of
cells opened.
The head warder opened a door.
"In with you, my merry men! You will be put through your paces
to-morrow!"
As the door fell to with a resounding clang, Jerome had inspected the
place by the light of a lantern.
"Empty!... No luck!... My plan has been spoiled: I shall not be able to
interview Jules!"
Philosophically, Jerome Fandor was preparing to go to sleep on the plank
bed which decorated one end of the cell, when the little costermonger,
roused from his torpid condition, began to moan and groan.
"Oh, what a misfortune!... To think I am innocent! Innocent as an unborn
babe!... What's to be done!... Oh, what's to be done!"
The last thing Fandor wished to do was to start a conversation with his
lamenting companion. He tapped the costermonger on the shoulder.
"Good Heavens, man, the best thing you can do is to go to sleep! Take my
word for it!"
Without puzzling his brains any further over the enigmas he wished to
get to the bottom of, Fandor stretched himself on his plank bed, and was
soon sleeping the sleep of the innocent.
* * * * *
Monsieur Fuselier looked perplexed.
"You, Fandor! You arrested!... But am I going mad?"
Our journalist had been taken from his cell at eight in the morning, and
had been conducted to the office of the Public Prosecutor. Here, the
acting magistrate, in conformity with the law, wished to put him through
the examination which would establish his identity. All arrested persons
have to submit to this interrogation within twenty-four hours of their
arrival at the Depot.
Jerome Fandor had given his name at once, and, in order to prove the
truth of his statements, he had asked that Monsieur Fuselier should be
sent for, so that the magistrate might vouch for his identity and say a
word in his favour.
Monsieur Fuselier had hastened to the Depot, had taken Fandor to his
office, and had anxiously questioned him. Why, he asked, had the police
been obliged to arrest him for drunkenness in the open thoroughfare?
When Fandor had concluded his statement, the magistrate exclaimed:
"Your ruse is inconceivable!... I must compliment you highly on your
ability and your detective gifts!"
"I wish I could agree with you," replied Fandor in a depressed tone. "In
spite of everything, I have not got into communication with Jules. But,
Monsieur Fuselier, have you interrogated him yet?"
The magistrate shook his head.
"Alas, my poor friend, you have no idea of the extraordinary events of
the past night; evidently, notwithstanding the fact that you played a
passive part in them!"
"I played a part?... Extraordinary events?... What the deuce do you
mean?"
"I mean, dear Fandor, that all Paris is laughing over it. The police
have been tricked! You have been tricked! Did you not tell me, just now,
that your prison van had had an accident? Do you know what really
happened?"
"I ask you to tell me."
"Your vehicle was run into by a motor-car. The driver was extremely
clumsy ... or very capable!"
"What's that?" Fandor leaned forward, keen as a pointer on the scent.
"It was like this," replied Monsieur Fuselier. "Your Salad Basket was
very badly knocked about by the collision. The driver could not possibly
repair it single-handed. He telephoned to Headquarters. Help was sent at
once, and he had orders to drive to the Depot as soon as he could: he
was not to trouble about the boulevard Exelmans station; that, for once,
could be cleared the following morning. Unfortunately the telephone
messages and replies had taken up a certain amount of time. When they
telephoned to the boulevard Exelmans station, from Headquarters, to warn
them not to expect the injured Salad Basket, the Depot man who was
telephoning was extremely surprised to hear that the Salad Basket had
already passed on to the Auteuil station and had taken away the arrested
individuals there, notably this famous Jules!..."
"I never calculated on this!" cried Fandor.
"The truth is, my dear fellow, that Salad Basket of yours was not
knocked out of action by an unlucky accident--the knock-out was
intentional--was carefully planned! It was done to stop your van from
reaching the Auteuil station!... While your Basket was being repaired,
another Basket appeared at the Auteuil clearing station! This, if you
please, had been stolen! It was standing before the Palais de Justice.
