"Not much water about, is there?"
"That's so, old 'un.... If I'd known, it's boats I'd have taken to!"
"Bah! Your shoes are big enough. That's not saying it's weather for a Christian to be out in!"
"Don't you grumble, old 'un! The more it comes down cats and dogs, the fewer stumps will be stirring out doors!... But a comrade or two will be on the prowl, eh?"
"Right-o, old bird!... Keep a lookout!... Sure he'll come this way?"
"You bet your nut he will!... He got my bit of a scrawl this morning...."
"What then?"
"Shut up! Shut up! Folks coming!"
The night was inky black. Rain fell with sudden violence, threshed and driven by icy gusts of wind. The hour was late: the rue Raffet deserted save for the two men who had ventured out into the tempestuous darkness. They advanced with difficulty, side by side, speaking low. Rough customers to deal with. Their faces were emaciated from excessive drinking: their eyes gleamed, their voices were hoarse: a brutal pair! But their movements were souple and lively: they walked with that ungainly swagger affected by the light-fingered gentry and the criminals of the underworld of Paris.
"And what did you say in your scrawl?"
"Oh, medlars! Take-ins! You know!... I didn't put my fist to it, though!"
"Who then?"
"You ask that?"
"I'm no wizard! If it wasn't your fist, whose then?"
"My woman...."
"Ernestine?"
"Yes. Ernestine."
They struggled on through the squally darkness. Then one of the two broke the silence.
"You're not jealous, Beadle, making your girl write letters to such folk?"
That sinister hooligan, the Beadle, burst out laughing.
"Jealous? Me? Jealous of Ernestine? You make me laugh, you really do, old Beard!"
But Beard did not share his companion's mirth. He leaned against a palisade to take breath, while a little sheltered from the fierce onslaughts of the wind.
"I tell you what," he said in a gruff and threatening voice: "I don't like such dodges—like those of this evening...."
"Why so, monsieur?"
"Why, because, after all, it's a comrade!"
"But he's betrayed—a traitor he is!"
"What do we know about it?"
The Beadle nodded; reflected.
"What does anyone know about it?" he said at last....
"Why, when the comrades told us, weren't they surprised, one and all? Nibet, Toulouche, even Mimile—they didn't hesitate, not one of them!... Well then, old 'un, as all the pals were of one mind, why hesitate? What's the use of discussing!... but, between you and me, I don't relish it either—it bothers me to go for a pal!..."
Just then the tempest redoubled its fury: it seemed to the cowering men as though all the devils of the storm were galloping down the wind. Somewhere there was a moon, for scurrying clouds were dancing a witches' saraband across a faintly clearer sky. The unseen moon was mastering the obscurity of this midnight hour.
By now, the two sinister beings were nearing the rue du Docteur-Blanche. They were passing a garden, in which tall poplars, caught by the squall, took fantastic shapes: they were nightmare trees, terrifyingly strange.
"No more to be said," remarked the Beadle. "The scene is set!... Where is the meeting place?"
"A hundred yards from there—a little before the corner of the boulevard Montmorency...."
"Good! And the trap?"
"It waits for us a little further off."
"Who's aboard it?"
"Mimile."
"That's good."
The two men were now half-way along rue Raffet. The watch had begun. Gripped by the cold they waited in silence.... The minutes passed slowly, slowly, in the deserted street ... The Beard put his hand on the Beadle's shoulder.... A vague sound could be heard in the distance: the steps could be distinguished; some pedestrian was coming up the rue Raffet in their direction.
"It is he!" whispered the Beadle.
"It is he!" affirmed the Beard. "He's not oversteady on his feet!"
"Perhaps he's ill shod!"
The two spoke low and in a jesting tone: it relieved the painful tension of the moment—a comrade was marching to meet his death, and theirs the hands to deal that death—but not yet: it was a reaction against their sense of the looming tragedy of this dark hour!
Now a man's advancing figure could be discerned. He came nearer. He was plainly, by the cut of his garments, an indoor servant. The collar of his coat was turned up: he had his hands in his pockets: he walked fast.
"Hey! You down there! The gang!" cried the Beard, hailing the oncoming figure.
"Ah, it's you?"
"Yes, it's me, comrade."
"And you too, Beadle?"
"As you say...."
"What do you want of me? Since my arrest and escape from the Salad Basket, I'm not anxious to stroll about this neighbourhood—out with it!"
The Beard said in a joking tone:
"You don't suspect, then? Speak out, Jules!..."
Jules—for it was indeed he—shook his head.
"My word, I have no idea what you want!... Who wrote to me this morning? Ernestine?"
Neither the Beadle nor Beard replied.
The three men stood talking in the deserted street, bending their heads and backs under the rain, which was now pouring harder than ever.
"Come on then! Make haste!" said Jules. "Come now, tell me what's the point—what's up—spit it out, comrades!... I don't want to be soaked to the skin, you know!"
The Beadle forced the pace: he lifted his great hairy sinewy hand, brought it down heavily on Jules' shoulder, and in a changed voice, harsh, rough, imperative, he commanded:
"You must follow us!" Already he had his man fast. The unsuspicious Jules did not grasp the situation in the least.
"Follow you?" he asked. "As to that, certainly not!... No more walking for me in such weather. Wait for a sunny day, say I!... But whatever is the matter with you—eh?... What?... Why are you sticking out your jaws at me like this? Out with it, my lambs!... Where am I to follow you?... You won't say, Messieurs Beadle and Beard?
"You won't say?..."
