Fandor was talking to himself—an inveterate habit of his—as he sat in the cab which was carrying him to the Palais de Justice.
"Beyond question, I ought to have examined that paper they have stolen from Mademoiselle Elizabeth. I should have looked through it at the first opportunity. That sequence of names; those dates, which seem to almost coincide with the different criminal attempts, probably relate to the mysterious plan which the assassins are carrying out systematically.... But, that means there are to be more victims, and we shall witness fresh tragedies!... I am not at all easy about Elizabeth either!... Who the deuce could have telephoned to her at the convent?... Perhaps what I am going to do is stupid, but no chance must be neglected.... I wonder if I shall learn anything worth knowing at the court to-day?...
"When they arrested these smugglers, five months ago, I recollect perfectly that Monsieur Thomery's name was mentioned in connection with the business.... If I only held the connecting link of interest in my hands, which would make it clear why all these people—Jacques Dollon, the Baroness de Vibray, Princess Sonia Danidoff, Barbey-Nanteuil, and even Elizabeth Dollon—have been the victims of the horrible band I am pursuing.... The motive? Evidently robbery! But there must be some other reason, for—and it is a significant fact—all these people know one another, meet one another, or at least are either clients of the Barbey-Nanteuil bank, or are friends of Monsieur Thomery.... It's the devil's own mystery!"
Jérôme Fandor had arrived at the Palais de Justice. He crossed the great hall des Pas-Perdus and entered the Assize Court.
The trial of the Cooper and his accomplices was a small affair, and had not attracted many listeners, for these smuggling and coining cases were apt to be dull. As a matter of fact, there would not have been a soul present, if the accused had not had the most popular of counsels to defend them—Maître Henri Robart!
Fandor joined a group who were on familiar terms evidently, and, although he had not seen her for many a day, he at once recognised Mother Toulouche by her remarkable appearance and grotesque get up. He had had so many other irons in the fire, that he had not followed this smuggling case at all closely: he was surprised, therefore, to see Mother Toulouche in the little passage adjoining the court, for he had the impression that the old receiver of stolen goods had been under lock and key for some weeks.... She was now being interviewed by one of his colleagues. Fandor went up to them.
Though she had not been accused of anything so far, the old storekeeper was vehemently protesting her innocence.
"Yes," she declared to her interviewer, "it is abominable, when such things are discovered all of a sudden!"
Mother Toulouche went on to explain that on Clock Quay she rented a small shop for the sale of curiosities: that she was an honest woman, who had never wronged a soul by as much as a farthing: all she asked was to be left in peace to earn a decent living, so that she could retire from business some day or other.... Everyone had a right to ask as much as that!... Her store consisted of two rooms and an underground cellar, in which she had put a quantity of old odds and ends, when she had moved to her present abode.... She never descended to this cellar, never at all: she was far too much afraid of rats to venture down there! Not she! But, one day, if you please, when she was quietly engaged in mending some old clothes, the police had suddenly burst into her store!... And they had accused her of receiving smuggled goods and false money, and she didn't know what more besides!...
The police, not content with this, had made her go down to the cellar to find out whether or no there were such things in the second cellar belonging to her store!... Who had been most surprised then? Why who but Mother Toulouche, who, until that very minute, had not known that this second cellar existed! How then was she to know that it communicated with the sewer, still less that the sewer opened on to the Seine, and that by the Seine arrived bales of smuggled goods, which were concealed in her cellar by the smugglers?... Fortunately, the judges had understood this, and after twenty-four hours' detention on suspicion, Mother Toulouche had been set at liberty!
At first, she had declared that she did not know the accused persons summoned to appear that day, the Cooper in particular; to tell the truth, she had made a mistake; she did know them, through having met them a long time ago, when she lived near la Capelle; so long ago was it that she had forgotten all about it! Anyhow, she wanted to have done with the business!
From the very beginning of the trial, Mother Toulouche had been disagreeably struck by the inquisitorial glances and pointed questions of the Public Prosecutor throughout the proceedings. Now, in her turn, the old storekeeper was questioning her audience, trying hard to find out what would be the probable attitude of the magistrate, when she herself should be summoned to the witness-box.
"Witness!... Mother Toulouche!"
Fandor smiled as he listened to the loquacious old storekeeper, for he knew how much faith was to be put in her veracity and respectability!... It was pretty clear that she was every whit as guilty as the handcuffed individuals now in the dock. As she had not been arrested, it simply meant that, in Juve's opinion, this was not an opportune moment to put a stopper on the nefarious activities of this bad old woman.
At this precise moment, Fandor recognised Juve. He was leaving a group of barristers and officials, who had been hugely entertained by his stupid answers and remarks. Yes, it was Juve, so admirably made up and disguised that Fandor had difficulty in recognising him. Here was Cranajour on the scene! He approached Mother Toulouche and stood there—a Cranajour who was the picture of gaping imbecility!
"You, too?" cried Mother Toulouche, looking askance at him. "Are you one of the witnesses?"
Cranajour's reply was a comical grimace. He scratched his beard, remarking finally:
"I have forgotten! I don't know!"
His audience burst into roars of laughter: Fandor laughed loudest of all!
One of Maître Henri Robart's juniors whispered in Fandor's ear, with an air of giving the journalist a piece of information worth having.
"A simple-minded soul, that!—a kind of idiot! You can guess that, at the preliminary inquiry, they soon found that out!... He may be heard—or he may not?"
Fandor nodded. He found it difficult not to laugh.
"Thanks many for the information," he stammered. The young barrister did not understand the ironical tone of our journalist.
Mother Toulouche was envying Cranajour.
"You're in luck, you are—to be too silly to go and talk to those inquisitive fellows in there! Eh?"
Conversations stopped. The little low door, giving entrance to the court, had just opened: an usher announced:
"The case is resumed!... Witnesses this way!... The woman Toulouche?... It is your turn!..."
They jostled and pushed their way through the narrow entrance in order to get into the court room quickly.
Fandor, however, instead of following the crowd, had grasped the simple Cranajour by the shoulder, and shouted loud enough to be heard by those who might have been surprised at his action.
"You duffer of a Cranajour! Go along with you! You're the man for my money, old fellow! Here's something for a glass—but come with me for five minutes: I want to interview you and make a jolly good article out of it!"
Fandor went off, followed by the detective. When they were quite away from everyone, Fandor turned quickly to his friend.
"Well, Juve?"
"Nothing, so far...."
"You have not run in the whole gang?"
"Not I!" replied Juve. "These are only the supernumeraries, and there are some of them out of my reach!... Look here, Fandor," continued Juve in a low tone. "You will see someone in court presently whose presence will astonish you—it is an aviator—the aviator Emilet.... Well, my boy, I have a notion that this fellow is no stranger to all these goings-on!... But patience!... besides, you know, Fandor, it's not my way of doing things to put the bracelets on mediocrities such as he: I fly higher!... Good-bye. Shall see you later on!"
