"Ah, how I would love this cuirassierIf I were still a demoiselle."
"Ah, how I would love this cuirassierIf I were still a demoiselle."
Henri de Loubersac, who had just collided with the captain, burst into laughter, and warmly shook hands with him.
A limited number of people, some curious, others merely idle, were standing motionless in the Zoological Gardens. They were lining the palisade which surrounds the rocky basin where half a dozen crocodiles were performing their evolutions.
Besides children and nursemaids and governesses, there were also poverty-stricken creatures in rags, some students, a workman or two, the inevitable telegraph boy who was loitering on the way instead of hastening onwards with the telegrams, and, noticeably, a fair young man, smart, in tight-fitting overcoat and wearing a bowler hat. He had been standing there some ten minutes, and was giving but scant attention to the saurians. He was casting furtive glances around him, as though looking for someone.
If he were awaiting the arrival of some member of the fair sex, it hardly seemed the place for a love-tryst, this melancholy Zoological Gardens, misty, with the leaves falling, gradually baring the trees at the approach of winter.
A uniform suddenly appeared in one of the paths: it was a sergeant belonging to the commissariat department, who was passing rapidly, bent on business.
Directly the fair young man saw him he left his place by the palisade and hid himself behind a tree, muttering:
"Decidedly one has to be constantly on the defensive!" He unbuttoned his coat and looked at his watch.
"Twenty-five minutes past three! He will not be long now!"
Two hundred yards from this spot, before the chief entrance to the Gardens, a crowd had gathered; inveterate idlers jostling one another in the circle they had formed round a sordid individual, a miserable old man with a long white beard, who was drawing discordant sounds from an old accordion.
Some kindly housewives, some shock-headed errand-boys, were exercising their lungs to the utmost, trying to help the musician to play according to time and tune.
But, in spite of the goodwill about him, the poor man could not manage to play one single bar correctly, and his helpers bawled in vain.
At the end of a few minutes the accordion player gave up his attempts, and, taking his soft and ancient hat in his hand, he put in practice a much easier exercise: he made the round of the company to collect their offerings. The crowd melted like magic, leaving him solitary, hat in hand, and with only a few sous in it for his pains. With a resigned air, the man pocketed his meagre takings, then, pushing the accordion up on his back where it was held in place by a strap, he walked, bent, staggering, towards the gate. He passed through it and entered the Gardens.
The old man went to a secluded seat behind the museum. Almost immediately he saw a well-dressed young man approaching, the very same who some ten minutes before had been staring at the crocodiles with but lukewarm interest.
The young man seated himself beside the old accordion player without seeming to notice him. Then, in an almost inaudible voice, as if speaking to himself, the young man uttered these words:
"Fine weather! The daisy is going to bloom."
At once the accordion player added.
"And the potatoes are going to sprout!"
They identified each other.
The two men were alone in this deserted corner of the garden; they drew closer together and began to converse.
"Are things still going well, Vagualame?"
"My faith, Monsieur Henri, that depends."...
The old accordion player cast a rapid penetrating glance at the countenance of his companion: it was done with the instinctive ease of habit.
The young man was leaning forward, tracing circles in the sand with his stick.
"What is the position, Vagualame?" he asked briefly.
"I have no more money, Lieutenant."
The young man sat upright and looked at the old man angrily.
"What has come to you? There is no lieutenant here—I am M. Henri, and nothing else! Do I trouble myself to find out who you are, Vagualame?"
"Oh," protested the old man, "that's enough! Do not be afraid, I understand my business: you know my devotion! Unfortunately it costs a great deal!"
"Yes," replied Henri de Loubersac—for he it was—"Yes, I know you are always hard up."
"Shall I have money soon?" insisted Vagualame.
"That depends.... How are things going?"
"Which things?"
The lieutenant showed impatience. Was Vagualame's stupid, silly manner intentional?
Assuredly, that handsome fellow, that dashing soldier, Henri de Loubersac, knew nothing of this same Vagualame's relations with Bobinette, nor his attitude towards that mysterious accomplice of his whom he had just assassinated, or pretended to have assassinated, Captain Brocq. Thus Vagualame had two strings to his bow, serving at one and the same time the Second Bureau and, most probably, its bitterest adversaries.
"Vagualame, you really are a fool," went on de Loubersac. "What I refer to is the V. affair: how does it stand—what has been done?"
The old man began to laugh.
"Peuh! Nothing at all! Another rigmarole in which women are mixed up! You know the little singer of Châlons, called Nichoune? She made her first appearance at La Fère, and since then the creature has roved through the rowdy dancing-saloons of Picardy, of the Ardennes—you must know her well, Monsieur Henri."
The lieutenant interrupted him.
"All this does not mean anything, Vagualame!"
"Pardon! Nichoune is the mistress of Corporal V.—he is on leave, the corporal is."...
"I know, he is in Paris."
"Well, then, what do you wish me to do?"
"You must go to Châlons and make an exhaustive enquiry into the relations of V.... with Nichoune. V. was eaten up with debts."
"He has settled them," remarked Vagualame.
"Ah!" Lieutenant de Loubersac was rather taken aback.
"Well, find out how and why. Get me information also about someone called Alfred."
"I know him, Lieutenant,—pardon—Monsieur Henri—a—letter-box—a go-between."
"We must know exactly the nature of the relations between Corporal V. and the late Captain Brocq."
These last words particularly interested Vagualame: he drew nearer still to de Loubersac, tapping him on the knee.
"Tell me, has anything new come to light in that affair?"
Henri de Loubersac moved away, and looked the old accordion player up and down.
"Do not meddle with what does not concern you."
"Good! Good! That's all right!" The old fellow pretended to be confused, nevertheless a gleam of joy shone beneath his eyelids.
There was a moment's silence. Henri de Loubersac was gnawing his moustache. Vagualame, who was stealthily watching him, said to himself:
"As for you, my fine fellow, I am waiting for you! You have a fine big morsel for me! I see what you are driving at!"...