Two accomplices took possession of it and drove away. The daring rascals
were suitably disguised, of course! They produced false papers at
Auteuil, got them endorsed, went through the regular forms, and carried
off the men from the detention cells, under the very nose and eyes of
the superintendent himself!"
"What became of the stolen Basket?" snapped Fandor.
"It was found at dawn near the fortifications, and, need I say--empty!"
"So that Jules has escaped?"
"As you say!..."
"And the car which intentionally knocked my Salad Basket out of
action--whose was it?"
Monsieur Fuselier smiled.
"Oh, it's a queer affair, in fact, it may lead to the wind-up of all the
Dollon business--we may now get to the bottom of that series of
crimes!... You will never guess who is the owner of that car,
Fandor?..."
"No, I am no good at guessing riddles just now ... besides, I hate
them!" Fandor was nettled, exasperated!
"We got the number of the car from a witness of the smash-up; and we
have verified its correctness. Well, my dear fellow, the owner of that
car is--Thomery!"
"Thomery!" gasped Fandor.
"Yes. I have summoned him to appear before me--the summons has just been
issued. Between you and me, I think Thomery is guilty. When he appears
here, in, say an hour from now, I shall issue a writ of arrest against
this sugar refiner financier, and we don't know what else!"
But, no sooner had Monsieur Fuselier finished his statement--a statement
which he fully expected would strike his young reporter friend dumb with
amazement--than Fandor threw himself back in his chair and roared with
laughter.
The magistrate was taken aback!...
"But ... what the devil do you find to laugh at in that?"
Fandor had already checked his hilarity.
"Oh, it's nothing! Only, Fuselier, I ask myself, if really and truly,
Monsieur Thomery, who is a very big fellow solidly built, has been able
to discover a dodge, by means of which he can leave Jacques Dollon's
imprints here, there and everywhere!"
"But he does not leave Jacques Dollon's imprints, because Dollon is
living, because he came to see his sister--why, you admitted that
yourself!"
"Why, of course! It's true!... Jacques Dollon is alive.... I had
forgotten.... Thomery can only be his accomplice then!" declared Fandor.
And as Monsieur Fuselier stared at him, astonished at the way he had
received the sensational news of the night, Fandor rose to take his
leave.
"My dear Fuselier, will you allow me to express my opinion?..."
Monsieur Fuselier nodded.
"Well, I am sure, that with regard to this affair, there are more
surprises in store for us: you have not got the answer to the
riddle--not yet!"
With that, Fandor smiled and bowed, and left the magistrate's room. He
quitted the Palais, half-smiling, half-serious.... What was he going to
do next?
XXII
AN EXECUTION
"Not much water about, is there?"
"That's so, old 'un.... If I'd known, it's boats I'd have taken to!"
"Bah! Your shoes are big enough. That's not saying it's weather for a
Christian to be out in!"
"Don't you grumble, old 'un! The more it comes down cats and dogs, the
fewer stumps will be stirring out doors!... But a comrade or two will be
on the prowl, eh?"
"Right-o, old bird!... Keep a lookout!... Sure he'll come this way?"
"You bet your nut he will!... He got my bit of a scrawl this
morning...."
"What then?"
"Shut up! Shut up! Folks coming!"
* * * * *
The night was inky black. Rain fell with sudden violence, threshed and
driven by icy gusts of wind. The hour was late: the rue Raffet deserted
save for the two men who had ventured out into the tempestuous darkness.
They advanced with difficulty, side by side, speaking low. Rough
customers to deal with. Their faces were emaciated from excessive
drinking: their eyes gleamed, their voices were hoarse: a brutal pair!
But their movements were souple and lively: they walked with that
ungainly swagger affected by the light-fingered gentry and the criminals
of the underworld of Paris.
"And what did you say in your scrawl?"
"Oh, medlars! Take-ins! You know!... I didn't put my fist to it,
though!"
"Who then?"
"You ask that?"
"I'm no wizard! If it wasn't your fist, whose then?"
"My woman...."