Fandor asked, in a low tone:
"Shall I remain for the sitting?"
"Yes," said Juve. "It is quite likely that I shall not be present; and it would be a good thing if you were to get a general idea of this affair: you may pick up some useful information."
"Juve, I very much wish to have a longer talk with you—there are things I want to say—to tell you!"
Steps could be heard coming in their direction: the two men separated at once; but Juve had just time to say:
"This evening then, at eight, I shall come to your place, Fandor. Expect me!"
Half an hour later, Fandor entered the court room....
The speech for the Crown had just been concluded.
The arrest of these smugglers, now on their trial, had made some stir, about five months ago. Public opinion had been aroused almost to fever pitch, when it became known that the accused had, for nearly two years past, succeeded in getting through into Paris, without having paid town dues, quantities of the most highly taxed articles, and thus had accumulated a large store of riches in contraband goods and money. They owed their arrest to the betrayal of a wretched dealer, who was dissatisfied with his remuneration.
The journalists had, after their manner, amplified all the details, had exaggerated the realities, and had given a romantic colouring to the various incidents in the varied lives and adventures of this daring band of smugglers.
They had been represented as perfect gentlemen, who had formed themselves into a marvellously organised Black Band, led by a chief having right of life or death over them: a band fertile in tricks and extraordinary stratagems, who massed their plunder in immense vaults and cellars under the very heart of Paris, in the Isle of the Cité, and communicating with the river, which, under the eyes of the police, served to bear the barges laden with their booty.
Cellars and vaults in the Isle of the Cité!
"Well," thought Fandor, "men organised into such a powerful association in this part of Paris might well put one on the track of strange discoveries regarding the mysterious events connected with the Jacques Dollon affair!"
Then, having spoken to his colleagues on the press, Fandor turned in the direction of the jury and set himself to follow attentively Maître Henri Robart's speech for the defence.
The portress rang up Fandor on the telephone.
"Monsieur Fandor! There is a stout little lady down here! She wants to see you! Should I let her go up?"
Fandor's first impulse was to say "no." He glanced at the timepiece: it was exactly two minutes past eight and Juve might be here at any minute. He was sure to keep his appointment.
After an instant's hesitation, Fandor decided on a "yes." He called down to the portress:
"Let her come up!"
Fandor had an idea: perhaps this person knew something about the appointment made that afternoon at the Palais de Justice! It would be well to find out the why and wherefore of this call. In any case, it was best for a journalist to see all comers, if possible.
There was a discreet ring, announcing that the stout little lady had already mounted the five flights of stairs and was now on Fandor's landing.
Our journalist went to open the door, standing well back in the shadow, so that his visitor might show herself first, as she passed into the little hall.
Yes, she was certainly stout, short, and also elderly. She wore a bonnet with strings, perched on a thick crop of grey curls, yellowish at the tips. This elderly dame wore glasses; she was wrapped in a large brown shawl, and she supported herself, as she walked, with a crook-handled stick.
Whilst the puzzled Fandor closed his front door, the visitor made straight for the little sitting-room, where our journalist usually sat, surrounded by his books and papers.
"Ah, she seems to know my flat!" thought Fandor. The next moment he jumped back; for, no sooner had the visitor got well into the room, than she straightened her bent back, threw off her shawl, and dropped her stick! Then, tearing off her grey curls and her spectacles, the visitor revealed herself as—Juve!
Fandor burst out laughing.
"Juve! Well, I never!"
"It's Juve, all right, my boy!" cried the smiling detective, as he rid himself of the feminine get-up which impeded his movements. "I was pleased to see, my lad, that you did not suspect my identity until I had thrown off this second-hand wardrobe I bulked myself out with!"
"Oh!" cried Fandor, "that's only because I hardly looked at you. If I had, Juve, you may be sure I should have recognised you!"
"Possibly! But what do you think of the disguise?"
"Not so bad, Juve; but why did you change your sex this evening?"
"Oh, for the fun of it, and to keep my hand in ... besides, the more precautions we take when we meet, the better. Admit for a moment that our enemies are keeping a watch on you here: what will they recollect about your doings this evening? Why, that Fandor, the journalist, had a call from a lady, and that she did not leave in a hurry either!"
"Hang it all! I've no objection to a Don Juan reputation, but I may say, without offence, that, as a woman, there's nothing particularly attractive about you, Juve, in the garb you've just discarded!"
"Bah!" replied Juve. "You mustn't be so particular, my dear boy—as if dress mattered—or appearance either!"
Juve was lighting a cigarette as he walked about the room, examining the books and other objects with which Fandor had surrounded himself.
"A charming home!" murmured the detective....
Then, he inspected the contents of a little show-case, in which Fandor had collected what he called his "Circumstantial Evidence"; in other words, various objects relating to cases he had been engaged on, such as scraps of clothing, blood-stained weapons, broken locks: these records of crimes, new and old, were carefully labelled. Juve began questioning Fandor about these sinister relics. Five minutes of jokes and laughter, then Fandor became serious. He drew his friend to a corner settee.
"Juve," said he, in an impressive tone, "I have found the connecting link!"
"By Jove! You have, have you!" cried Juve in a bantering tone, and with a quizzical look. "Let us see it!... Explain!..."
Regardless of his friend's scepticism, Fandor proceeded to expound his theory.
"I did as you suggested. I was present at the trial of the smugglers: I listened to Counsel's speech for the defence, but judged it useless to stay to the end. When Maître Henri Robart began a disquisition on the facts, I left. Here is what I have noted:
"Someone owns a house in the Isle of the Cité; a house which is a meeting place for receivers of stolen goods, ruffians, robbers, and vagabonds: a house possessing underground cellars of no ordinary kind. Now, this Someone never mentions this strange house of his, though he must be aware of its existence; then this Someone knows intimately several, at least, of the people more or less involved in the Jacques Dollon affair, and—one may boldly assert it—the Dollon plot was hatched in a cellar, in a sewer of the Cité.
"One of two things!...
"Either this personage is timorous, is afraid of being compromised, and does not consider in what an awkward position this coincidence places him—if that be so, he is a singularly thick-headed individual—or—well—Monsieur Thomery ... you are the most rascally scoundrel it has been my lot to admire, up to now! But I assure you, we know how to get even with you! From the moment we have established, in the first place, a connection between all these affairs—that they indubitably hang together; secondly, that you, Monsieur Thomery, are the connecting link...."
"No," interrupted Juve, sharply....
"What is that you say?..."
"I say—no."
"What?" cried Fandor, taken aback. He stared at Juve, who continued to smoke his cigarette, unmoved. But Fandor was obstinately set on stating his point of view.
"The primary cause of the Dollon affair seems to be the suicide of the Baroness de Vibray, a suicide probably owing to a love disappointment—the old lady had been forsaken by her lover—Monsieur Thomery!..."
"No."
Juve's denial slightly annoyed Fandor, but did not stop him.