Beard moved a step and got behind Jules unnoticed. He repeated in the same tone, harsh, threatening:
"You've got to follow us, I tell you!"
Instinctively Jules tried to turn round. The Beadle's strong grip kept him motionless. Then he understood. He was afraid.
"What's come to you?" he cried in a trembling voice.
The Beadle cut him short.
"Enough! Will you follow us? Yes or no?"
Jules was going to say "no!" but he had not the time! Quick as lightning the Beadle flung a long scarf round his neck, stuck his knee into his victim's back, and pulled!
Jules uttered a faint groan; but, half stifled, nearly strangled, he had not the strength to attempt the slightest self-defence.
Directly he was flung backwards on the ground, where he measured his length and lay nearly stunned, Beard jumped on him, knelt on his chest, and pinioned him. Jules lay motionless.
The Beard now began tying up the legs of their victim.
"Pass me a scarf!"
"There it is, old 'un!"
"Very good, I am going to apply a 'Be Discreet.'"
The "Be Discreet" of the Beard was a gag, which he rolled round the servant's head in expert fashion.
"Feet firm?" asked the Beard.
"Oh, jolly fine!" said the Beadle. He turned his man over as though he were a bale of goods. Now he tied his victim's hands behind his back.
"Is it far to go to the jaunting car?"
"No—for two sous, that's it!"
A motor-car was indeed coming slowly and noiselessly along rue Raffet: it was a sumptuous car!
"And if it is not he?"
"Stick him up against the bank ... dark as it is, there's every chance he won't be seen."
Rapidly, the doughty two stuck Jules against the bank at the side of the road: the unfortunate creature had fainted. Then they took out their cigarettes, and going a few steps away, they pretended to be sheltering themselves in order to strike a light.
They need not have taken this precaution.
The car stopped in front of them. The familiar voice of Mimile was heard:
"Got the rabbit then?"
"Yes, old 'un!"
"Pitch it into the balloon then!"
"The balloon?" questioned the Beadle. "Whatever's that?"
Emilet laughed.
"At times, my brothers, your ignorance, mechanically speaking, is crass!... The balloon is the back part of my car, I'd have you know."
The Beard sniggered.
"Good!... Pick it up! Now, Beadle!"
The two seized the body of Jules by shoulders and feet, and flung it brutally into the limousine.
A rug, negligently flung over the body of the trussed Jules, hid him from observation.
"Now we'll embark," announced Emilet.
As a precaution, the young hooligan asked:
"The bloke snores?"
"Yes," replied the Beadle. "He is travelling in No Nightmare Land...." The Beadle laughed.
But Emilet was alarmed.
"You haven't snuffed him out, have you?"
"No danger of it! He's only shamming!"
"Off, then!" said Emilet.
They rolled away at top speed.
The bandits' lair had been well chosen by their chiefs. It was a vast cellar, with a vaulted roof, and earthen walls bedewed with an icy humidity. Axes, mattocks, shovels, rakes, and watering cans lay scattered on the ground: these were worn out tools: they had not served their purpose for many a day.
The lantern, a kind of cresset protected by a wire globe, was suspended from the roof by a string. It shed a faint and wavering light, creating weird shadows in that far-stretching space, too vast for the insufficient illumination.
Directly beneath the cresset lantern, inside the circle of light it threw upon the ground, a fantastic group of human creatures pressed close to one another, drinking, shouting, chattering, singing.
A clean-shaven man, whose suspicious little eyes were perpetually blinking, turned to a young woman.
"Look here, Ernestine, my beauty, are you certain the Beadle understood that we should be waiting for him here?"
Big Ernestine, who was crouching on the ground and warming her hands at a wood fire, throwing up clouds of smoke, shrugged her shoulders.
"Stop it, do! You say things over and over again, like a clock, Nibet!... Since I've told youyes—yesit is—there now, and be hanged to you!... You don't by chance fancy the Beadle has been made a mouthful of, do you?"
Roars of laughter greeted this. Nibet was not one of the inner circle; he was not much of a favourite in the band of Numbers. It is true that they reckoned him a comrade, useful, faithful, that they felt safe with him; but they bore him a grudge because of his regular employment, because of his position, because he was an official.... And, first and last, his warder's uniform impressed the jail birds unpleasantly.
But Nibet was not the man to allow himself to be intimidated.
"All the same," said he, "I ask where the three of them have got to?... If they know the mushroom bed, they should have been back long ago!" He shouted to an old woman.
"Eh, Toulouche, tell us the time!"
But Mother Toulouche shook her head.
"I haven't a watch!"
There was a murmur of protestation. The seven or eight hooligans assembled there awaiting the return of the Beard and the Beadle, sent with Emilet to kidnap Jules, could not believe that. Mother Toulouche had told the truth.
The Sailor caught the old woman by the shoulders and shook her, and went on shaking her.
"Liar! Aren't you ashamed to be in a funk with us?... Ever since this blessed Mother Toulouche has sold winkles and many other things, ever since she began to make a little purse for herself, which must be a big purse by now, a purse everyone here has sweated to fill to the brim, she has always distrusted us!... You say you haven't a watch! I tell you, you've got dozens of 'em!..."
Big Ernestine interrupted.
"It's a half-hour over the hour agreed...."
A shudder ran through the assembly: Nibet, finger on lip, made a sign that they were to listen.
Then, in the mushroom bed, no longer in use, which the band of Numbers had recently adopted as their meeting place, a profound silence fell....
"There they are!" said Nibet.
Big Ernestine leaped up, left the fire, advanced to the far end of the cellar, and imitated the cry of a screech owl to perfection. There was a similar cry in response.