True enough! Suddenly, between him and the lieutenant there was an exchange of hurried words in a low tone.
"Vagualame, would you like a highly paid commission?"
"Yes, Monsieur Henri. Is it difficult to earn?"
"Naturally."
Vagualame insisted:
"Dangerous, as well?"
"Perhaps!"
"How much will you pay?"
Without hesitation, the officer said:
"Twenty-five thousand francs."...
Equally without hesitation, but putting on an offended air, Vagualame retorted.
"Nothing doing!"
"Thirty thousand?"
The old man murmured: "What the devil is it a question of?"
Lowering his voice still more, de Loubersac added:
"It is a lost document!... Perhaps it is a case of theft ... a list of the distribution of artillery operatives—Document Number Six!"
"But," cried Vagualame, who feigned sudden comprehension of this document's importance, "but that is equivalent to a complete plan of mobilisation?"...
Exasperated, Lieutenant Henri interrupted the old fellow:
"I do not ask for your opinion as to its signification and value. Can you recover it?"
Vagualame murmured some incomprehensible words.
"What are you saying?" questioned de Loubersac, who, growing more and more exasperated, shook him by the sleeve.
"Gently, Monsieur Henri, gently, if you please," whined the old man, "I was only thinking what is always the case: 'Look for the woman!'"
"The disappearance of the document," continued de Loubersac, "is coincident with the death of Captain Brocq—so it is supposed."...
He stopped and stared at Vagualame, who was rubbing his hands, simulating an extreme satisfaction, and mumbling with an air of enjoyment:
"Women! Always the dear women!... Ah, these dear and damnable women!"
He resumed his serious expression: his manner was decided.
"Monsieur Henri," he declared, "I will find it; but the price is fifty thousand francs."
"What!" De Loubersac was startled.
Vagualame raised his hand as if taking heaven to witness that his statement was final.
"Not a sou more! Not a sou less! Fifty thousand is the price: fifty thousand!"
Henri de Loubersac hesitated a second, then concluded the interview.
"Agreed to!... Be quick about it!... Adieu!"
"Nichoune!... Nichoune!... Nichoune!"
"Be off with you, Léonce! To the door!"
It was a regular hubbub! An uproar! It increased!
Léonce the comedian had to cut short his monologue!
The little concert-hall at Châlons was at its liveliest. There was not a single seat to be had. It was a mixed audience of soldiers and civilians, and the uniform did not fraternise too well with the garb of the working-man!
This low-class concert-hall was frequented by soldiers, who, out on leave, would visit the taverns, the beer-houses, and finish the evening on the squalid benches of this Eldorado of the provinces.
On this particular evening these critical gentlemen of the Army were less satisfied than ever. There had been three "first appearances," of poor quality, and they accused the management of having filled the hall with civilians in order to secure a good reception for these mediocre performers. Hussars and cuirassiers joined forces and made a frightful uproar.
"Take the comic man away!"
"He shall not sing!"
Then the entire audience shouted one name, demanded one performer only.
"Nichoune!... Nichoune!... Nichoune!"
Nichoune was indeed the star of the company!
She was rather pretty, her face was intelligent, and what was rare enough in that hall, her tone was almost pure and true, and, above all, she sang popular ditties so that the audience could join in the chorus. As usual, after every singer, male or female, there were loud demands for Nichoune. Her admirers were merciless: they had no consideration for her fatigue: they would have kept her on the platform from eight o'clock till midnight!
The manager rushed to Nichoune's dressing-room.
"Come! Come at once! They will smash up everything if you do not hurry on."
Nichoune got up.
"Ah, ha! If I don't get a rise after this—well, I shall be off! You will see! They will have to have me back, too!"
The manager showed by a shrug of the shoulders that this was a matter of profound indifference to him.
"Come on to the platform, my dear! And be quick about it!"
Nichoune raced down the stairs and appeared before the clamouring crowd panting. At sight of her, calm succeeded storm: the idol was going to sing!
Nichoune swaggered down the stage and, planting herself close to the footlights, flung the title of her song at the delighted audience in strident tones.
"Les Inquiets!... Music by Delmet.... Words also.... It is I who sing it!"
Whilst Nichoune began her song, hands on hips, she scrutinised her audience, bestowing little smiles on her particular admirers. She could not have been in her best form, because when about to start her third verse she suffered a lapse of memory, hesitated, and started the fourth. This passed unnoticed by her audience, who gave her a vociferous ovation at the close.
"The programme! the programme!" they yelled.
As a rule Nichoune would disdainfully refuse to go down among the audience. This evening, however, she nodded a "Yes," and, taking a pile of little programmes from the wings, she descended the few steps which led from the stage to the body of the hall. Twenty hands were outstretched to help her down. She pushed them aside with mocking looks. Shouts of admiration, compliments, clamourous declarations of love were rained on her by the soldiers she had charmed and now swung past with a provocative swish of her skirt and a smile of disdain.
Nichoune went on her way, bent on getting rid of her burden of programmes with all speed.
Just as another singer appeared on the platform, Nichoune reached the last row of chairs, and was about to leave, when she heard her name uttered in a low voice by a man enveloped in a large cloak.
He was standing, and was leaning against the wall at the extreme end of the concert-room: he was an aged man.
Nichoune hesitated, searching with her eyes for the person who had called her in a low, penetrating voice. She was about to continue on her way, when the old fellow half opened his cloak for an instant to give her a glimpse of a bulky kind of a box which was slung across his chest.
Immediately the singer went straight towards him.
"A programme?" she asked him in a loud voice.
He gave an affirmative nod for all the world to see: then whispered low.
"Go home directly the concert is over! I must speak to you!"
"Very good," replied the singer in a submissive tone.
Then aloud she queried:
"You are a musician, are you?"