"Ernestine?"
"Yes. Ernestine."
They struggled on through the squally darkness. Then one of the two
broke the silence.
"You're not jealous, Beadle, making your girl write letters to such
folk?"
That sinister hooligan, the Beadle, burst out laughing.
"Jealous? Me? Jealous of Ernestine? You make me laugh, you really do,
old Beard!"
But Beard did not share his companion's mirth. He leaned against a
palisade to take breath, while a little sheltered from the fierce
onslaughts of the wind.
"I tell you what," he said in a gruff and threatening voice: "I don't
like such dodges--like those of this evening...."
"Why so, monsieur?"
"Why, because, after all, it's a comrade!"
"But he's betrayed--a traitor he is!"
"What do we know about it?"
The Beadle nodded; reflected.
"What does anyone know about it?" he said at last....
"Why, when the comrades told us, weren't they surprised, one and all?
Nibet, Toulouche, even Mimile--they didn't hesitate, not one of them!...
Well then, old 'un, as all the pals were of one mind, why hesitate?
What's the use of discussing!... but, between you and me, I don't relish
it either--it bothers me to go for a pal!..."
Just then the tempest redoubled its fury: it seemed to the cowering men
as though all the devils of the storm were galloping down the wind.
Somewhere there was a moon, for scurrying clouds were dancing a witches'
saraband across a faintly clearer sky. The unseen moon was mastering the
obscurity of this midnight hour.
By now, the two sinister beings were nearing the rue du Docteur-Blanche.
They were passing a garden, in which tall poplars, caught by the squall,
took fantastic shapes: they were nightmare trees, terrifyingly strange.
"No more to be said," remarked the Beadle. "The scene is set!... Where
is the meeting place?"
"A hundred yards from there--a little before the corner of the boulevard
Montmorency...."
"Good! And the trap?"
"It waits for us a little further off."
"Who's aboard it?"
"Mimile."
"That's good."
The two men were now half-way along rue Raffet. The watch had begun.
Gripped by the cold they waited in silence.... The minutes passed
slowly, slowly, in the deserted street ... The Beard put his hand on the
Beadle's shoulder.... A vague sound could be heard in the distance: the
steps could be distinguished; some pedestrian was coming up the rue
Raffet in their direction.
"It is he!" whispered the Beadle.
"It is he!" affirmed the Beard. "He's not oversteady on his feet!"
"Perhaps he's ill shod!"
The two spoke low and in a jesting tone: it relieved the painful tension
of the moment--a comrade was marching to meet his death, and theirs the
hands to deal that death--but not yet: it was a reaction against their
sense of the looming tragedy of this dark hour!
Now a man's advancing figure could be discerned. He came nearer. He was
plainly, by the cut of his garments, an indoor servant. The collar of
his coat was turned up: he had his hands in his pockets: he walked fast.
"Hey! You down there! The gang!" cried the Beard, hailing the oncoming
figure.
"Ah, it's you?"
"Yes, it's me, comrade."
"And you too, Beadle?"
"As you say...."
"What do you want of me? Since my arrest and escape from the Salad
Basket, I'm not anxious to stroll about this neighbourhood--out with
it!"
The Beard said in a joking tone:
"You don't suspect, then? Speak out, Jules!..."
Jules--for it was indeed he--shook his head.
"My word, I have no idea what you want!... Who wrote to me this morning?
Ernestine?"
Neither the Beadle nor Beard replied.
The three men stood talking in the deserted street, bending their heads
and backs under the rain, which was now pouring harder than ever.
"Come on then! Make haste!" said Jules. "Come now, tell me what's the
point--what's up--spit it out, comrades!... I don't want to be soaked to
the skin, you know!"
The Beadle forced the pace: he lifted his great hairy sinewy hand,
brought it down heavily on Jules' shoulder, and in a changed voice,
harsh, rough, imperative, he commanded:
"You must follow us!" Already he had his man fast. The unsuspicious
Jules did not grasp the situation in the least.