"I ask: was the man who robbed Sonia Danidoff one of the guests? It is very unlikely; for, not only were the clothes of all those present searched, but all Thomery's guests were known, well known!..."
"No!"
Fandor bit his lip.
"It's true, Juve! You were there yourself, and no one penetrated your disguise, and discovered who you really were! My last argument is, therefore, worthless ... but I fancy your attitude, your way of receiving my deductions, hides something. Have you got new information! Fresh facts to go on? You know who stole the jewels?"
"No."
"Good Heavens! How aggravating you are, Juve!... But this time you will simply have to agree with me! Listen!... When we first met, after our long separation, you admitted that one thing bothered you—the ease with which your nefarious band of villains of the Isle of the Cité were able to get rid of considerable sums of false money; and you were trying to find their market—by what means these wretches were able to rid themselves of the coin; when, apparently, they were not acquainted with any influential people in the business world, or in the circles of high finance.... Well, I have discovered their channel of distribution—it is none other than the proprietor of this house properly, the ground floor and basement of which are occupied by Mother Toulouche—obviously, it is Thomery!..."
"No!"
Fandor lifted hands to heaven in despairing fashion and sat silent. He was deeply mortified. There was a long pause, during which Juve calmly smoked on. At last, Fandor asked in a hopeless sort of tone:
"Well?... What do you think?"
Slowly, as if awakening from a dream, Juve began to speak.
"We know nothing for certain so far, my lad, except that the Baroness de Vibray has committed suicide; that Princess Sonia Danidoff has recovered from the shock of her jewel robbery, and is to marry Thomery next month ... there is nothing extraordinary in that ... just as there is, perhaps, nothing surprising or extraordinary in the series of robberies, nor even in the crimes occupying our attention at the present moment!"
Fandor jumped up. "Nothing!" he shouted. "You are joking, Juve! It is absurd what you say! Do just think a minute, my dear fellow! Why, all these affairs are closely connected, from the Jacques Dollon affair, up to ... up to ..."
Fandor stopped short. Juve, who had been listening to him with seeming inattention, now appeared wholly anxious to hear the end of the sentence: he stared hard at Fandor.
"Go on! Go on! I want to make you say it!..."
And Fandor, as though in spite of himself, finished with:
"Up to Fantômas!"
"Yes, at last we have got it!" cried Juve.
The two men gazed at each other; once more the logic of deductions, the chain of circumstances had inevitably led him to pronounce the name of the formidable bandit, of whom they could not think without a shudder; whose memory they could not evoke without immediately feeling themselves surrounded by sinister gloom, lost in a thick fog of mystery, of what was strange, hidden, occult!
Fandor's countenance cleared suddenly as he gave utterance to the idea which had just crossed his mind.
"Juve, do you not think that this mysterious prison warder, called Nibet, might very well be an incarnation of Fantômas, because in so many circumstances ..."
Juve interrupted Fandor with a gesture of denial.
"No, old fellow," said he gravely. "Don't start on that trail, it is assuredly a bad one: Nibet is not Fantômas. Nibet does not count for much, one might say, for nothing at all; he can scarcely be called a tiny wheel even in the great machine driven on its diabolical course by our fiendish enemy ... we must look higher than that!"
"Thomery?" insisted Fandor, who still held to his idea, and was determined to turn Juve to his way of thinking....
But Juve still said "no!" to that.
"Let us drop Thomery, my lad! As to Fantômas, how do you think we can identify him in this haphazard fashion, basing our idea on pure supposition? ... For, who is Fantômas—the real Fantômas, among so many probable Fantômas?
"Can you tell me that, Fandor?" continued Juve, who was getting excited at last.... "I grant you that we have seen, in the course of our chequered existence, an old gentleman, like Etienne Rambert, a thickset Englishman like Gurn, a robust fellow like Loupart, a weak and sickly individual like Chaleck. We have identified each one of them, in turn, as Fantômas—and that is all.
"As for seeing Fantômas himself, just as he is, without artificial aid, without paint and powder, without a false beard, without a wig, Fantômas as his face really is under his hooded mask of black—that we have not yet done. It is that fact which makes our hunt for the villain ceaselessly difficult, often dangerous!... Fantômas is always someone, sometimes two persons, never himself!"
Juve, once started on this subject, could go on for ever, and Fandor did not try to stop him: when the course of conversation led them to talk of Fantômas the two men were as though hypnotised by this mysterious creature, so well named, for he was really "Fantômatic," a spectral entity: the two friends could not turn their minds to any other subject. They discussed Fantômas up and down, in and out, and round about!...
It was getting on towards one o'clock when Fandor saw Juve off as far as the staircase. The detective had resumed his disguise, but neither man was in a joking mood now. Fandor had given Juve an account of the annoying, yet rather absurd incident at the convent, when he and Elizabeth were unsuspectingly bidding each other a passionate farewell under the watchful and scandalised eye of a nun! Fandor had thought it better to take Juve into his confidence on the point, though it went against the grain, for he was bashful with regard to his feelings.
Juve had openly laughed at first, but when he understood that Elizabeth, requested to leave the convent, would again be without a safe shelter, he became serious, reflected for a minute or two, then gave his dear lad a piece of advice, advice which Fandor had seemingly taken objection to, and had finished by agreeing to....
They parted with these words:
"The more you think it over, dear lad, the better you will like my idea," said Juve.
Fandor had not said "No" to it!
The day after his memorable talk with Juve, Fandor was summoned to appear before the police magistrate, because he could give evidence regarding the rue Raffet affair, and had saved Elizabeth Dollon's life.
It was about four in the afternoon, and he had just entered the passage leading to the offices so familiar to him, when he met Elizabeth. Behind her came several persons whom he recognised: among them were the Barbey-Nanteuil partners, Madame Bourrat, and the servant, Jules. They were together and were talking. The moment she saw him, Elizabeth went up to him.
"Ah, monsieur!" she cried, with a reproachful look. "We had given up all hope of seeing you.... Just imagine, the magistrate has finished his enquiry already! Twice he asked if you had come!"
Fandor seemed surprised.
"The summons was for four this afternoon, was it not?" he asked, taking from his pocket the summoning letter. A glance showed that he was not mistaken: he gave Elizabeth the letter to read. She smiled.
"You were summoned for four o'clock, I see; but we had to appear earlier: I was examined as soon as I arrived, and I was summoned to appear at half-past two."
Fandor was annoyed with himself: he might have guessed it! He was vexed because he had not been on the watch in the passage whilst this examination was proceeding. He was moving towards Monsieur Fuselier's room, the magistrate in charge of the Auteuil affair, and he must have looked his vexation, for Elizabeth said:
"I am a little to blame, perhaps, that you had not due notice, but what could I do! Yesterday evening when you telephoned to the convent to ask for news of me, I was just going to tell you at what time I was summoned, but when I went to the telephone...."