The man in the cloak gave answer audibly:
"Yes, my dear, I am a musician also, but not of your sort! It's not gaiety I deal in!" With that, the unknown displayed an accordion which was slung across his chest.
Nichoune hurried to her dressing-room. She must get away before her admirers demanded her reappearance on the platform. The old man quitted the establishment. Stepping out of the vestibule, dimly lighted by a flickering jet of gas, he strode along the narrow and tortuous streets of Châlons at a great pace. This pedestrian seemed out of humour: he marched along, bent beneath the weight of his accordion, tapping the road violently with the point of his long climbing stick. Taking a circuitous route, he at last reached a sort of little inn. It appeared a poor kind of a place, but clean. The old fellow entered with a resolute air. The porter, half asleep, offered him acandle which he lit with a twist of paper, kindled at the gas-jet. The old man mounted the stairs to his room and closed the door carefully. Having satisfied himself that the window shutters were fastened, he took off his cloak, lit his lamp, drew up a chair, and leaned his elbow on the table. The light fell on his face, and it was easy to recognise the man who had spoken to the mistress of Corporal Vinson: he was none other than Vagualame, the beggar-assassin.
Before long there was a knock at the door.
"Who is there?"
"I ... Nichoune!"
Vagualame rose and opened to her.
"Come in, my dear!" Vagualame was now the amiable friend.
He looked with delight at the pretty little face of his visitor.
"As pretty as ever, my dear! Prettier than ever!" he cried.
He stopped flattery: the singer evidently disliked it. She seated herself on the edge of a sofa and stared at him.
"I don't suppose you have come to Châlons just to tell me that! Nothing serious?"
Vagualame shrugged his shoulders.
"No, no! Why, in Heaven's name, are you always so frightened?"
"That's all very well. It's jolly dangerous, let me tell you."
"Dangerous!" repeated Vagualame contemptuously. "Absurd! You are joking! It's dangerous for imbeciles—not for anyone else! Not a soul would ever suspect that pretty Nichoune is the 'letter-box'—the intermediary between me and 'Roubaix.'"
"You are going to give me something for Roubaix again?" Nichoune did not look as if Vagualame's assertion had relieved her fears.
Vagualame evaded a direct answer.
"You have not seen him for a week?"
"Roubaix? No." ...
"And Nancy?"
"Nor Nancy."
"Well," said he, after a moment's reflection, "that does not matter in the least! I can now tell you that Belfort will certainly pass this way to-morrow morning."...
"Belfort? But he is not due then!"
"Belfort has no fixed time," replied Vagualame sharply. "I have already told you that Belfort is his own master: his is a divisional."
"A divisional? What exactly is a divisional?" demanded the singer.
"Now you are asking questions," objected Vagualame. His tone was harsh. "That is not allowed, Nichoune! I have told you so before.... What you do not know you must not try to discover.... I myself do not know all the ins and outs of the organisation!"
He continued in a less severe tone:
"In any case Belfort passes this way to-morrow between eleven o'clock and noon.... He does not know me—is not aware of my existence.... It is through an indirect course that I learned he was coming; also that he would have something to say to you.... Will you, therefore, hand him this envelope?"
Vagualame drew from the inside pocket of his short coat a large packet sealed with red wax.
"Be very careful! This document is important—has been difficult to obtain—extremely difficult!... On no account must it go astray!... Tell Belfort that it must be handed over as quickly as possible.... Well?"
Nichoune did not take the packet Vagualame was holding out to her. She remained seated, her gaze fixed on the tips of her shoes, her hands buried in her muff.
"Well, what is it? What are you waiting for?" Vagualame repeated.
At this Nichoune blazed out:
"What the matter is? Why, that I have had enough of all this: I don't want any more of it! Not if I know it! It's too dangerous!"
Vagualame appeared stupefied.
"What, little one?" he asked very gently. "You do not wish to be our faithful letter-box any more?"
"No!"
"You do not want to hand this over to Belfort?"
"No, no! A hundred times no!" Nichoune shook her head vigorously.
"But why?"
"Because ... because I don't want to do it any more! There!"
"Come now, Nichoune, what is your reason? You must have one."
This time the singer got up as though she would go off at once.
"Reasons?" she cried. "Look here, Vagualame, it's better to tell you the truth! Very well, then, spying is not my strong point! It is three months since I began it—since you enticed me into it ... and life is not worth living.... I am in a constant state of terror—I am afraid of being caught at it. They say: 'Do this—Do that!' I am always seeing new agents ... you come—you go—you disappear—it's maddening! I have already broken with my lover ... with Vinson! I don't want to be on such terms with anyone mixed up in your spying, I can tell you!... In the first place, there's something wrong with my heart, and to live in such a perpetual state of terror is very bad for me ... so you have got to understand, Vagualame—I say it straight out—I don't go on with it.... I would rather go to the magistrate and put myself completely outside this abominable business—there! That's all about it!"
It was impossible to mistake the meaning of these decisive words. Here was not the spy who sought to increase his pay by threatening to reveal everything; it was the spy who is obsessed with the fear of being taken, who no longer wishes to continue his dreadful work—to follow his nefarious calling.
Vagualame gave no sign of surprise.
"Listen, my pretty one! You are at perfect liberty to do what seems good to you, and if you have just come in for some money!"...
"No one has left me any money," interrupted Nichoune.
"Oh, well," replied Vagualame, "if you despise the nice sum I bring you every month, that's your business! ButI don't suppose you want to leave your old comrade in a fix, do you?"
Nichoune hesitated.
"What do you want me to do now?" she asked.
"A very little thing, my pretty one! If you will not go in with us any longer, you are perfectly free to leave us, I repeat it, but don't leave us in the lurch just at this moment! This paper is of the very greatest importance ... be nice—take it, and give it to Belfort—I will not bother you again after this."...
Nichoune held out her hand, but it was with an ill grace.