"It's all right. They're here!" she said. She returned to the fire and sat down. But Nibet seized the girl and forced her to get up again.
"Go along with you! Quick march!" he said roughly.
She protested. Nibet stopped her.
"Oh, we can't stand listening to you!... Ho there, Sailor!... Come here!... Sit down on this plank! You, the Beadle, and me—we're to be the judges.... Beard makes the accusation: and, if her heart tells her to, Ernestine will defend him."
"I'd rather spit at the tell-tale!... You can tear him to bits as far as I'm concerned!" cried the girl. "There's nothing disgusts me so much as a tell-tale!"
The hooligans crowded round big Ernestine. They applauded her ironically; for they all knew that, once upon a time, she had been strongly suspected of having dealings with, what they called, "The dirty lot at the Bobby's Nest."
Silence fell once more. They could hear the rasp of the rope unrolling from a hand windlass attached to an enormous bucket. This was the primitive lift.
Moments passed. The hooligans had formed a circle beneath the black hole where the bucket moved up and down.
"It goes, old Beard?" questioned Nibet, gazing upwards.
"It goes, old bloke!"
"Brought the game?"
"That's what we're sending down now!..."
"That's a bit of all right!"
Sailor now seized the trussed Jules from the bucket and flung him on the ground.
"Damaged goods, that—eh?" he laughed evilly.
The Beadle, Beard, and Emilet were coming down in turn. The group below bent curiously over the prisoner.
"He's soft—that sort is!" cried Ernestine. And tapping him on the face with her foot, big Ernestine tried to make Jules show signs of life. Beard dropped out of the bucket and stopped the game.
"Let's see, Ernestine?... Stop it now!"
After gripping the hand of each comrade in turn, after hugging a bottle and draining it in a long draught, emptying it to the dregs, Beard flung it aside.
"Let's get to work—no time to waste!... If we finish him off, we'll have to get rid of him before morning!"
Sailor lifted Jules with the aid of two comrades. They propped him against a massive pillar of wood which supported the cellar roof. They bound their wretched victim to it with strong cords.
Meanwhile, Ernestine was unwinding the gag.
"Take your places on the tribunal!" commanded Nibet.
"And you others, a glass of pick-me-up for the fellow!"
The pick-me-up intended to restore Jules to consciousness was brought by Mother Toulouche, under the form of a large earthen pot full of cold water. She dashed the water in the prisoner's face.
Jules slowly opened his eyes and regained his wits, amidst an ominous silence. The band watched his return to life with evil smiles: they quietly watched his pallid face turn a livid green with terror.
The wretched creature could not utter a syllable. He stared wildly at those about him, his friends of yesterday, at those seated on the mock judgment bench who, crouching forward, were observing him with sardonic smiles.
Nibet put a question.
"You hear and understand us, Jules?"
"Pity!" howled the victim.
Nibet was indifferent to the cry.
"He understands!... For my part, I am all for keeping to a proper procedure.... I would not have agreed to sit in judgment on him if he had been unable to defend himself.... We don't act that way down here!"
Turning to his acolytes for signs of their approval, he continued:
"Beard! The word is with you! Let us hear why he has been brought up to judgment!... Tell us what he is accused of!... Bring up all there is against him!"
Beard, who was marching up and down between the hooligan tribunal and the accused, who was half dead, and incapable of making a rational statement, stopped, squared himself with an air of satisfaction, and began his speech for the prosecution.
"Jules, has anyone ever done you any harm here?... Has anyone played cowardly tricks on you?... Set traps to catch you in?... Have you ever been cheated out of your fair share of the spoil?... Is there anything you can bring up against us?... No?... Well, here's what we have against you ... it's not worth while lying about it either!... You are the one who has taken the wind out of our sails over the Danidoff affair ... do you confess that?"
In a voice barely intelligible Jules gasped out:
"Beard ... I don't understand you!... I have done nothing—nothing.... What have you against me?..."
Beard took his time.
Planted before the prisoner, with hip stuck out and hand in pocket, the other hand raised in tragic invocation towards his comrades:
"You have heard?... Monsieur does not understand!... He has not the pluck to be open and aboveboard!"
Turning again to the wretched captive, he continued:
"Well, I'm going to explain ... it was you, wasn't it, who had to put through the robbery of the lady's jewels?... Well, do you know what you did? Do you want me to tell you?... Instead of lending us a hand as was promised and sworn, you kept the cake for yourself!... In other words, you, and some of your sort, serving at the ball, put your heads together, and shut up the lady in the room they found her in; and that way, you got out of sharing with us!... So we have been done in the eye over that deal!... The proof that you have comrades we know nothing about is, that yesterday when you were done in, they found a way to get you out of the Salad Basket!... It wasn't us!... But to return to the Danidoff robbery ... oh, you must have laughed then!... But everyone has his turn ... you are going to laugh on the wrong side of your mouth now!... Do you know what they call it—what you've done—dared to do?"
In the same strangled voice, Jules managed to get out the words:
"But it's not true!... I swear to you ..."
Beard did not listen.
"There's not one of our lot who would give me the lie!... To behave like that is treachery!... You have betrayed the Numbers. There it is in a nutshell!... What have you to reply to that?"
For the third time, Jules repeated in a hoarse whisper, for he felt life was gradually leaving him: an awful fear gripped him, he saw he was completely done for.
"I swear I did not do that!... I didn't rob the princess.... I don't even know who did!"