"What's this you are telling me?" asked Fandor, staring hard at Elizabeth. "I never telephoned to you yesterday evening. Who told you I had been asking for you on the telephone?"
"Nobody said so; but I supposed it was you! Who else would be so kindly interested in my doings?"
Fandor made no reply to this. Here was the telephone mystery again—an alarming mystery. Elizabeth had not given her address to anyone: Fandor had been careful not to give it to a soul.... Clearly, this poor girl, even in the heart of this peaceful convent, was not secure from some unknown, outside interference; and Fandor, optimist though he was, could not help shuddering at the thought of these mysterious adversaries, implacable and formidable, who might work harm to this unfortunate girl, whose devoted protector he now was.... Besides ... did he not feel for Jacques Dollon's pretty sister something sweeter and more tender than pure sympathy?... Whenever he was near her, did he not experience a thrill of emotion? Fandor did not analyse his feelings, but they influenced him unconsciously.
He turned to Elizabeth.
"Since you cannot remain any longer at the convent, where do you think of staying?"
"Well, monsieur, I shall go back to the convent this evening, though it is painful to me—very, very painful—to be obliged to accept their icy hospitality ... as for to-morrow!"
Fandor was about to make a suggestion, when the door of Monsieur Fuselier's room opened half-way. The magistrate's clerk appeared, and, glancing round the passage over his spectacles, called, in a dull tone:
"Monsieur Jérôme Fandor!"
"Here!" replied our journalist. "I am coming!"
Then, taking a hasty farewell of Elizabeth as he went towards the magistrate's room, he whispered:
"Wait for me, mademoiselle; and, for the love of Heaven, remember this—whatever I may say, whatever happens, whether we are alone, together, or in the presence of others, whether it be in a few minutes, or later on, do not be astonished at what may befall you, even though it be my fault—be absolutely convinced of this—whatever I may do will be for your good—more than that I must not say!"
Elizabeth had not a word to say, but his words were humming and buzzing in her ears when Fandor was in the magistrate's room.
With a cordial handshake, Monsieur Fuselier began by congratulating him on having saved Elizabeth Dollon's life.
"Ah," said he, smiling, "you journalists have all the luck; and, between yourselves, I envy you a little, for your lucky star has led you to the discovery of a drama, and has enabled you to prevent a fatal ending to it. Now, do you not think, as I do, that this Auteuil affair is not a case of suicide, but of attempted assassination?"
"There is no doubt about it," replied Fandor quietly.
The magistrate drew himself up with a satisfied air.
"That is also my opinion—has been so from the start."
The clerk now interrupted the two men, who were talking as friends rather than as magistrate and witness, asking, in nasal tone:
"Does His Honour wish to take the evidence of Monsieur Jérôme Fandor?"
"In four lines then. I do not think Monsieur Fandor has anything more to tell us than what he has already told us in the columns ofLa Capitale. That is so, is it not?" asked the magistrate, looking at Fandor.
"That is correct," replied our journalist.
The clerk rapidly drew up the deposition of Monsieur Jérôme Fandor, in due form, and read it aloud in a monotonous voice.
Fandor signed it. It did not compromise him at all. He was about to leave when Monsieur Fuselier caught him by the arm.
"Please wait a minute! There are one or two points to be cleared up: I am going to ask the witnesses a few questions: we will have a general confrontation—we will compare evidence!"
Then, the journalist's friend, now all the magistrate, asked the assembled witnesses certain questions, in an emphatic and professional tone.
Fandor, seated a little apart, had leisure to examine the faces of the different persons whom circumstances had brought together in this room.
His first look was for Elizabeth: energy and courage were plainly marked on her pretty, sad face. Then there was the proprietor of the Auteuil boarding-house: an honest, vulgar creature, red-faced, perpetually mopping her brow and raising her hands to heaven; ready to bewail her position, deploring the untimely publicity given to this affair, a publicity which threatened discredit to her boarding-house.
As he was seated directly behind the manservant, Jules, Fandor had a view of his broad back, surmounted by a big bullet head and ruffled hair. This witness spoke with a strong Picardy accent, and there was nothing remarkable about his answers: he seemed the conventional second-rate type of servant. He did not seem to have understood much of what occurred on the famous day: when questioned as to the order of events, his answers were vague, uncertain.
Then, seated beside Fandor were the bankers: Barbey, a grave-looking man, no longer young, judging by his beard, which was going grey; he was decorated with the Legion of Honour: the other, Nanteuil, looked about thirty, elegant, distinguished, lively. These two were well known in the highest Parisian society as representing finance of the best kind. They were highly thought of.
The magistrate asked the bankers a question.
"Why," asked he, "did Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil call on Mademoiselle Dollon? Was it to bring her some help, as has been stated?"
Elizabeth blushed with humiliation at the magistrate's question. Monsieur Nanteuil answered:
"There is a slight distinction to be made, your Honour, and Mademoiselle Dollon certainly will not object to our mentioning it. It never entered our minds to offer Mademoiselle Dollon charity—charity she never asked of us, be it clearly understood. Mademoiselle Dollon, with whom we had previously been acquainted, whose misfortunes have inspired us with deep sympathy, wrote to ask us if we could find her some employment. Hoping to find some post for her, we came to see her, to talk with her, to find out what her capabilities were. That is all. We were very glad it so happened, that we were able to aid Monsieur Fandor in restoring her to life."
"Can you tell me, Monsieur Fandor, did you notice anything suspicious in Mademoiselle Dollon's room when you entered it? You wrote, in your article, that at first you had thought it simply an attempted burglary, followed by an attempted murder?"
"That is so," replied Fandor. "Directly the window was opened, I leaned out: I wanted to see if there was anything suspicious on the wall of the house. I also looked behind the shutters."
"Why?" asked the examining magistrate.
"Because I had not forgotten the close of the Thomery drama—the same Monsieur Thomery mentioned in the Assize Court yesterday—oh, in all honour, of course; but you have not forgotten—although that examination was not in your hands, and I regret it, because I am of the opinion that there are points of connection interlinking all these mysterious affairs—you have not forgotten, I am sure, that when the investigations were over and Monsieur Thomery's guests had been allowed to leave the house, that a thread of flax was discovered hanging to the window fastening of the room in which Princess Danidoff had been found unconscious. This flax thread was very strong, and was broken at the end: it is easy to conclude that the stolen pearls had been temporarily fastened to it. This led me to think that the aggressor, or aggressors, had remained in the reception rooms during the whole course of the investigations, since it is proved that no one left the house....
"... But, after all, we are not here to investigate the Thomery affair.... I wished to explain why I had examined the window and shutters Of Mademoiselle Dollon's room: I wanted to ascertain whether the procedure of the would-be murderer of Mademoiselle Dollon was similar to that of the robber in the Danidoff-Thomery case."
"And what conclusion did you come to?" asked the magistrate.
"Window and shutters bore no traces that I could see," said Fandor. "I could not come to any conclusion."
Here Monsieur Barbey intervened.