"Oh, all right!" said she. "Give me the thing! All the same, you know now that it is the very last time you are to apply to me!"
Then she added, laughing in her usual hail-fellow-well-met way, and pressing the old fellow's hand as she moved towards the door:
"I don't mean to be the letter-box of Châlons any more: that's ended—the last collection has been made!"
Nichoune departed. Vagualame wished her a cordial "Good night"; then, locking the door, he became absorbed in his reflections.
Towards five o'clock in the afternoon of the day following his private talk with Nichoune, Vagualame accosted the proprietor of a little inn situated at the extreme end of the town, and far removed from the tavern where he had passed the night.
"Mademoiselle Nichoune is not in, is she?"
"No, my good man—what do you want with her?"
Vagualame gave a little laugh.
"Has she not told you, then, that she was expecting someone from her part of the country to call on her?"
The innkeeper was leaning carelessly against the wall. He straightened himself a little.
"Yes, Mademoiselle Nichoune has told us that an old musician would call to see her this afternoon, and that we must ask him to wait."...
"Ah, she's a good, kind little thing! How courageous!What a worker!" Vagualame seemed to be speaking to himself.
"You know her very well, then?" asked the puzzled innkeeper.
"I should think I did!" protested the old fellow. "Why, it was I who taught her to sing!... Do you think she will be long, my little Nichoune?"
"I don't fancy so! If you would like to come in and wait for her in her room, you will find it at the end of the corridor. It's not locked.... You will find some picture papers on her table."
"Thank you, kind sir," said Vagualame after a moment's hesitation. "I will go in and rest for a few minutes," and, hobbling along, he gained the singer's room. The moment he was inside, and the door safely shut, his whole attitude changed. He looked eagerly about him.
"If there is anything, where is it likely to be?"... He considered. "Why, in the mattress, of course!"
He drew from some hiding-place in his garments a long needle, and began to probe the mattress of Nichoune's bed very carefully.
"Ha, ha!" cried he, suddenly. The needle had come in contact with something difficult to penetrate. "I wager it's what I am after!"
Vagualame slipped his hand, spare and delicately formed, under the counterpane.
"Little idiot!" he exclaimed in a satisfied tone. "She has not even hidden it inside the mattress! She has just slipped it in between the palliasse, and the hair mattress on top—why, she's a child!"
He drew out two envelopes and eagerly read the addresses.
"Oh," cried he, "this is more serious than I thought!... Action must be taken at once!... Nichoune! Nichoune! you are about to play a dangerous game, a game which is likely to cost you dear!"
On the first of the envelopes Vagualame had read one word:
"Belfort."
This was the document he had handed over to the actress the night before. After all, he was not much astonished to find that Nichoune had not passed the letter on. But the other envelope bore an address which Vagualame gazed at reflectively.
"Monsieur Bonnett,Police Magistrate."
"She is selling us, by Jove!" he murmured. "There's not a doubt of it! The little wretch!... She has scruples, has she!... Her conscience reproaches her! I am going to give her a lesson—one of my own sort!"
Vagualame was turning the letter over and over.
"I must know its contents," he went on.... "Ah, I shall manage to get hold of this little paper, to-morrow morning, when."...
Vagualame's murmured monologue came to an abrupt conclusion.
"That's her voice!" he exclaimed. With the nimbleness of youth he put back the two letters, rapidly drew from his pocket a bundle of letters; with marvellous ability forced open a table drawer, and mixed them with others Nichoune had placed there.
"There, my little dear!" said he, aloud. "There's something to do honour to your memory!"
He closed the drawer in a second. He had barely time to seat himself in an arm-chair near his accordion, lying on the floor, when Nichoune entered.
"Good day!" cried she.
Vagualame pretended to wake up with a start.
"Ha, ha! Good day, Nichoune! Tell me, you have not seen Belfort? Eh?"
"How do you know that?" demanded Nichoune, on the defensive. She looked surprised.
"I have just met him.... He told me that he had not come across you at the usual meeting-place."
Nichoune lowered her head.
"I thought I was being followed ... so, as you can understand, I did not go."
Vagualame nodded approval.
"Good! Quite right! After all, it is not otherwise of importance. You must give me back my envelope now!"
"You want it?"
"Why, of course!"
Nichoune hesitated a second.
"Just fancy, Vagualame, I took the precaution to hide it between my two mattresses! Wait!... Here it is!"
Nichoune held out his letter.
"Thank you, my dear!"
Vagualame looked as if the returning of the document was a matter of the most perfect indifference to him. He gazed hard at Nichoune—stared so fixedly at her that she demanded:
"Whatever possesses you to stare at me like that?"
"I am thinking how pretty you are!"
"Well, I never! You are becoming quite complimentary!"
"It's no flattery. I think you are very pretty, Nichoune, but your hands! They are not pretty!"
The singer laughed and held out her little hands.
"What is there about them you have to find fault with?"
"They are red.... It astonishes me that a woman like you does not know how to make them white!... Don't you know what to do to them?"
"No! What must I do?"
"Why," retorted the old musician, "the very first thing you have to do is as simple as A B C! All you have to do is to tie up your hands every night with a ribbon, and so keep them raised above your head!"...
"How? I don't understand!"
"It's like this! You stick a nail into the wall ... and then you manage things so that you keep your hands up-raised the whole night through.... You will see then ... your hands will be as white as lilies in the morning.... White as lilies!"
Nichoune was extremely interested.
"Is that true? I shall try it this very night! White, like lilies, you say?... And you have to sleep with your hands stuck up in the air!... I shall try it—shall begin to-night."
A few minutes later Vagualame left Nichoune, after promising that he would not give her any more spy work to do, and declaring that she should never again be mixed up in any dangerous business. As he went along the streets of Châlons, the dreadful old man chuckled and sniggered.
"Hands in the air, my beauty!... Just try that, this very night! With that little heart mischief of yours! Ha! ha! We shall not be kept waiting for the consequences of that performance! It will serve as an example to all and sundry when they wish to write to the magistrate!"