"Follow you?" he asked. "As to that, certainly not!... No more walking
for me in such weather. Wait for a sunny day, say I!... But whatever is
the matter with you--eh?... What?... Why are you sticking out your jaws
at me like this? Out with it, my lambs!... Where am I to follow you?...
You won't say, Messieurs Beadle and Beard?
"You won't say?..."
Beard moved a step and got behind Jules unnoticed. He repeated in the
same tone, harsh, threatening:
"You've got to follow us, I tell you!"
Instinctively Jules tried to turn round. The Beadle's strong grip kept
him motionless. Then he understood. He was afraid.
"What's come to you?" he cried in a trembling voice.
The Beadle cut him short.
"Enough! Will you follow us? Yes or no?"
Jules was going to say "no!" but he had not the time! Quick as lightning
the Beadle flung a long scarf round his neck, stuck his knee into his
victim's back, and pulled!
Jules uttered a faint groan; but, half stifled, nearly strangled, he had
not the strength to attempt the slightest self-defence.
Directly he was flung backwards on the ground, where he measured his
length and lay nearly stunned, Beard jumped on him, knelt on his chest,
and pinioned him. Jules lay motionless.
The Beard now began tying up the legs of their victim.
"Pass me a scarf!"
"There it is, old 'un!"
"Very good, I am going to apply a 'Be Discreet.'"
The "Be Discreet" of the Beard was a gag, which he rolled round the
servant's head in expert fashion.
"Feet firm?" asked the Beard.
"Oh, jolly fine!" said the Beadle. He turned his man over as though he
were a bale of goods. Now he tied his victim's hands behind his back.
"Is it far to go to the jaunting car?"
"No--for two sous, that's it!"
A motor-car was indeed coming slowly and noiselessly along rue Raffet:
it was a sumptuous car!
"And if it is not he?"
"Stick him up against the bank ... dark as it is, there's every chance
he won't be seen."
Rapidly, the doughty two stuck Jules against the bank at the side of the
road: the unfortunate creature had fainted. Then they took out their
cigarettes, and going a few steps away, they pretended to be sheltering
themselves in order to strike a light.
They need not have taken this precaution.
The car stopped in front of them. The familiar voice of Mimile was
heard:
"Got the rabbit then?"
"Yes, old 'un!"
"Pitch it into the balloon then!"
"The balloon?" questioned the Beadle. "Whatever's that?"
Emilet laughed.
"At times, my brothers, your ignorance, mechanically speaking, is
crass!... The balloon is the back part of my car, I'd have you know."
The Beard sniggered.
"Good!... Pick it up! Now, Beadle!"
The two seized the body of Jules by shoulders and feet, and flung it
brutally into the limousine.
A rug, negligently flung over the body of the trussed Jules, hid him
from observation.
"Now we'll embark," announced Emilet.
As a precaution, the young hooligan asked:
"The bloke snores?"
"Yes," replied the Beadle. "He is travelling in No Nightmare Land...."
The Beadle laughed.
But Emilet was alarmed.
"You haven't snuffed him out, have you?"
"No danger of it! He's only shamming!"
"Off, then!" said Emilet.
They rolled away at top speed.
* * * * *
The bandits' lair had been well chosen by their chiefs. It was a vast
cellar, with a vaulted roof, and earthen walls bedewed with an icy
humidity. Axes, mattocks, shovels, rakes, and watering cans lay
scattered on the ground: these were worn out tools: they had not served
their purpose for many a day.
The lantern, a kind of cresset protected by a wire globe, was suspended
from the roof by a string. It shed a faint and wavering light, creating
weird shadows in that far-stretching space, too vast for the
insufficient illumination.
Directly beneath the cresset lantern, inside the circle of light it
threw upon the ground, a fantastic group of human creatures pressed
close to one another, drinking, shouting, chattering, singing.
A clean-shaven man, whose suspicious little eyes were perpetually
blinking, turned to a young woman.