"If I may be allowed to say so"—he glanced at the magistrate for the required permission, which was given with a smile and gesture of assent—"I quite agree with Monsieur Jérôme Fandor. I also am convinced that, even if there is not a close connection between the Thomery affair and the Auteuil affair, at least there exists such a connection between the Auteuil affair and the terrible drama of rue Norvins."
"I would go even further than that," declared Monsieur Nanteuil. "The robbery of rue du Quatre Septembre, of which we are the victims, is also connected with this same series of mysterious cases."
The magistrate asked a question.
"It is a matter of twenty millions, is it not? It must have been a terrible blow to you?"
"Fearful, monsieur," replied Monsieur Nanteuil. "Our credit was shaken: it affected a considerable number of our clients, Monsieur Thomery among them, and we consider him one of our most important clients. You are aware, of course, that in financial matters confidence is almost everything!... Our losses have just been covered by an insurance, but we have suffered other than direct material losses. Still"—the banker turned towards Elizabeth, who was wiping tears from her eyes—"still, what are our troubles compared with those which have struck Mademoiselle Dollon blow upon blow? Assassination of the Baroness de Vibray, mysterious death——"
"The Baroness de Vibray was not assassinated, she committed suicide," interrupted Fandor sharply. "Most certainly, I do not wish to make you responsible for that, gentlemen; but when you wrote, announcing her ruin, you dealt her a very hard blow!"
"Could we have done otherwise?" replied Monsieur Barbey, with his customary gravity of manner and tone. "In our matter of fact business, where all must be clear and definite, we do not mince our words: we are bound to state things as they actually are. What is more, we do not share your point of view, and are convinced that the Baroness de Vibray was certainly murdered."
Monsieur Fuselier now expressed his opinion, or at least, what he wished to be considered as his opinion:
"Gentlemen, consider yourselves for the moment as not in the presence of the examining magistrate, but as being in the drawing-room of Monsieur Fuselier. In my private capacity, I will give you my opinion regarding the rue Norvins affair. I am decidedly less and less in agreement with Monsieur Fandor, though I recognise with pleasure his fine detective gifts."
"Thanks," interrupted Fandor ironically. "That is a poor compliment!"
Smiling, the magistrate continued:
"I am of the same opinion as Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil: I believe Madame de Vibray was murdered."
Fandor could not control his impatience.
"Be logical, messieurs, I beg of you!" he cried. "The Baroness de Vibray committed suicide. Her letter states her intention. The authenticity of this letter has not been disputed. The disastrous revelations, contained in Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil's communication, proved too severe a shock for the poor lady's unbalanced brain: the news of her ruin, abruptly conveyed, drove her to desperation. The death of the Baroness de Vibray was voluntary and self-inflicted."
There was a dead silence. Then Monsieur Barbey asked a question.
"Well, then, Monsieur Fandor, will you explain to us how it happened that the Baroness de Vibray was found dead in the studio of the painter, Jacques Dollon?"
Fandor seemed to expect this question from the banker.
"There are two hypotheses," he declared. "The first, and, in my humble opinion, the more improbable, is this: Madame de Vibray at the same time that she decided to put an end to her life, wished to pay her protégé a last visit; all the more so, because he had asked her to come and see his work before it was sent in to the Salon. Perhaps the Baroness intended to perform an act of charity, in this instance, before her supreme hour struck. Perhaps she miscalculated the effect of the poison she had taken, and so died in the house of the friend she had come to see and help: her death there could not have been her choice, for she must have known what serious trouble it would involve the artist in, were her dead body found in his studio.
"Here is the second hypothesis, which seems the more plausible. The Baroness de Vibray learns that she is ruined, she decides to die, and by chance or coincidence, which remains to be explained, for I have not the key to it yet, some third parties interested in her fate, learn her decision. They let her write to her lawyer; they do not prevent her poisoning herself; but, as soon as she is dead, they straightway take possession of her dead body and hasten to carry it to Jacques Dollon's studio. To the painter himself they administered either with his consent or by force—probably by force—a powerful narcotic, so that when the police are called in next day they not only find the Baroness lying dead in the studio, but they also find the painter unconscious, close by his visitor. When Jacques Dollon is restored to consciousness, he is quite unable to give any sort of explanation of the tragedy; naturally enough, the police look upon him as the murderer of her who was well known to have been his patroness.... How does that strike you?"
It was now Monsieur Fuselier's turn to hold forth.
"You forget a detail which has its importance! I do not pretend to judge as to whether she was poisoned by her own free act or not; but, in any case, we have this proof—an uncorked phial of cyanide of potassium was found in Jacques Dollon's studio. It seemed to have been recently opened; but, when the painter was questioned about it, he declared that he had not made use of this ingredient for a very long time."
Fandor replied:
"I can turn your argument against you, monsieur. If the Baroness de Vibray had been poisoned, voluntarily or not, with the cyanide of potassium in Dollon's studio, he would have taken the precaution to banish all traces of the poison in question. It would have been his first care! When questioned by the police inspector, he would not have declared that he had not made use of this poison for a very long time! the contradiction involved is proof that Dollon was sincere; therefore, we are faced by a fact which, if not inexplicable, is, at least, unexplained."
Monsieur Barbey now had something to say:
"You criticise and hair-split in a remarkable fashion, monsieur, and are an adept in the science of induction; but, let me say without offence meant, that you give me the impression of being rather a romancing journalist than a judicial investigator!... Admitting that the Baroness de Vibray was carried to the painter Dollon's studio after her death, and that seems to be your opinion, what advantage would it be to the criminals to act in such a fashion?"
Jérôme Fandor had risen, his eyes shining, his body vibrating with excitement.
"I expected your question, monsieur," he cried; "and the answer is simple. The mysterious criminals seized the Baroness de Vibray's body and brought it to Dollon's studio to create an alibi, and to cast suspicion on an innocent man. As you know, the stratagem was successful: two hours after the discovery of the crime, the police arrested Mademoiselle Dollon's unfortunate brother!"
With a dramatic gesture Fandor pointed to Elizabeth, who, no longer able to contain her grief, was weeping bitterly.
The audience had risen, moved, troubled, subjugated, in spite of themselves, by the journalist's eloquent and persuasive tones. Even Monsieur Fuselier had quitted his classic green leather arm-chair and had approached the two bankers: Madame Bourrat was behind them, and the servant, Jules, with his smooth face and staring eyes.
Fandor continued:
"This is not all, messieurs!... There is still something that must be said, and I beg of you to listen with all your attention, for what the result of my declarations will be, I do not know! It is no longer my reason that speaks, instinct dictates my words! Listen!..."
It was a poignant moment! All the witnesses, the magistrate included, were thrilled with the certainty that the journalist was about to make a sensational revelation.
Taking his time, Jérôme Fandor walked slowly, quietly up to Elizabeth who, distraught with grief, was in floods of tears.