Vagualame's face took on a wicked look.
"I shall have to be as careful as can be when I hide myself in that little fool's room to-night! At all costs I must get hold of that compromising letter before anyone in the hotel hears of the death! Not a soul must catch a glimpse of me—that's certain!"
Those who passed Vagualame simply thought he was an old beggar, an old accordion player....
"Come in!" cried Hofferman, who was writing hard.
An orderly stepped gingerly into the room.
"An usher, Colonel, with a message, begging you to be so good as to step downstairs at once to see the Under-Secretary of State."
Hofferman looked up.
"Are you sure the message is for me?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"Very well. I am coming immediately."
The orderly vanished. Hofferman remained in thought for a minute or so, rose abruptly, half opened the door of the adjoining room, and addressed Commandant Dumoulin:
"The Under-Secretary of State wishes to see me. I am going down now."
The colonel passed rapidly along the interminable corridors separating him from the building in which the Under-Secretary's offices were situated.
"What can he want to see me about?" Colonel Hofferman asked himself as he entered the Under-Secretary's room.
Monsieur Maranjévol, an exceedingly active and immensely popular deputy from la Gironde, to whom had been entrusted the delicate task of serving as buffer between the civil and the military sections. Monsieur Maranjévol was not alone in his vast reception-room, with its gilding and pictures of battle scenes; seated opposite, and with his back to the light, was a civilian, of middle height, clean-shaven, whose thin hair, turning grey, curled slightly at the nape of the neck.
The Under-Secretary rose, shook hands with the colonel, and went straight to the point.
"Monsieur Juve of the detective force: Colonel Hofferman, head of the Second Bureau."
The policeman and the soldier bowed gravely. They awaited the beginning of the conference in a somewhat chilly silence.
Monsieur Maranjévol explained that after a short talk with Juve regarding Captain Brocq's death, he had considered it necessary to put him in touch with Colonel Hofferman.
The colonel, who had been showing signs of impatience for the last few minutes, suddenly broke out:
"My faith, Monsieur," declared he, in a sharp abrupt voice, staring straight into Juve's eyes, "I am very glad to have the opportunity of meeting you. I shall not disguise from you that I am astonished, even very disagreeably astonished, at your attitude during the past few days regarding this wretched drama. Up to now, I have always considered that the private personality of an officer, above all, of an officer on the Headquarters' Staff, was a thing which was almost inviolable.... But it has come to my knowledge that at the death of Captain Brocq, you have devoted yourself not only to making the most minute investigations—that, perhaps, was your right and your duty—into the circumstances accompanying the death, but that you have searched the domicile of the defunct as well, and this without giving us the required preliminary notice. I cannot and will not sanction this method of procedure, and I congratulate myself on having this opportunity of telling you so."
During this speech of the colonel's Monsieur Maranjévol stared with astonished eyes, first at the soldier and then at the detective. The good-natured and peaceable Under-Secretary was surprised at the colonel's violent attack, and asked himself how Juve was going to take it.
Juve took it with an unmoved countenance. He said, in his turn:
"I would point out to you, Colonel, that had it been only a question of a natural death, I should have contented myself with restoring to you the documents which had been collected at our headquarters; but, as you probably knew, Captain Brocq was killed—killed in a mysterious fashion. I thus found myself in the presence of a crime, a common law crime: the inquest has restored it to the civil law jurisdiction, and not to the military: believe me, I understand my business, I know my duty."
Juve had uttered these words with the greatest composure; but the slight tremble in his voice would have made it clear to anyone who knew him well, that the detective was maintaining his self-control only by a violent effort.
The colonel replied in a tone stiff with offence:
"I persist in my opinion: you have no right to meddle in an affair which concerns us alone. The death of Captain Brocq coincides with the loss of a certain secret document: is it for you or for us to institute an enquiry into it?"
After a pause, Juve's retort was:
"You must permit me to leave that question unanswered."
With all the bluntness of a military man, Colonel Hofferman had put his finger on the open wound which for long years had been a source of irritation to the detective force and the intelligence department alike, when, owing to circumstances, both were called on to intervene at one and the same time. In cases of theft and of spying the conflict was ceaseless.
Monsieur Havard, Juve's chief, had talked this matter over the night before, and his last words of command were:
"Above all, Juve, manage matters so that there is no fuss!... There must not be a fuss!"
Colonel Hofferman, misinterpreting the detective's attitude, turned triumphantly to the Under-Secretary:
"Not only that," he continued, "I think there has been far too much talk made about the death of Captain Brocq. This officer was the victim of an accident. We cannot discuss it. That is all there is to be said. It really does not matter much. We of the Intelligence Department are soldiers, and believe in a policy of results: at the present moment we have lost a document: we are searching for it: action must be left to us.... And, Monsieur,I revert to my first question—what the devil was the police doing at Captain Brocq's—what business was it of theirs? Really, the detective service is arrogating to itself more and more powers—powers that cannot be sanctioned, that will not be granted or permitted."
Juve had so far contained himself, though with difficulty, but now Colonel Hofferman was going too far. It was Juve's turn to break out.
"Monsieur," he cried, in a voice vibrating with passion, turning to the Under-Secretary: "I cannot accept such observations—not for a moment! I have among my papers on the case important proofs that the assassination of Captain Brocq is surrounded with mysterious occurrences, and also of the gravest nature. The theory Colonel Hofferman has just put forward will not hold water—it does not hang together! To gain a full understanding of a thing one must begin at the beginning. This beginning I have brought, and I make you judge, Monsieur, of whether or no it is worth the most careful consideration."
Caught between two fires, the Under-Secretary looked exceedingly sorry for himself. Above everything, he dreaded being forced to act as umpire between Hofferman and Juve. There was no escape, however, so, with a weary air, he asked Juve to make his case clear.