Jules was, perhaps, speaking the truth, but he took the worst way to defend himself.... If he had had pluck and wit enough to take the Beard's accusation with a high hand, if he had met threats with violent denial and assertion, it is quite possible he might have made an impression in his favour; but he cried for pity and for mercy from men who were pitiless!
He was afraid!... His fear was shown by the convulsive trembling which agitated his wretched body, by his ghastly pallor, by the cold drops of sweat rolling down his forehead.... He was no longer a man: it was a lamentable bit of human wreckage the hooligans had before them!... And the more lamentable this wreck showed itself to be, the less worthy of their interest it seemed!
When Jules gasped out once again:
"I swear to you it was not I! No!... I did not do it!"
The hooligans, moved by a common impulse, rose, indignant, furious, mad with rage.
"That's a good one, that is!" yelled Nibet, who, beside himself with rage, suddenly forgot his avowed respect for judicial forms.
"Since he is determined to tell lies, and hasn't the pluck to say what he's done, there's only one thing for us to do, and that's to stop his mouth up!... Ernestine, put the plug back!"
And as the girl once more rolled the scarf round and round the head of the miserable Jules, Nibet turned to his comrades.
"Now then? One hasn't any need to waste more time over it!... We know all the story—not so?... It's settled, I tell you!... A fellow who has done what he has done, what does he deserve?... You answer first, Mother Toulouche, since you are the oldest?..."
Mother Toulouche stretched out a trembling hand, as though calling on Heaven to witness an oath.
"I," said the old woman, with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I don't hesitate!... Comrades who flinch, sneaks who betray, get rid of them, say I!... I condemn him to death!..."
The old woman's sentence was greeted with loud applause.
Nibet resumed.
"It is said!... It is unanimous!... Make a quick finish, my lads!... Since each has been injured, let each take his revenge! I say: Death by the hammer!"
In that smoke-thickened air rose a chorus of hate and of vengeance.
"Death by the hammer! Death by the hammer!"
In that noisome lair of the bandits a horrible scene ensued.
Mother Toulouche went groping in a dark corner. She searched for, and found, a blacksmith's hammer. She lifted it with trembling hands, and planting herself in front of the victim, more dead than alive, she said in a menacing voice:
"You did harm to the Numbers! You wronged them! Here goes for that then!"
The hammer described a quarter of a circle in the air and descended in a smashing blow on the wretched victim's face!
The awful punishment had begun!
According to age, one after another, the hooligans passed on the hammer, and, in a blind passion of hate, beat followed beat on the agonising body of Jules!
At last the terrible agony was over and done! The passion of hate, the lust for revenge had burnt themselves out. Jules had expiated the crime they had imputed to him!
The band were the victims of a paralysing fatigue. Emilet flung the blood-stained hammer into a far corner of their den.
"Well done!" said he. "He has paid the price!"
Emilet's eyes fell on Nibet. He was leaning against the wall, and, with folded arms, was watching the scene in which he had taken no part. Walking up to the warder, Emilet demanded:
"Ho! Ho! You backed out of it, did you, my boy?... You didn't have a throw, did you?... No?..."
Nibet grinned sardonically.
"Don't talk rubbish, Emilet!... If I have stood aside, I had my reasons for doing so.... We haven't done with Jules yet!... Not by a long chalk!... Now that he's been killed, he's got to be got rid of—isn't that true?... Look at yourselves, my lambs! You are covered with red!... It will take you all of an hour to make yourselves presentable!... Now, look at me! I'm neat and clean ... and I have a plan ... a famous plan to rid us of that corpse there! Now, just you stir your stumps, Emilet!... I am going off to make preparations!... I'll give you ten minutes to make yourself fit to be seen ... it's we two are to be the undertakers; and I swear to you, that we will give them no end of trouble to the curiosity mongers at Police Headquarters!"
On the boulevard du Palais, Jérôme Fandor looked at his watch: it was half an hour after noon.
"The hour for copy! Courage! I will go toLa Capitale."
Scarcely had he put foot in the large hall when the editorial secretary called:
"There you are, Fandor!... At last!... That's a good thing!... Whatever have you been up to since yesterday evening? I got them to telephone to you twice, but they could not get on to you, try as they might. My dear fellow, you really mustn't absent yourself without giving us warning."
Fandor looked jovial: certainly not repentant.
"Oh, say at once that I've been in the country!... But seriously, what did you want me for? Is there anything new?..."
"A most mysterious scandal!..."
"Another?"
"Yes. You know Thomery, the sugar refiner?"
"Yes, I know him!"
"Well—he has disappeared!... No one knows where he is!"
Fandor took the news stolidly.
"You don't astonish me: you must be prepared for anything from those sort of people!..."
It was the turn of the secretary to be surprised at Fandor's calmness.
"But, old man, I am telling you of a disappearance which is causing any amount of talk in Paris!... You don't seem to grasp the situation! Surely you know that Thomery represents one of the biggest fortunes known?"
"I know he is worth a lot."
"His flight will bring ruin to many."
"Others will probably be enriched by it!"
"Probably. That is not our concern. What we are after are details about his disappearance. You are free to-day, are you not? Will you take the affair in hand then? I would put off the appearance of the paper for half an hour rather than not have details to report which would throw some light on this extraordinary affair."
Then, as Fandor did not show the slightest intention of going in search of material for a Thomery article, the secretary laughed.
"Why don't you start on the trail, Fandor?... My word, I don't recognise a Fandor who is not off like a zigzag of lightning on such a reporting job as this!... We want illuminating details, my dear man!"
"You think I haven't got any, then?... Be easy: this evening's issue ofLa Capitalewill have all the details you could desire on the vanishing of Thomery."
