FANTÔMAS’ ULTIMATUM
“Long live the Minister of Justice! Bravo, Ferrand! bravo! bravo!”
These and the like cordial acclamations were still echoing in Désiré
Ferrand’s ears as the Minister, in his elegant livery brougham,
returned calmly and peaceably to the Place Vendôme about one o’clock
in the morning, accompanied only by his Parliamentary Secretary,
the Conseiller Navarret. Ferrand was on his way back from the grand
amphitheatre of the Sorbonne, where he had presided over an associated
meeting of the students in law.
Désiré Ferrand was a man of boundless ambition. A General Practitioner
in the provinces, and in no way interested in the science he practised,
he had found himself from earliest manhood attracted, fascinated by the
allurements and difficulties of politics. His profession as a doctor,
a profession he exercised with a calculated generosity, provided
admirable opportunities for winning the suffrages of his fellow
citizens. At thirty-four he had been elected Deputy.
Eighteen months later, having attracted the favourable notice of the
Chamber by his wise common sense, and the maturity of his views, he
was invited by Monnier to join his Cabinet in the position of an Under
Secretary of State; then, in course of time, as resignations or deaths
opened the way, Ferrand secured the portfolio of the Minister of
Justice, the highest functionary after the President of the Council!
From that moment, his career was one series of triumphs. So far from
throwing him back, the extraordinary adventure of a few days before had
actually added to his popularity. Henceforth he felt persuaded he had
only to steer his bark adroitly to arrive at the very highest honours
the country could bestow.
On reaching his rooms, the young Minister cast a weary, worried look
at the heap of documents, whose contents he must master. Smiling to
himself: “All that stuff,” he said, “is marked ‘urgent,’ and for
several days now a whole pile of these documents has been lying here
that I’ve not even looked at. I wonder what really happens in a
Ministry to matters that are _not_ ‘urgent’?”
Thereupon the Minister set feverishly to work at the task of sorting
the voluminous correspondence heaped up in front of him. Two or three
times his brow contracted, he made a gesture of exasperation:
“Again!” he groaned, “again! it is really abominable!”
From time to time, in fact, lurking among letters and papers, hidden
under bundles of documents, Désiré Ferrand kept coming upon a little
memorandum, identical in every instance, but repeated in quite a number
of copies. It was headed: _The Million._ Its text, which never varied,
was a discreetly worded and anonymous reminder of the claim, rather
say the order, formulated by the person calling himself Fantômas, who
called upon the Chamber to pay the ransom fixed by himself.
The fourth time this happened, the Minister banged his fist heavily
on the table: “It is past endurance,” he vociferated; “if one of my
_attachés_ has ventured on this pleasantry, the first thing I do
to-morrow will be to show my gentleman the door.”
But it was getting very late; to snatch a few hours’ sleep was
imperative. Within a few minutes, Ferrand had put out the light and
gone to bed. With closed eyes, he was trying to get to sleep, when,
just as the pleasant drowsiness that precedes slumber was creeping over
him, the Minister sprang half up in bed, listening intently.
He had heard footsteps. Then he leapt to the floor, convinced someone
was coming into the room, though he knew he was alone, that he must be
alone, in his private suite! Too much alone, perhaps, he thought, as he
remembered that at night the Ministry was entirely deserted and that
his man slept in a separate building a long way off. “Perhaps I have
been unwise,” he reflected, but his reflections were suddenly cut short.
Just as Ferrand, alarmed by the noise he had heard, was making
instinctively for the electric switch at the other end of the room, the
light suddenly flashed out, dazzling his eyes, grown accustomed to
the dark. Someone with the same intention as himself, but with greater
quickness, had anticipated him.
Désiré Ferrand gave a cry of terror. A few yards away, a masked man
stood confronting him, a grim, appalling figure. He was wrapped in a
black cloak, and carried a cudgel in his hand.
“The man of last week—my assailant!” ejaculated the Minister, turning
pale.
Yes, before him stood the redoubtable outlaw, who, a week before, had,
with the help of mysterious confederates, laid hands on the Minister of
Justice, had kept him secluded from his fellow men, and only restored
him to liberty conditionally, delivering, in a letter addressed to the
President of the Council, an ultimatum couched in threatening language.
Désiré Ferrand waved a hand ordering the intruder to leave the room,
but the latter strode forward unheeding.
“Désiré Ferrand,” he proclaimed, “the hour is come to obey me, you must
decide ... you have five seconds.”
The unhappy Minister recoiled, utterly confounded; unarmed, barefooted,
in night attire, he felt himself at a manifest disadvantage in face of
the scoundrel confronting him.
But Désiré Ferrand was no coward. Reckoning up his chances of escape,
he put between himself and his antagonist the great desk littered with
endless documents, and again repeated his order:
“Go,” he reiterated, “go!... I will have you arrested.”