"Well, gentlemen," began our detective, who had fully regained his self-possession, "you know what the circumstances were which led me to the discovery that Captain Brocq had been mysteriously assassinated? It was, obviously, of the first importance that I should learn every detail regarding his private life, get to know with whom he had intercourse, who his correspondents were, find out where he was accustomed to go, so that, being thoroughly posted up regarding his personality, I could discover to whose interest it would be that he should disappear.... I went to Brocq's flat in the rue de Lille to collect evidence from various sources. I have it all written down in my case papers. One fact stands out clearly: Captain Brocq was regularly visited by a woman whom we have not as yet been able to identify beyond a doubt, but we shall soon know who she is. I am certain sheis a lady of fashion. She was his mistress: the commencement of a letter written to her by the deceased shows this; but, unfortunately, he has not addressed her by name. The letter was begun, according to the experts, some hours before the drama of assassination was enacted.... It is the mauve document, number 42. It commences:
"'My darling'."...
Juve showed this sheet of mauve letter paper to his listeners. Colonel Hofferman seemed to attach no importance whatever to it.
Juve continued:
"I should greatly value Colonel Hofferman's opinion regarding the suppositions I am about to formulate. Well, gentlemen, here is what I deduce from my investigations.... Captain Brocq was a simple, modest fellow; a hard worker; reasonable, temperate, serious-minded officer: a good middle-class citizen, in fact. If Captain Brocq had an irregular love affair, it was assuredly with the best intentions; Brocq, who perhaps had not been able to resist his senses, was too straight a man to willingly entertain the idea of not regularising the union later on. Is that your opinion, Colonel?"
Hofferman frankly replied:
"It is my opinion, Monsieur Juve. That was certainly Captain Brocq's character. But I do not see what you are driving at."
"At this," replied the detective. "Captain Brocq's mistress must be looked for, not among women of the lower orders, but among those of a higher class, who are more outwardly correct, at any rate, more women of the world. Among those with whom Brocq was on friendly terms, was the family of an old diplomat of Austrian extraction, a Monsieur de Naarboveck. This de Naarboveck has a daughter: she is twenty. This Mademoiselle Wilhelmine was terribly distressed, and in a state of profound grief, the day after Brocq's death. I am not going so far as to pretend that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress; but one might easily think so."
"How do you know that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck showed grief at the death of Captain Brocq?"
"Through a journalist who was received in the de Naarboveck family circle the day after the drama."
"Oh, a journalist!" protested the colonel.
Juve smiled slily.
"A journalist not like the others—it was Jérôme Fandor, Colonel!... He went to de Naarboveck's to fulfill a mission entrusted to him by those in high places. The Minister of War."...
The Under-Secretary cut the inspector short.
"We know all about that, Monsieur Juve ... besides the person whom the Minister wished to learn something about was not Monsieur de Naarboveck's daughter, but her companion—a young woman named Berthe."...
"And nicknamed Bobinette!" finished Juve.
"What do you think of her?" asked the Under-Secretary.
Juve's reply was an indirect one.
"The more I think about it, the more I am tempted to believe that Wilhelmine de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress—oh, in the right way, in all honour!—and that in the background, surreptitiously, a third person pushed herself into their confidence was the recipient of their secret, and on this account she could take a good many liberties with them. Berthe, or Bobinette, was this third person, of course!... She is known to have visited Brocq repeatedly.... Now, what was she doing there—what was her object? Well, we have to get a clear idea of what happened and draw our conclusions. Remember, Brocq left his flat in great haste on the afternoon of his assassination; he took a taxi at the des Saints-Pères, and drove off in pursuit of someone.... Why, we do not know, yet; but this someone was a woman, and I am convinced the woman was Bobinette."
"What is Bobinette's social position?"
"Gentlemen, I wish I could define it in a single word, but it is here that I enter the region of enigmas. Here is mystery on mystery. Without breaking the seal of professional secrecy, I may tell you that this woman should be known to me; I say 'should' because I still lack precise information about her; I await this information with impatience—I fear it also, for, gentlemen."...
Juve stopped short, got up, and began pacing the immense room. Drawing up before the Under-Secretary and Colonel Hofferman, he gazed at them. His manner was impressive.
"Gentlemen," said he, in a quiet penetrating voice, and with an air of intense conviction: "Gentlemen, if my conjectures are correct, Bobinette is naught but a girl of low birth—of the lowest—a creature who will stick at nothing, who has been mixed up with a band of criminals, the most cunning, the most artful, the most unscrupulous, the most dangerous band of criminals in all this round world—a band I have, time and again, pursued, decimated, broken up, dispersed ... only to see them spring to an associated evil life again, a ceaseless rebirth of maleficent forces, forming and reforming, a malevolent, hydra-headed monster, a band, gentlemen, of incarnated evil—the band of Fantômas!"
Juve became silent. He wiped his forehead.
The harsh voice of Colonel Hofferman broke the silence:
"Hypotheses! True to this extent, Monsieur Juve, that Brocq may very well have had a mistress—we are all agreed about that—but, in reality, it is simply romance!"
There was a discreet knock at the door.
"What is it?" demanded the Under-Secretary. The form of an usher showed itself in the half-opened doorway.
He entered, and, turning towards the Under-Secretary, said: "Excuse me, sir." Then, addressing Colonel Hofferman: "Captain Loreuil sends me to tell Colonel Hofferman that he has returned, and has a communication of extreme urgency to lay before him."
"The captain must wait!" cried Hofferman, in a harsh, authoritative tone.
But the usher, fulfilling his orders, replied:
"The captain anticipated this answer, Colonel, and told me to add that the communication cannot wait."
The usher withdrew. Hofferman glanced questioningly at the Under-Secretary.
"Go to him, Colonel, and return as soon as possible."