Thereupon, Fandor turned on his heel without further explanation, and went towards one of his colleagues, who went by the title of "Financier of the paper." The Financier had an official manner, and had an office of his own, the walls of which were carefully padded, for Marville—that was his name—frequently received visits from important personages.
Fandor began questioning him on the subject of Thomery's disappearance.
"Tell me, my dear fellow, what is happening in the financial world, now that Thomery has disappeared."
"What do you mean?"
"Where is the money going—all the coppers?"
"The coppers?"
"Why, yes! I fancy that when an old fellow like that does the vanishing trick, there are terrible results on the Bourse? Will you be kind enough to explain what does happen in such a case?"
Very much flattered by Fandor's request, Marville cried:
"But, my boy, you are asking for nothing less than a course of political economy—but I cannot do that—on the spur of the moment!... State precisely what you want to know."
"What I want to know is just this: Who loses money through Thomery's disappearance?"
The Financier raised his hands to Heaven.
"But everybody! Everybody!... Thomery was a daring fellow: without him his business is nothing!... There was a big failure on the market to-day."
"Good, but who gains by it?"
"How, who gains by it?"
"Yes. I presume Thomery's disappearance must be profitable to someone? Can you think of any people to whose interest it would be that this old fellow should disappear?"
The Financier reflected.
"Those who gain money by the disappearance of Thomery—only the speculators, I should say. Suppose now that a Monsieur Tartempion had bought Thomery shares at ninety francs. To-day these shares would not be worth more than seventy francs: Tartempion loses money. But let us suppose some financier speculates on the probable fall of Thomery shares, and has sold to clients speculating on the rise of these shares; these shares to be delivered in a fortnight, at a price of ninety francs. If Thomery was still there, his shares would be worth, possibly, the ninety francs, possibly more. In the first case, the financier's deal would amount to nothing: in the second case, his deal would be a deplorable one, because he would be obliged to deliver at an inferior price, and would be responsible for the difference...."
"Whilst Thomery dead ..."
"Dead—no! But simply in flight, his shares fall to nothing, and this same financier may buy at sixty francs which he must deliver at ninety francs in fifteen days. In that case he has done excellent business."
"Excellent, certainly ... and ... tell me, my dear Marville, do you know if there has been any such deal in Thomery shares on a large scale?"
"Ah! You ask me more than I can tell you now ... but that would be known at the Bourse."
No doubt Jérôme Fandor was going to continue his interrogation, but there was a great disturbance in the editorial room near by. They were shouting:
"Fandor! Fandor!"
The editorial secretary entered the Financier's room, and, catching sight of Fandor, he cried:
"What's the meaning of this? What are you up to here? I told you this Thomery affair was important.... Be off for the news as quick as you can.... Here is theHavas. It seems they have just found Thomery's body in a little apartment in the rue Lecourbe."
Fandor forced himself to appear very interested.
"Already! The police have been quick!... I also had an idea that that Thomery had more than simply disappeared!"
"You had that idea?" asked the startled secretary.
"Yes, my dear fellow, I had—absolutely!"
After a silence, Fandor added:
"All the same, I am going out to get news. In half an hour's time, I will telephone details of the death. Does theHavassay whether it is a crime or a suicide?"
"No. Evidently the police know nothing."
"Monsieur Havard, I am delighted to meet you!... Surely now, you will not refuse me a little interview?"
"Not I, my dear Fandor! I know only too well that you would not take 'no' for an answer."
"And you are right. I beg of you to give me some details, not as regards Thomery's death, for I have already made my little investigation touching that; but as to how the police managed to find the poor man's body."
"In the easiest way in the world. Monsieur Thomery's servants were very much astonished yesterday morning, when they could not find their master in the house.
"After eleven, Thomery's absence from the Bourse gave rise to disquieting rumors. He had some big deals to put through, therefore his absence could only be accounted for in one way—he had had an accident of some sort.
"Naturally enough, they warned Headquarters, and at once I suspected there might be a little scandal of some sort.... You guess that I immediately went myself to Thomery's house?... I examined his papers; and I found by chance three receipts for the rent of a flat, in the name of Monsieur Durand, rue Lecourbe. One of them was of recent date. I, of course, sent one of my men to ascertain who lived there! This man learned from the portress that there was a new tenant there, who had not yet moved in with his furniture; but who, the evening before, had brought in a heavy trunk.... My man went up to this flat, and had the door opened. You know under what conditions he found Thomery's dead body."
"And you did not find indications which went to show why Monsieur Thomery committed suicide?"
"Committed suicide?... When a financier disappears, my Fandor, one is always tempted to cry 'suicide'; but, this time, I confess to you that I do not think it was anything of the kind!..."
"Because?"
"Because"—and Monsieur Havard bent his head. "Well, when I reached the scene of the crime I immediately thought that we were not face to face with a suicide. A man who wishes to kill himself, and to kill himself because of money affairs, a man like Thomery, does not feel the necessity of committing suicide in a little flat rented under a false name, and in front of a trunk, which you know, do you not, belonged to Mademoiselle Dollon! One might swear that everything was arranged expressly to make anyone believe that Thomery had strangled himself, after having stolen the trunk, for some unknown reason!"
"You did not find any kind of clue?"
"Yes, indeed! And you know it as well as I do, for I have no doubt the extraordinary event has been the gossip of the neighbourhood. On the cover of the trunk we have once again found an imprint, a very clear impression—the famous imprint of Jacques Dollon!..."
"And you found nothing else?"