"Mademoiselle," he said, in a clear level voice, which was in strange contrast with his recent persuasive and authoritative tones. "Mademoiselle, you must tell us everything!... You are here, not in the presence of a judge, and of enemies, but amidst friends who wish you nothing but good.... I understand your affectionate feelings, I know what an unreasoning, but quite natural, attachment you have for your unfortunate brother—but, mademoiselle, it is now imperatively necessary that you should do violence to yourself—you must tell us the truth, the whole truth!"
Interrupting his appeal to Elizabeth, Fandor turned to the magistrate with a smile so enigmatic that his audience could not tell whether he was speaking sincerely or was acting a part.
"I have contended in my articles up to now that Jacques Dollon was dead, dead beyond recall; but when confronted with recent facts my theory seems to fall to the ground." Fandor turned once more to Elizabeth, resuming his authoritative tone and manner: "Since the affair of the Dépôt, the legal authorities have recognised indelible traces of Jacques Dollon's hand in the series of crimes which have been recently perpetrated. Up to the present, I have determinedly denied such a possibility. But, mademoiselle, I put it to you: you have forgotten to tell us something of the very utmost importance, something quite out of the range of ordinary happenings, something phenomenal. Now here is the staggering fact I am faced with! The other day, between two and three in the afternoon, at the Auteuil boarding-house where you are staying, you received a visit from your brother, Jacques Dollon, the supposed robber of the Princess Sonia Danidoff's pearls, the suspected author of the robbery of rue du Quatre Septembre; and, lastly, the fratricide, for what other explanation of the attack on you can be given—an attempted murder beyond question—and I add ..." Fandor could not continue. His eyes were fixed on those of Elizabeth who, at the first words addressed to her by the journalist, had started up, trembling from head to foot.... Their glances met, challenging, each seeking to quell, to subjugate the other.... It seemed to the onlookers that they were witnessing an intense struggle between two very strong natures separated by a deep, a fathomless gulf; that a veil, dark as night, hanging between them had been rent asunder, giving passage to an illuminating flash; that this luminous ray carried with it all the revelations and the key to the fantastic mystery!
But to a calm, perspicacious observer of the two beings standing face to face, it would have been clear that Jérôme Fandor's real attitude was both suppliant and persuasive, and that Elizabeth Dollon's was one of overwhelming surprise.
Monsieur Fuselier, carried away by the journalist's startling and extraordinary statements, did not perceive this. Suddenly, he saw in Jérôme Fandor the denunciator, and in Elizabeth Dollon, the accomplice unmasked. Nevertheless, he said quietly:
"Monsieur Fandor, you have just uttered words of such gravity that you are bound to confirm them by indisputable evidence. Do you mean to persist on these lines?"
Fandor looked away from the stupefied Elizabeth and her questioning glance: he answered the magistrate at once.
"The proof of what I advance, you will find by searching Mademoiselle Dollon's room.... I would rather not say more than that...."
"Allow me to state, monsieur, that I cannot arrange for such an investigation until to-morrow morning!"
Then, addressing the astounded Madame Bourrat, the two bankers, and the manservant, Jules.
"Madame, messieurs, will you be kind enough to withdraw? Madame, I advise you, under pain of the most serious consequences, not to allow anyone whatever to enter your premises, nor go into Mademoiselle Dollon's room, before this matter has been fully sifted by the legal authorities. Be good enough to wait in the passage—all of you!"
Having witnessed their exit, the magistrate walked up to Fandor, and looking him straight in the eyes said:
"Well!... Out with it!"
"Well," replied the journalist, "if you institute a search in the place I have indicated, you will find, in the chest of drawers, under a pile of Mademoiselle Dollon's personal linen a piece of soap wrapped up in a cambric handkerchief. Take this soap to Monsieur Bertillon's department, and after the scientific tests have been applied to it, you will be able to say that it bears distinct impressions of Dollon's hand!"
"Dollon's?"
The magistrate gasped.
Elizabeth Dollon had fallen back into the arm-chair, from which she had risen all trembling. Her tears had ceased. She stared at the two men with wide open, terrified eyes. All the time, the clerk in spectacles wrote steadily on at his table, noting down the details of the scenes he was witnessing.
There was a palpitating silence.
Monsieur Fuselier had returned to his writing table.
Jérôme Fandor seemed to have recovered his composure, an ironic smile curved his lips beneath his small moustache, whilst his hand sought that of Elizabeth: it was the only way he could, at the moment, express the sympathy he had never ceased to feel for her.
Monsieur Fuselier filled in a printed paper and pressed an electric bell.
Two municipal guards appeared.
Monsieur Fuselier rose and signing to the soldiers to wait, he faced Elizabeth Dollon.
"Mademoiselle, have you any objections to make to the statements of Monsieur Jérôme Fandor? Will you say whether or no you received a visit from your brother?"
Elizabeth, tortured by intense emotion, her throat contracted, strove in vain to pronounce a word; at last, by a supreme effort, she murmured in a strangled voice:
"Oh! Why, you are all mad here!"
As she gave no direct reply to his question, Monsieur Fuselier, after a pause, announced in a grave voice:
"Mademoiselle! Until I have more ample information, I am under the cruel necessity of ordering your arrest!... Guards, arrest the accused!" cried the magistrate sternly.
Elizabeth Dollon made a movement of revolt, when she saw herself surrounded and felt her arms seized by the two representatives of authority. She was about to cry out in protest, but a glance—it seemed to her a tender glance—from Fandor restrained her.... She stood speechless, inert. After all, had she not confidence in him, although she could not understand his attitude! Had he not been her staunch defender up to now? Had he not warned her that she must not be astonished at anything that occurred—that she must be prepared for anything?... Nevertheless, Elizabeth Dollon felt her brain reeling—she was astounded beyond words.... The surprise was too strong for her....
About a quarter of an hour after this tragic scene, Fandor was pacing up and down the asphalt of the boulevard du Palais, plunged in thought, when someone clapped him on the shoulder. He turned. It was Monsieur Fuselier.
"Well, my dear fellow!" cried the magistrate, resuming his customary tone of good fellowship. "Well, what an adventure! You have been playing some fine tricks! I never expected such a stroke as that, the deuce if I did!"
"Ho, ho!" laughed Fandor, "I think that a week from to-day we shall know a good many things!"
"Well," replied the magistrate, "I have had the girl placed in solitary confinement—that makes them willing to speak out!...."
Fandor looked the magistrate up and down.
"Ah!" murmured he, with a scarcely perceptible note of contempt in his voice:
"You think you will extract information from that quarter, do you?"
"But why not? Why not?" interrupted the dapper Monsieur Fuselier, in a sprightly tone; and, leaving Fandor abruptly, he leapt into a passing tramcar.
Fandor watched Fuselier cross the road and climb to an outside seat. Whilst the magistrate waved a friendly farewell from the top of the disappearing car, Fandor shrugged disdainful shoulders, and, with pitying lips, muttered one word:
"Fool!"