The Under-Secretary addressed Juve:
"The Government is greatly annoyed by all these incidents, which are assuming enormous proportions.... Are you aware that rumours of war are becoming wide-spread?... Public opinion is in a most unsettled state.... Things are bad on the Bourse, too—going from bad to worse!... Really, it is all most distressing!"
With a movement of sympathetic acquiescence, Juve said gently:
"I cannot help it, Monsieur!"
It was noon. Twelve was striking.
Early in the morning of the day on which the meeting took place in the private office of the Under-Secretary of State, the proprietor ofThe Three Moonsat Châlons was busy bottling his wine. Dawn was just breaking, and the good man had a spirit lamp in his cellar to throw light upon his task.
Suddenly his bottling operations were disturbed by an unknown voice calling him insistently from the top of the steps.
"Hey, there! Father Louis! Where is Father Louis?"
Fuming and grumbling, the innkeeper mounted his cellar-steps, and appeared on the porch.
"I am Father Louis! What am I wanted for?"
The publican found himself face to face with an enormously stout woman: a grotesque figure clad in light-coloured garments, so cut that they exaggerated her stoutness; a large, many-coloured shawl was thrown round her shoulders; on her head was a big round hat, tied with strings in a bow under her chin. This odd head-gear was topped with a bunch of gaudy feathers, ragged and out of curl. A veil of flowery design half hid this woman's features: though far from her first youth, she no doubt wished to appear young still. The skin of her face was covered with powder and paint, so badly laid on, that daubs of white, of red, and blue, lay side by side in all their crudity: there was no soft blending of tints: it was the make-up of no artist's hand.
"What an object!" thought the publican, staring at this oddity, who had seated herself on the porch seat and had placed on the ground a great wicker basket filled with vegetables.
"Ouf!" she cried. "It is a long step to your canteen,Father Louis! My word, I never thought I should get here! Well now, how is my little pet of a girl?"
Nonplussed, suspicious, Father Louis looked hard at this strange visitor: never had he seen anyone like her! What astonished him was to hear her calling him by the name used only by his familiars.
"Whoever are you?" he asked in a surly tone. "I don't remember you!"
"That's not surprising," cried the visitor, who seemed of a gay disposition, for she always laughed at the close of every sentence. "My goodness! It would be queer if you did not recognise me, considering you have never seen me before!... I am Aunt Palmyra, let me tell you!"
The innkeeper, more and more out of countenance, searched his memory in vain.
"Aunt Palmyra?" he echoed.
"Why, of course, you big stupid! Nichoune's aunt—a customer of yours, she is! She must have mentioned me often—I adore the little pet!"
Father Louis had not the slightest recollection of any such mention, but, out of politeness, he murmured:
"Of course! Why, of course!"
"Well, then, old dear, you must tell me where she hangs out here! I must go and give her a hug and a kiss!"
Mechanically, the innkeeper directed Aunt Palmyra.
"On the ground floor—end of the passage!... But you're never thinking of waking Nichoune at this early hour! She'll make a pretty noise if you do!"
"Bah!" cried Aunt Palmyra: "Wait till the little dear sees who it is!... Just look at the nice things I've brought her!" and, showing him the vegetables in her basket, she began to drawl in a sing-song voice:
"Will you have turnips and leeks? Here's stuff to make broth of the best! It will make her think of bygone days when she lived with us in the country!"
"My faith!" thought Father Louis, "if Nichoune opens her mouth!"
Aunt Palmyra was knocking repeatedly at Nichoune's door, but there was no response.
"Well, what a sleep she's having!"
"Likely enough," replied Father Louis, "considering she was not in bed till four o'clock!"
All the same, this persistent silence puzzled the innkeeper. He tried to peep through the keyhole, but the key was in it. Then he quietly drew a gimlet from his pocket and bored a hole in the door. Aunt Palmyra watched him smiling: she winked and jogged his elbow.
"Ho, ho, my boy! I'll wager you don't stick at having a look at your customers this way, when it suits you!"
With the ease of practice the innkeeper glued his eye to the hole he had just made. He uttered an exclamation:
"Good heavens!"
"What is it?" cried Nichoune's aunt in a tone of alarm. "Is her room empty?"
"Empty? No! But."...
Father Louis was white as paper. He searched his pocket in feverish haste, drew from it a screwdriver, rapidly detached the lock, and rushed into the room, followed by Aunt Palmyra, who bawled:
"Oh, my good lord! Whatever is the matter with her?"
Nichoune was stretched out on her bed, and might have seemed asleep to an onlooker were it not for two things which at once struck the eye: her face was all purple, and her arms, sticking straight up in the air, were terrifyingly white and rigid. Approaching the bed, the innkeeper and Aunt Palmyra saw that Nichoune's arms were maintained in this vertical position by means of string tied round her wrists and fastened to the canopy over the bed.
"She is dead!" cried Father Louis. "This is awful! Good heavens! What a thing to happen!"
Aunt Palmyra, for all her previous protestations of affection for her charming niece, did not seem in any way moved by the tragic discovery. She glanced rapidly round the room without a sign of emotion. This attitude only lasted a moment. Suddenly she broke out into loud lamentations uttering piercing cries: she threw herself into an arm-chair, then sank in a heap on the sofa, thenreturned to the table! She was making a regular nuisance of herself. The innkeeper, scared and bewildered, did not know how to act: he was staring fixedly at the unfortunate Nichoune, who gave no sign of life. Involuntarily the man had touched the dead girl's shoulder: the body was quite cold.
The innkeeper, who had been driven into a state of distracted bewilderment by Aunt Palmyra's behaviour, now bethought him of his obvious duty: of course he must call in the police, and also avoid scandal. Also he must stop this old woman's outrageous goings-on.
"Be quiet!" he commanded. "You are not to make such a noise! Stay where you are! Don't stir from that corner until I return ... and, above all, you must not touch a single thing before the arrival of the police."
"The police!" moaned Aunt Palmyra. "It is frightful! Oh, my poor Nichoune, however could this have happened?"