"Yes, in the dust on the floor, we found the marks of steps, numerous foot marks: we have made tracings of them."
"My steps, evidently," thought Fandor. But what he said was:
"What, in short, is your view of the general position, Monsieur Havard?"
"I am very much bothered about it. For my part, I think we are once again faced by another of Jacques Dollon's crimes. This wretch, after having attempted to assassinate his sister, has learned that we were going to search mademoiselle's room. He then made arrangements to steal this trunk, by pretending to be a police inspector, as you know; then he brought the trunk to this flat, examined its contents thoroughly, and having some special interest in the sugar refiner's death, he managed to get him to come to the flat, and there assassinated him, leaving his dead body in front of this trunk, where it was bound to be seen; all this he did in order to tangle the traces and perplex those on his track...."
"But how do you explain the fact of Jacques Dollon being so simple as to leave the imprints of his hand everywhere?... Deuce take it, this individual is at liberty: he reads the papers.... He knows that Monsieur Bertillon is tracing him!... So great a criminal would certainly be on his guard!"
"Of course! Such a successful criminal as Dollon has shown himself to be, must have resources at his disposal, which allow him to laugh at the police. He does not trouble to cover his tracks; it is enough for him that he should escape us."
As Fandor could not suppress a smile, the chief of the detective force added:
"Oh, we shall finish by arresting Dollon, have no fear! So far he has quite extraordinary luck in his favour, but the luck will turn, and we shall put our hand on his collar!"
"I certainly hope you may. But what are you going to do now?"
The two had stopped on the edge of the pavement, and were talking without paying any attention to the passers-by who rubbed shoulders with them. The well-known journalist and the important police official were unrecognised.
Monsieur Havard took Fandor's arm.
"Look here, come along with me, Fandor? Just the time to telephone to a police station, and then I will take you with me to make a fresh investigation."
"Where!"
"At Jacques Dollon's studio. I have kept the key of the house, and I wish to see whether I can find any other rent receipts made out in the name of Durand. Though I can see how Dollon inveigled Dollon into a trap, I do not understand how it came about that Thomery paid the rent of that trap. There is some subtle contrivance of Dollon's here; I want to get to the bottom of it.... Will you come to rue Norvins?"
"I jolly well will!" cried Fandor.
The chief of the detective force telephoned to Headquarters, whilst Fandor got into communication withLa Capitale. He sent on a report of the Thomery case up to that moment.
Quitting the police station, the two men hailed a cab, and were driven to the rue Norvins.
As far as they could tell, the artist's house had not been entered since Elizabeth Dollon's departure.
The neglected garden, with its rank growth of grass and weeds, gave an added air of melancholy to the deserted house.
Monsieur Havard put the key in the lock of the front door.
"Don't you think, Fandor, it gives one a queer feeling to enter a house where an unaccountable crime has been committed?" The key grated in the lock, and Monsieur Havard added:
"In spite of oneself, there is the feeling that some terrifying spectre is lurking within!"
"Or a ghost!" said Fandor.
And as the door was unlocked and opened, our journalist asked:
"Where shall we start this domiciliary visit?"
"Let us begin with the studio," replied Monsieur Havard, mounting to the first story.
No sooner had they entered the room, than a double cry escaped from the two men.
"Oh!..."
"Great Heaven!..."
In the very middle of the studio, there was the rigid body of a man hanging.
They rushed forward....
"Dead!" was Monsieur Havard's cry.
"Horribly dead!" echoed Fandor.
"Shall we never lay hands on those wretches?" Monsieur Havard stared, horrified, at the hanging corpse. He brought a chair, grasped the strong sharp knife he always carried about him, and, aided by Fandor, he cut the rope, laid the hanged man flat on the floor, and proceeded to examine the miserable remnant of a human being.
The face was swollen, gashed, crushed....
"The hands have been dipped in vitriol—they did not want finger prints taken—it is—it is Jacques Dollon!"
Fandor shook his head.
"Jacques Dollon? Of course, it isn't!... If it were Dollon, he would not hang himself here.... Why should he hang himself?"
Monsieur Havard remarked:
"He has not hanged himself. Again the stage has been set!... I could swear the man had been killed by blows from a hammer and hanged afterwards!... It seems to me, that if death had been caused through strangulation, there would have been marks round the neck.... But see, Fandor, the rope has hardly made a mark."
"No, the man was dead when they strung him up."
"It is of secondary importance!" remarked Fandor, who was preoccupied.
"You are mistaken: it matters a great deal! It decidedly looks as if Dollon had accomplices, who wished to be rid of him."
Fandor shook his head.
"It is not Dollon! It cannot be Dollon!"
"Look at the vitriolised hands—that was a precaution."
"I say, as you did just now: it's like a set piece—a bit of slag assassins' stage craft."
"I say, in Dollon's house, we have found Dollon at home!"
Fandor was not convinced. He felt certain Dollon had lied in the Dépôt.
"Well, Elizabeth Dollon can settle the question for us. There may be some physical peculiarity, some mark by which she can identify her brother's body!"
But Fandor was examining the body very carefully. Suddenly he rose from his stooping posture, exclaiming:
"I know who it is!"
"Who?"
"Jules! None other than Madame Bourrat's servant, Jules!... That is to say, an accomplice whom the bandits we are after wanted to be rid of. He might give them away when brought up for examination. That was why they managed his escape: they killed him afterwards, because he had served their turn, and was now an encumbrance."
"Your explanation is plausible, Fandor; but how about the truth of it?"
