A WIRELESS FROM MID-ATLANTIC
“A nail ... another nail! Monsieur Havard, where did you put the
others?”
“In the little bowl on the side-table,” replied the Chief of the
Criminal Investigation Department from where he knelt on the carpet,
while Professor Ardell, who was holding between thumb and forefinger
the nail he had just found, stood up again, rubbing his back with his
free hand.
“Extraordinary! most extraordinary!” muttered the learned professor,
while M. Casamajols, who was also present, questioned the doctor
anxiously:
“Well, your diagnosis, Professor?”
“Egad! Monsieur le Procureur, my diagnosis is perfectly plain and
simple, and equally positive, M. Désiré is dead, and he has been dead
several hours now.”
At seven o’clock that morning, the discovery of the dead body of the
Minister of Justice lying lifeless on his bed had thrown the personnel
of the Ministry into the wildest commotion. The domestics, well
trained servants, had immediately advised the police, and M. Havard,
hurrying with all speed to the Ministry of Justice, had passed on the
intelligence to M. Casamajols’ private residence and sent an urgent
summons to Professor Ardell. The three men, when they arrived almost
simultaneously at the Place Vendôme, had been forced to abandon any
false hopes they might have entertained the instant they set eyes on
the unfortunate man. Désiré Ferrand was dead! For the tenth time the
professor confirmed the fact to M. Casamajols, who could not believe
his own eyes and ears.
M. Havard, pale and haggard, intervened:
“Dead!” he exclaimed, “you mean murdered, do you not, Professor?”
“Why, yes, I do mean murdered; the fact is obvious. M. Désiré Ferrand,
awakened suddenly in the night, was struck with an instrument which
evidently stunned him without leaving any wound—perhaps one of those
cudgels murderers sometimes use.”
“I see what you mean,” broke in M. Havard, “a sandbag, a sack, that is,
filled with sand; it makes the most deadly weapon you can imagine when
wielded like a sling.”
The professor signified his agreement with the Chief’s version of the
affair, and went on:
“The victim, thus incapacitated, nothing easier than to pierce his
heart with a needle; as a matter of fact, we have discovered one driven
in under the left breast of the unfortunate man.”
Noting the disordered state of the room, M. Casamajols observed:
“Before the end there was evidently a struggle, a desperate struggle,”
and the professor agreed.
But M. Havard now broke in again:
“A struggle, however, that was suddenly interrupted when the Minister,
who was barefooted, stopped all of a sudden and fell to the floor.
Evidently the aggressor, in order to handle his man more easily, and
taking advantage of a favourable opportunity, emptied a bagful of nails
over the carpet, the nails we have been picking up all this time.”
“You are quite right,” agreed the professor, “the little superficial
punctures we noticed scarring the dead man’s limbs were no doubt caused
by the nails scattered about the floor.”
“The scoundrel! he provided for everything, it appears—left nothing to
chance.”
M. Havard was profoundly agitated and perplexed. Striding up and down
the room like a caged lion, casting furtive glances at the Minister’s
body, he pondered the tragic origins of the crime and strove to fathom
the mystery of who the criminal was.
At seven in the morning he had been awakened by the telephone ringing
him up from the Ministry of Justice. Summoned in all haste to the
Place Vendôme, in a quarter of an hour he was at the scene of action,
questioning the staff, examining the Minister’s bedroom, the adjoining
apartments and the precincts generally of the mansion, but entirely,
absolutely without result.
Subsequently, however, when he came to search among the papers
littering the Minister’s desk, he had been astonished, as had Ferrand
himself, by the great number of holograph memoranda, all relating to
Fantômas’ million francs and no doubt intentionally intermingled with
the “urgent” correspondence. It was deliberately done, it was evidently
the sign manual once more of the criminal, it was Fantômas, who, in
ironic mood, anxious to rouse public opinion afresh, thus affirmed his
presence and confirmed his impunity.