After Monsieur Fuselier's departure, Fandor rejoined Madame Bourrat on the boulevard. The good woman was very much upset by the dramatic scene she had witnessed. She had sent off her manservant, and was preparing to take the tram back to Auteuil. Fandor asked if he might accompany her, and Madame Bourrat was only too delighted to have a chance of further talk with the journalist, for she had a lively desire to learn all she could about the extraordinary drama in which she found herself involved.
When they arrived at Auteuil, Madame Bourrat had learned nothing definite, for the journalist had given only evasive answers to her questions. Still, one point was obvious: Madame Bourrat considered Monsieur Jérôme Fandor as the most amiable man in the world, and she was disposed to help him to the utmost of her powers, in defence of any interests he wished to safeguard....
Madame Bourrat was absolutely set on receiving Monsieur Fandor in her private apartments. She then seized the opportunity to complain of the trouble this affair had brought into her regular and peaceful existence. Certainly, in summer, her boarders were less numerous; their numbers being, in fact, reduced to two or three.
This season there had been fewer than usual; but the accident, or attempted assassination of Mademoiselle Dollon, had undoubtedly brought discredit on the house. An old paralysed gentleman, who had been in residence on the day of the drama, had departed the day after. There was not a single boarder in the house: it was empty.
Having made certain that her manservant, Jules, and her cook, Marianne, had retired to their respective rooms, Madame Bourrat conducted Fandor as far as the door of her dwelling. They had been so interested in their talk, that they had forgotten all about dinner: their experiences of the past few hours had left them with little appetite. It was about nine o'clock; night had fallen: house and garden were wrapped in a mantle of darkness.
"Can you find your way?" asked Madame Bourrat. If she accompanied the journalist to her garden gate she would have to grope back to the house in the dark, and alone! Her nerves were shaken by recent events. She did not wish to venture forth and back in the mysterious gloom of night, even on the familiar path of her garden. What might that darkness not hide! What robbers, what murderers might there not be lurking near!
Fandor laughed.
"Why, of course I can, madame! To find the points of the compass, to cultivate the sense of locality, is part of a journalist's profession."
"Do not forget to draw to behind you—it needs a strong pull—the gate which separates us from the street: once shut, no one can open it from outside."
Fandor, shaking hands with the boarding-house keeper, promised to close the gate. As the sound of his steps on the gravel grew less and less, as the gate fell to with a loud noise, and an absolute silence followed, Madame Bourrat felt sure that her guest had left the garden—had gone away.
But he had done nothing of the sort!
Fandor had shut the gate noiselessly, but he had remained inside the grounds. He stood motionless, holding his breath, wishing neither to be seen nor heard. He remained so for a long twenty minutes. Then, being assured that Madame Bourrat had retired for the night—she had closed her shutters and put out her light—he rubbed his hands, murmuring:
"Now we shall see!"
Stepping gingerly along by the side of the wall, he reached the main building of the boarding-house: luckily, it was empty as far as boarders were concerned. He recognised Elizabeth Dollon's window on the first floor and was glad to see that it was half open. Chance favoured him—there was even a gutter pipe running down the wall and passing close to the window. Providence had favoured him with a fine staircase; there would not be much difficulty in climbing that!
No sooner thought than done! Accustomed as he was to exercise and games, Fandor, agile as a young man in good training can be, squirmed up the pipe as far as Elizabeth's window. He caught hold of the sill, recovered his balance, jerked himself up, and, two seconds after, had landed in the room.
Dared he strike a light! He remembered pretty accurately the position of the various pieces of furniture, but he would like to study the room more in detail. His luck still held, for a ray of moonlight suddenly shone out from behind a cloud. He saw the moon sailing in a clear sky. There would be sufficient light from the moon rays to enable him to pursue his investigations.
It was an essentially modern room; the white walls were painted with ripolin, and were as bare of ornament as a nun's cell. An iron bedstead stood in the middle of the room: a wardrobe, with a mirror panel in front, and locked, occupied one of the corners; behind a folding screen was a toilette table, a Louis XV bureau, two chairs, an arm-chair: that was all.
After making this rapid inventory, Fandor considered:
"The situation is growing complicated," said he to himself. "I am quite persuaded that this room will shortly receive a visit from some individuals who will not court recognition—their interests are all against that—and they certainly will not be anxious to meet me here! These individuals assuredly know, at this minute, that the examining magistrate is going to make a thorough investigation here to-morrow morning.... How do they know it? It's very simple. The prime mover in the attempted murder, or one of his accomplices, was assuredly among the witnesses this afternoon. Is it the amiable Madame Bourrat? Is it that doltish Jules, who looks an absolute fool, but may be masking his game! Suppose the serious Barbey pops up? Or the elegant Nanteuil? But I do not think so—they are rather victims than attackers—everything leads me to that opinion. But—all this does not tell me whether the place has already been visited or not!"
Fandor unlocked the drawer, searched for the piece of soap under the pile of Elizabeth's linen, and had the extreme satisfaction of finding the soap had not been moved.
"Good! I am here first! Ah, we shall see our men presently! Which, and how many?"
Fandor seated himself and let his imagination work. He tried to picture the faces of the mysterious individuals he was determined to track down—but, so far, in vain!... Then with strange, uncanny persistence, one face rose again and again before his mental vision, clear, vital—the face of the enigmatic Thomery, with his silver white hair, his red face, his light blue eyes, that Yankee head of his, well set on his robust torso....
"Thomery!" cried Fandor almost aloud. "The fact is, everything leads me to think ... but don't let us anticipate! Concealment is the next item on the programme!"
Fandor realised that to hide under the bed was impossible: he would be discovered immediately.... The screen was no better!... There was Elizabeth's trunk!... Why, it was a kind of monument in wicker work! The very thing! It was quite big enough to hold him—it was one of those enormous trunks beloved of women!... To hide in it would be an excellent trick—a real joke! Let me burrow in there, and see the stupefaction of these estimable characters when they open it to rummage about among Elizabeth's belongings and find themselves face to face with me! They will see besides my sympathetic countenance the stern mouth of my revolver!... Let us see whether it is a possible hiding place!
Fandor raised the cover and lifted out a top compartment, in which were scattered, among objects of feminine apparel, papers, books, and all sorts of things which had evidently belonged to the unfortunate painter. The distracted Elizabeth, in the hurry of departure from rue Norvins, must have thrust them in pell-mell. The lower division of the trunk was empty.
"Another bit of luck!" thought Fandor. "Now to sample my little hide-hole!"
Fandor found he could get into a fairly comfortable position. Then he calculated, that with the compartment back in its place and the cover open, all he had to do to close it was to shake the trunk transversely. He could certainly remain inside for several hours without intolerable discomfort.
Raising the cover, Fandor slipped out.