"This proves the truth of it!" cried Fandor, pointing to a cicatrice on the back of the neck of the murdered man: it was the clear mark of where an abscess had been.
"I am certain I noticed a similar mark on the neck of Jules. He sat in front of me the other day, and I particularly noticed this mark. The dead man is Jules. I am certain it is Jules!"
Monsieur Havard was silent. Presently he said:
"If it is Jules ... it must be admitted that we are no further forward!"
Fandor was about to utter a protest, when there was a knock on the studio door. Startled, the two men looked at each other anxiously.
"It can only be one of the force," murmured Monsieur Havard. "I told them I was coming here with you, and that they were to send for me if necessary."
The two men walked to the door. Monsieur Havard opened it. There stood a cyclist member of the police force. He saluted respectfully, and told his chief that he had come with a message from Michel.
"The message?"
"That the arrest is successful, chief."
"Which?"
"That of the band of Numbers, chief."
"Good! Whom have you bagged?"
"Almost the whole lot, chief!"
"That is to say?"
"Mother Toulouche, Beard, Mimile, otherwise Emilet, and the Cooper—and a few more whose names are not known."
Fandor said, laughing:
"Not Cranajour, I am certain."
"No. Cranajour has escaped," answered the policeman.
Turning to Monsieur Havard, he asked:
"You have no instructions, chief?"
"No. Tell me, how did the capture go?"
"Perfectly, chief. They were assembled in Mother Toulouche's store. They went like lambs."
"Good!... Good!"
Monsieur Havard gave the policeman some orders. The cyclist leaped into the saddle and disappeared.
"How did you guess that Cranajour was still at liberty?" asked Monsieur Havard.
Fandor smiled.
"Good business! You take me to be more stupid than I am. It is Cranajour's information which has enabled you to arrest the band of Numbers. Consequently!..."
"Cranajour's information? You are mad, Fandor!... Whatever makes you imagine that Cranajour belongs to our force?"
Fandor looked Monsieur Havard straight in the eye and said coolly:
"Juve has never told me that he had sent in his resignation!"
Monsieur Havard looked searchingly at our journalist, before remarking:
"Come now! What is this you are telling me? Poor Juve?..."
Fandor wished to save the chief of the detective department from telling useless falsehoods.
"Monsieur Havard! Monsieur Havard! Interrogate the members of the band of Numbers, and don't trouble about how I got my information ... but, be sure of one thing, there are dead men of whom I could tell tales, of whose existence I am as well aware of as you yourself!"
As the chief stared at the journalist, looking more and more astonished, Fandor added:
"And I do not refer to Dollon! I am referring to Juve, to my dear friend Juve, the king of detectives!"
"Hop along there! See if you can't hurry up a bit!"
The warder opened the door of Elizabeth's Dollon's cell and pushed in an old woman—a horrid looking creature.
"In with you!" commanded the warder in a harsh tone. "You are to stay here till to-morrow. We will find another place for you when we get instructions...."
Poor Elizabeth Dollon stared miserably at this strange companion which Fate, in the person of a warder, had thrust on her.
The old woman stared with no little curiosity at the pale, sad girl.... Silence fell for a few minutes, then the new prisoner asked, in a tone of rough familiarity:
"What's your name?"
"I call myself Elizabeth!"
"Don't know it!... Elizabeth, who?..."
"Elizabeth Dollon...."
The old woman rose from the corner of the mattress she had seated herself on.
"True? You're Elizabeth Dollon?... Well, that's funny! Have you been nabbed long?..."
"You ask if it is long since I was...?"
"Nabbed!... Taken!... Arrested!... Eh?"
Elizabeth nodded in the affirmative. It seemed to her that an infinity of time had passed since her imprisonment at Saint Lazare.
"I was nabbed last night. If you want to know my name, I'm called Mother Toulouche. They say I'm one of the band of Numbers, and that I receive stolen goods! Lies! That's well understood!"
Elizabeth had no desire to go into such an unsavoury question. This horrid old woman rather frightened her; but, such had been her distress and fears since she had been a prisoner, that it was a relief not to be quite alone; to have even this old creature to speak to was better than solitary confinement.
In her character of old jail-bird, Mother Toulouche made herself quickly at home.
"Moved to-morrow, they say I'm to be! Pity! At bottom you're not one of the scurvy sort, but you must be here to play spy on me, for all that!... When do you go out? Are you long for Saint Lago?" Alas, how could Elizabeth tell?
"I like being a barrister," thought Fandor, as he entered Saint Lazare. "For the last hour I have felt a different person, much more serious, more sure of myself, not to say, more eloquent!... I must be eloquent, since I have succeeded in persuading my friend, Maître Dubard, to get himself appointed officially as Mademoiselle Dollon's counsel; then to obtain a permit of communication, and to hand this same permit over to me, so that his identification papers, safely tucked away in my portfolio, make of me the most indisputable of Maîtres Dubard!"
Fandor might well congratulate himself! By means of this ruse—his own idea—he was enabled to see Elizabeth, not in the prison parlour, but in a special cell, and without a witness. As Fandor crossed the threshold of the sordid building, he said to himself:
"I am Maître Dubard, visiting his client, in order to prepare her defence!"
He easily accomplished the necessary formalities, and, at last, he saw himself being conducted by a morose warder to a little parlour, scantily furnished with a table and a few stools.
"Please be seated, maître," said the surly fellow. "I'll fetch your client along!"
Fandor put down his portfolio, but remained standing, anxious, all aquiver at the thought that he was about to see his dear Elizabeth appear between two warders, just like a common prisoner!