Nevertheless, scarcely had the innkeeper retired than the old woman, with remarkable dexterity, rummaged about among the disordered furniture, and seized a certain number of papers, which she hid in her bodice.
Hardly had she pushed them out of sight when the innkeeper returned, accompanied by a policeman. It was in vain that Father Louis endeavoured to get the policeman into the tragic room. He did not wish to do anything.
"I tell you," he repeated in his big voice, "it's not worth my while looking at this corpse ... for the superintendent will be here shortly, and he will take charge of the legal procedure."
At the end of about ten minutes the magistrate appeared, accompanied by his secretary, and immediately proceeded to a summary interrogation of the innkeeper; but, in the presence of Aunt Palmyra, it was impossible to do any serious work. This insupportable old woman could not make head or tail of the questions, and answered at random.
"Leave the room, Madame, leave the room, and I will hear what you have to say presently."
"But where must I go?" whined Aunt Palmyra.
"Go where you like! Go to the devil!" shouted the exasperated inspector.
"Oh, well, I suppose I ought not to say so," replied the old woman, looking seriously offended, "but, though you are an inspector, you have a very rude tongue in your head!"
To emphasise her majestic exit, Aunt Palmyra added:
"Fancy now! Not one of you have thought of it! I am going as far as the corner to look for flowers for this poor little thing."
Either florists were difficult to find, or Aunt Palmyra had no wish to see them as she passed by, for the old woman walked right through the town without stopping. When she reached the railway station she looked at the clock.
"By the saints! I have barely time," she ejaculated.
The old termagant traversed the waiting-room, got her ticket punched—it was a return ticket—and stepped on to the platform at the precise moment a porter was crying in an ear-piercing voice:
"Passengers for Paris take your seats!"
Aunt Palmyra installed herself in a second-class compartment: "For ladies only."
The train rolled out of the station.
An inspector was examining the tickets at the stopping-place at Château-Thierry.
"Excuse me, sir," said he, waking a passenger who had fallen fast asleep—a stout man, with a smooth face and scanty hair—"Excuse me, Monsieur, but you are in a 'For ladies only!'"
The man leapt up and rubbed his eyes; instinctively, with the gesture of a short-sighted man, he took from his waistcoat pocket a large pair of spectacles in gold frames, and stared at the inspector.
"I am sorry! It's a mistake! I will change into another compartment!"
The stranger passed along the connecting corridor, carrying a small bundle of clothes wrapped in a shawl of many colours!... An hour later, the train from Châlonsarrived at Paris, ten minutes behind time. Directly he stood on the platform the traveller looked at his watch.
"Twenty-five past eleven! I can do it!"
He jumped into a taxi, giving his orders:
"Rue Saint Dominique—Ministry of War!... and quick!"
Shortly after the unexpected departure of Colonel Hofferman, Juve, judging it useless to prolong the conversation, had quitted the Under-Secretary of State's office. Instead of mounting to the Second Bureau, he sent in his name to Commandant Dumoulin. Although their acquaintance was but slight, the two men were in sympathy: each realised that the other was courageous and devoted to duty; both were enamoured of an active life and open air.
Juve was hoping that at all events he would hear something new, if not facts about the affair he had in hand, at least with regard to the attitude which the military authorities meant to take up. Commandant Dumoulin, however, knew nothing or did not wish to say anything, and Juve was about to leave, when Colonel Hofferman entered.
Hofferman looked radiant. Catching sight of Juve, he smiled.
"Ah! Upon my word! I did not expect to find you here, Monsieur ... but, since you are, you will be glad to get some news of the Brocq affair."...
Juve's eyes were shining notes of interrogation.
"I rendered due homage to your perspicacity just now," continued the colonel: "you were absolutely right in your prognostication that Brocq had a mistress; unfortunately—I am sorry for the wound to your self-esteem—the correctness of your version stops there! Brocq's mistress was not a society woman, as you thought: on the contrary, she was a girl of the lower orders ... a music-hall singer, called Nichoune ... of Châlons!"
"You have proof of it?"
The colonel, with a superior air, held out a packet of letters to Juve.
"Here is the correspondence—letters written by Brocq to the girl! One of my collaborators seized them at girl's place."...
Juve scrutinised the letters.
"It's curious," he said, half to himself.... "An annoying coincidence ... but the name of Nichoune does not appear once in these letters!"
"No other name appears," observed the colonel: "Consequently, taking into consideration the place where these letters have been found ... we must conclude."...
"These letters had no envelopes with them?" questioned Juve.
"No, there were none, but what matters that?" cried the colonel.
"Very queer," said Juve, in a meditative tone. Then raising his voice:
"I suppose, Colonel, that your ... collaborator, before taking possession of these letters, had a talk with the person who had received them. Did he manage to extract any information?"
Hofferman interrupted Juve with a gesture.
"Monsieur Juve," said he, crossing his arms, "I am going to give you another surprise: my collaborator could not get the person in question to talk, and for a very good reason: he found her dead!"
"Dead?" echoed Juve.
"That is as I say."
The detective, though he strove to hide it, was more and more taken aback. What could this mean? No doubt he would soon secure additional information; but what was the connecting link? where, and who was the mysterious person who was really pulling the strings? The sarcastic voice of the colonel tore Juve from his reflections and questionings.
"Monsieur Juve, I think it is high time we had some lunch ... but before we separate allow me to give you a word of advice.
"When, in the course of your career, you have occasion to deal with matters relating to spies and spying, leave us to deal with them, that is what we are here for!... As for you, content yourself with ordinary police work,that is your business, and, if it gives you pleasure, continue your hunt for Fantômas, that will give you all the occupation you require!... Yes," continued the colonel, while Juve was clenching his fists with exasperation at this irony which was like so many flicks of a whip on his face, "Yes, leave these serious affairs to us—and occupy yourself with Fantômas!"