But the man in black broke into a sardonic laugh:
“Fantômas does not take orders,” he asseverated, “it is for Fantômas
to issue commands. For the last time, I repeat that I demand a million
francs; give it me!”
“But,” protested Ferrand, “where do you expect me to get the money
from? It is odious, abominable, your effrontery is unparalleled!”
“Unparalleled is the word, sir; Fantômas has no equal—only despicable
imitators.”
The Minister resumed:
“Neither Government nor Ministers will ever consent to obey you;
_I_ will never consent. Why, then,” he added gloomily, “we should
have nothing left us but to retire discomfited, dishonoured, the
laughing-stock of France!”
Fantômas advanced a step or two nearer, and in insinuating tones:
“All said and done,” he hinted, “I understand your scruples, and I
quite see it is difficult for you to agree, officially that is, under
pain of risking your post. Well, so be it; I now propose a compromise.
There is the Secret Service fund; my million will be charged on it
without scandal or publicity; you will hand me over the sum I need; in
return, I will disappear. Is it a bargain?”
Désiré Ferrand was boiling with rage and indignation:
“Atrocious monster!” he screamed, “begone! How have I borne to hear out
your odious proposals! Be sure, this very day the whole police force
shall receive the most stringent orders to seize you! I do not know who
you are, but no matter for that, I will punish you.”
Fantômas folded his arms across his chest. Through his black mask his
eyes flashed lightning at his unfortunate victim.
“So it is war?” he asked—“war to the knife? war to the death?... I bid
you reflect ...”
Ferrand made no reply. Seizing the first thing he caught sight of on
his writing-table, he grasped a silver paper-knife in his hand, ready
to sell his life dearly.
Fantômas saw the Minister was incorruptible. “Be it death then!” he
grinned his defiance.
With a sudden, swift movement, the brigand whirled his cudgel round
like a sling and hurled it full in the other’s face. But the Minister
ducked his head, the weapon missed its aim and struck the wall with a
dull thud.
“Help!” yelled Ferrand, dashing for the window. But Fantômas barred
the way, and a grim chase, pursuer and pursued, began in Désiré
Ferrand’s chamber. The Minister, with the energy of despair, fled
before his assailant, throwing down obstacle after obstacle in his way,
oversetting chairs, tables, every piece of furniture he could lay hands
on.
Thus, following and fleeing, the two men made the circuit of the room;
but just as fast as the fugitive cast a stumbling-block in the other’s
way, it was cleared away and tossed into a corner.
So the mad race went on. The competitors were well matched; no doubt
one was armed, he had a revolver, but equally without doubt, he dared
not use it for fear of making a noise. The thickness of the carpet
deadened the sound of the steps, the heavy curtains intercepted the
Minister’s frantic appeals for help.
But suddenly, the wretched man, running barefoot as he was, gave a cry
of pain, followed by another and another. Next moment he staggered,
fell to his knees, cried out again; then tried to rise, but could not
struggle to his feet. Blood began to trickle from the soles of his
feet, from his thighs, his wrists, the arm on which he had fallen.
A last despairing groan was succeeded by utter silence, the tortured
man had fainted. Fantômas, taking advantage of his adversary’s
helplessness, had snatched up his cudgel again, and with a yell of
triumph, dealt him a stunning blow on the head. Then, calmly walking up
to his victim without a vestige of compunction, he lifted him bodily by
the shoulders and knees and carried him to his bed, where he laid him
on his back.
Ferrand’s nightshirt gaped open over the chest. Fantômas passed the
palm of his hand lightly over the damp skin to verify the exact
position of the heart that was still beating in hurried jerks. Then,
drawing from beneath his cloak a long, fine needle, the cowardly victor
plunged it into his victim’s body below the left breast and pierced the
heart.
Holding a mirror to the lips, Fantômas made doubly sure that Désiré
Ferrand had ceased to breathe. Yes, he was dead, stone dead!
Thereupon, walking quietly over to the switch, he plunged the room in
darkness, and in the darkness vanished.
* * * * *
It was now about three o’clock in the morning. The concierge at the
door of the Ministry opening on the Rue Cambon was awakened from a
sound sleep by someone tapping softly at his window.
“Open, please!” came the usual request, in calm, deliberate accents.
In a thick voice the porter, still half asleep, asked mechanically who
it was asking to be let out.
After a moment’s hesitation, the answer came:
“An _attaché_, special service in the Minister’s secretariat!”
The concierge drew the cord, and a second or two later heard the door
reclose.
He had just opened, without a thought of suspicion, for the murderer
of Désiré Ferrand! As he dropped off to sleep again, the man merely
grumbled to himself:
“Pretty hours for working, I don’t think ... One of them bloodsucker
fellows again, I’ll be bound, who hang about Ministers. That chap who’s
just gone, no doubt he’s been stopping on late to work so as he needn’t
turn out so early to-morrow morning.”