Fantômas?—no, it could not be Fantômas! For six months past, M. Havard
had cherished the absolute conviction that the notorious criminal had
been personated by his subordinate, Inspector Juve, of the Criminal
Investigation Department, who under pretence of relentlessly tracking
down the elusive ruffian, had carried out a whole series of thefts and
other crimes under this sinister disguise. But Juve was in prison,
there was no shadow of doubt about that. Then what was one to think?
As time went on and the day lengthened, corridors and antechambers
grew more and more crowded, hummed louder and louder with excited
talk—magistrates having appointments to confer with the Chief, electors
from Ferrand’s constituency come to see their member, officials and
employés coming and going unceasingly; outside the very door of the
death chamber eager voices were raised in discussion and dispute,
regrets for the past mingled with hopes for the future.
So far, however, the tidings of Désiré Ferrand’s death had hardly
spread beyond official circles. The Elysée, the Ministries, were aware
of the tragedy, the public knew little or nothing. But this was not to
last long. Suddenly a swarm of newsboys, crying special editions, burst
with strident shouts into the Place Vendôme, debouching from the Rue
de la Paix, deploying under the windows of the Ministry, then tearing
off like a whirlwind towards the Tuileries, red and breathless, their
papers selling like hot cakes at a premium. The special edition of
_La Capitale_ penetrated to the private apartments of the Ministry,
and M. Havard, impatient to know in what terms the tragic story was
told and to read the criticisms on the police with which the Press was
evidently supplementing the narrative of the murder, secured a copy
of the paper. Looking over his shoulder, M. Casamajols read in huge
capitals, immediately below the name of the journal:
“_Assassination of the Minister of Justice._”
Below this again, figured the cryptic headline:
“_Will he arrest Fantômas?_”
“That question, M. Havard,” slyly suggested M. Casamajols, “is probably
addressed to you.” The head of the Criminal Investigation Department
made no reply, but with pursed lips, ran his eye rapidly over the
detailed account of Ferrand’s death, though without learning anything
he did not know already, and then went on to the article he believed,
like M. Casamajols, to specially concern himself. But as he read on,
M. Havard was lost in deeper and deeper wonderment. The article in
question ran as follows:
“_From mid-Atlantic, from aboard the liner ‘La Lorraine’ which sailed
the day before yesterday from New York, bound for Hâvre, comes the
information by wireless that the American detective, Tom Bob, a
passenger on the vessel in question, strongly and justly moved by the
daring acts of violence committed of late in Paris, has announced
his intention to devote all his time and all his energy, from the
first moment of his arrival in Europe, to the discovery and arrest of
Fantômas._”
The writer concluded the article with the words: “_Let us wish Tom Bob
every good luck, but will he arrest Fantômas?_”
M. Havard and M. Casamajols looked at each other completely at a loss.
“Do you suppose it is serious, this story?” asked the latter; “surely
it must be a newspaper _canard_ ... very American, too American ... I
don’t believe it, do you?”
“Egad!” confessed M. Havard, very much put out, “I am bound to allow
that this Tom Bob exists, and even that he enjoys a certain reputation
in the New York police force, but then, to advertise himself like that,
really!”
M. Casamajols suggested with a smile of irony:
“Eh, Havard, suppose Tom Bob _did_ run down and arrest Fantômas?”
Lifting his hands to heaven, the Chief of the Investigation Department
turned his back on the Procureur Général:
“God Almighty!” he swore, “hadn’t we enough to worry us, enough to
make us look ridiculous, without this Tom Bob shoving his finger in the
pie. Upon my word, it’s the last straw, that!...”
Havard stopped dead in the middle of his tirade; the door of the room
had opened.
“Do you mean me by that, Monsieur Havard?” demanded the newcomer.
M. Havard curbed a gesture of annoyance; decidedly he was in Fortune’s
bad books that day. He drew back, and bowing low to the President of
the Council—it was no other than M. Monnier himself who asked the
question.
“I do assure you, sir,” he replied respectfully, “I should never allow
myself to think such a thing of you.”