The interminable hours crawled by. To smoke was out of the question. Fandor's pride in his exploit was sinking to zero: was he passing a wretched night to no purpose? A violent ring sounded. Someone was ringing at the garden gate—ringing loudly, insistently—an imperative summons!
Instantly Fandor was on the alert. Useless to slip to the window and peer cautiously out, for Elizabeth's window did not face the gate: even by leaning out he could not catch any glimpse of any visitors, either coming to the house or passing along towards Madame Bourrat's apartments in the annex.... Besides, Fandor feared to make a noise, and the polished boards of the floor cracked and creaked at the least movement!
"The one thing for me to do," thought he, "is to creep back into my retreat and wait. Now who can it be at this time of night?"
Fandor's curiosity was rapidly satisfied—after a fashion! The call of the bell had been answered by noises and hurried footsteps, whisperings, an outburst of voices, then silence.... A few minutes after, Fandor clearly heard some persons entering the ground floor of the house.
He listened intently: he could hear his own heartbeats.
Then a voice said:
"In Heaven's name! Is it possible? Why do you come to upset people at this time of night? As if we had not had enough to put up with during the day! It is a dreadful business! There's no doubt about it! Are we never to be left in peace?"
"Why, it's Madame Bourrat's voice!" said Fandor. "Poor woman! What's up?" He listened. Someone said:
"The law is the law, madame, and we are it's humble executors. As the examining judge has ordered me to make an investigating distraint, we are compelled to carry out his instructions to the letter. Be good enough to tell your servant to lead us to the actual spot where the crime was attempted."
"Now what is all this?" asked Fandor. "And from whence comes this police inspector? It only wanted that! He won't know what to make of it when I tell him who I am—and how am I to explain my presence here? Anyhow, wait, and see what happens!"
"Someone was coming upstairs—more than one!"
"This way, messieurs!" said a hoarse voice. "The room the young lady occupied is at the end of this passage!"
"This time I recognise my fine fellow!" thought Fandor. "It is that imbecile of a Jules. But what a triumphant tone! And how different his voice sounds to what it did, this afternoon, at the examination!"
Then Fandor all but jumped from his hiding place.
"Oh! What an egregious fool I am! Why, there is not a police inspector in France who would come at this hour to carry out an investigation—and a distraint to boot! What the devil does it mean? Can they be the fine fellows I am lying in wait to meet?"
The dubious individuals who had roused the house at such an unholy hour entered the room. Someone turned on the electric light.
Though Fandor could obtain a sufficient supply of air through the openings in the wickerwork, he could not see what was going on: he could only listen with all his ears.
Madame Bourrat accompanied her strange visitors.
"It is here," she exclaimed, "that the journalist, Jérôme Fandor, found my boarder stretched out on the floor.... You see, in this corner, is the gas stove with its tubing! They have forgotten to refix it to the pipe; but there is no danger, the tap is turned off and so is the meter."
The personage who had given out that he was a police inspector, whose voice was probably an assumed one, replied only by monosyllables. Fandor did not recognise his voice. But there was another speaker, who also had very little to say for himself; and Fandor thought he recognised certain tones as belonging to a man who had been much in his thoughts of late.
"Thomery!" thought he. "Is it Thomery?"
But he only knew the sugar refiner by sight, and had heard him speak but once or twice at the ball: that was not enough to go on, for Fandor had not paid special attention to the distinguishing tone and quality of his host's voice. Nevertheless, he could not get out of his head the idea that the celebrated sugar refiner, honoured by all Paris, esteemed by everybody, was standing only a step or two away from him now in this house of strange happenings, and under very peculiar circumstances. "Was he a burglar—an assassin? One of a nefarious band?"
For Fandor was now convinced that these were not police emissaries bearing a legal mandate to search and distrain: no, they were robbers, criminals! He was preparing to rise from his hiding place and appear before the bandits: he would fire a few shots and make the deuce of a row and rouse the neighbourhood. He would also save poor Madame Bourrat, who was certainly not their accomplice. Just then he heard the pretended police inspector say:
"Will you provide us with writing materials, madame? We must write an official report."
"Why, certainly, monsieur," replied Madame Bourrat. "I will go downstairs and get what you require."
Fandor heard her leave the room. No sooner had she gone than a hurried conversation began in low tones. Clearly Jules was guilty, for the pretended police inspector asked:
"No one this evening? Nothing happened?"
"No," replied Jules in a servile tone. "The journalist brought the mistress back and then went off at nine o'clock...."
"No news of Alfred?" asked the voice.
The third person answered:
"Why, no. You know very well he is always at the Dépôt."
"Let us set to work!" said voice number one.
Fandor felt that the decisive moment had arrived: someone opened the cover of the trunk and feverish hands were turning over the confused mass of objects in the top compartment.
"Didn't you find anything?" asked the voice of Jules.
"No, no, monsieur! I searched everywhere; but as I do not read easily, it's difficult for me...."
"Imbecile!" murmured the voice.
"Ah!" said Fandor to himself. "This fellow pleases me! He has the same opinion of this dolt of a Jules as I have!"
Revolver in hand, Fandor was on the alert. The moment they lifted up the compartment out he would jump. Just then, Madame Bourrat could be heard approaching.
"Confound it! We shall not have time to go through everything!" muttered a voice. The trunk cover was hastily closed.
Fandor heard Madame Bourrat enter the room with slow, heavy step.
"Here are ink and paper, messieurs!" she said.
Then the pretended police inspector made a statement that startled the concealed Fandor.
"Madame, we have no time, nor are we able to make a minute investigation now. Besides, with one exception, there does not seem to be anything suspicious about the room; but here is a trunk which contains papers of great importance. We are going to take it to the police station."
"As you please," replied Madame Bourrat. "I ask only one thing and that is to be left in peace. I do not want to hear anything more about this abominable affair!"
A rapid turn of the key given to each of the locks and Fandor knew that he was now a prisoner! Brave as he was, he felt a rush of blood to his heart and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
"Dash it all! I am in an awful position! Impossible to move! If these brutes suspected they had me tight in here they would pitch me into the river as sure as Fate! Then good-bye toLa Capitale!"
Then, before Fandor's mental vision rose a sweet consoling figure, the figure of the girl for whom he was braving danger, for love of whom—he certainly did love her—he had placed himself in such a serious position.... Then all that was optimistic in his nature—and that was much—rose to the surface, and declared the dilemma was not as serious as it seemed.... How could the bandits know of his presence in the trunk? They never would think Jérôme Fandor so stupid as to shut himself up in the trap!
"Jules and I might shake hands as equals in folly!" concluded Fandor.... Just then the trunk began to move. They were trying to lift it. Whilst trying to preserve an unstable equilibrium, he said to himself in a satisfied way:
"And just to think now that they have not rummaged in the chest of drawers, nor have they seized the tell-tale piece of soap!... It's true that Fuselier alone knows of its being there—I was careful not to tell anyone else.... But, where the deuce are they going? It's the stairs, of course! It might be a rough precipice by the shaking up they're giving me!"