"In a moment she will be here," thought he.... But she must on no account recognise him on entering! By an exclamation she might betray his identity and complicate things! Therefore, Fandor feigned to be absorbed in a newspaper he unfolded and raised, so as to hide his face from the approaching pair. The door opened.
"Come now! Go in!..." growled the warder. "Maître, when you wish to leave, you have only to ring."
The door fell to, heavily, behind the warder.
Fandor made a sharp movement. He stood revealed. He hurried up to Elizabeth.
"Oh, tell me how you are, Mademoiselle Elizabeth!" he cried.
But the girl was struck dumb: she grew suddenly pale, and made no reply.
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Will you not give me your hand even? You do not understand why I am here? I had to see you, speak to you without a witness ... that's why I have passed myself off as an advocate!"
The startled girl was regaining her self-control. Fandor was gazing at her with frankly admiring eyes.
"Poor Elizabeth! How I have made you suffer!"
The poor girl's eyes filled with tears.
"Why have you betrayed me?" she demanded in a voice trembling with restrained emotion. "Oh, how could you get me arrested? You, who well know I am not guilty?"
"You really believe I have betrayed you? You actually credited me with that?"
These two young people, meeting in a prison parlour under such tragic circumstances, were hurt and even angry with each other.
Elizabeth Dollon went on:
"Why did you not tell me that you had found on that piece of soap traces of my brother's finger-marks? Why did you accuse me of having received a visit from him, when you yourself had proved that he was dead?"
Fandor took Elizabeth's two little hands in his and pressed them long and tenderly.
"My dear Elizabeth, when I engineered this theatrical stroke in the presence of the examining magistrate, in order to secure your arrest, believe me, I had no time to warn you of what I meant to do.... Ah, if I could have warned you—but it would have only disturbed you to no good purpose, besides—your being really taken by surprise was a help—there could not be any idea of collusion.... Of course, you want the answer to this riddle? You shall have it—that is why I am here.... Don't you remember, Elizabeth, that on the evening before the fatal day you told me that I had twice rung you up on the telephone? And that each time you answered the call you could not find me at the end of the line?... You cannot imagine what I felt when I heard you say that! I never telephoned! I never telephoned to the convent!
"The obvious conclusion was, that the individuals who, for some reason, did not wish to make themselves known, did wish to keep track of you, and to assure themselves that you were still at the convent, rue de la Glacière...."
Fandor's voice trembled a little, as he went on:
"And I was at once afraid, my poor child, that these people who were pursuing you, might be the very same who had got into Madame Bourrat's house, and had tried to kill you.... Ah, do you not see how greatly it hurt and troubled me to think that I had taken you to the convent, and had there placed you in security—as I thought—but where you were far from being safe?"
Again Fandor took Elizabeth's hands in his.
"You do understand now, dear child, why I had you arrested?... I felt you would be safe here.... You see, I could not get your persecutors imprisoned and so prevent them from getting at you. To imprison you was the alternative: you are better guarded here than elsewhere."
Elizabeth smiled a little smile when she saw how moved Fandor was.
"But," replied she, "there is the other point! You certainly told me that you were sure my brother was killed in prison—in his cell!"
"Certainly, I did! The assassination of your brother was premeditated. If the criminals have had accomplices at the Dépôt, and such there certainly were, they have been bought over little by little.... The fact of your brother's murder is fresh in the memory of the police, of all, therefore, a special watch is kept over you. I ascertained that it would be so, and Fuselier himself assured me of it: there is a warder specially told off to keep a close guard over you, a safe man, known to be beyond suspicion.... No, Elizabeth, do believe me, if I was the cause of your horrified surprise the other day, and then of your imprisonment, I wished to be sure that you were as safe as it was possible to be; then, freed from such intense anxiety, I felt I should be at liberty to continue my investigations.... Do say you forgive me!"
All Elizabeth could say was:
"But why not have warned me?... I still can't quite see!..."
"Why, because, I only thought of the plan at the last moment! Also, because I feared you might not be able to act surprise naturally enough!... It was absolutely—yes, absolutely necessary—that everyone should take your arrest seriously.... Surely, Elizabeth, you can understand that!"
He repeated his plea.
"Do, do say you forgive me, Elizabeth!"
The smile returned to Elizabeth's lips: she was much moved.
"Indeed, I do... You are always my very good friend: you think of everything, and you watch over me as if ..."
Intimidated, blushing hotly, she stopped short, then changed the conversation.
"Do tell me if you have heard anything fresh!"
Fandor returned to his normal self also. He had sworn to himself that he would not tell Elizabeth he loved her, until he had succeeded in unravelling the tangled skein of the terrible Dollon affair.
"I shall speak," thought he, "when she is once more at peace and free, when she is out of danger. I do not want her to consent to love me just because I have devoted myself to her brother's case. Elizabeth shall be my wife, please God; but only if I deserve her, if I can win her."
And Jérôme Fandor told her the story of the famous wicker trunk—but he did not mention Thomery's death, nor did he speak of the horrible murder of Jules.... What was the use of saddening Elizabeth, of adding needlessly to her terrors? Instead, he thought it better to learn what he could from her.
"I have not found that famous list!" said he.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Elizabeth. "I was so worried!... Just imagine that, I found the list after all, and I thought I had lost it! It was in one of my little handbags. I had put it there to bring to you. Here it is: they were quite willing to let me keep it!"
Fandor eagerly took the paper from Elizabeth and proceeded to examine it. Yes, it certainly was a page torn from a note-book of medium size. An unknown hand had traced the following words in bold writing. The names succeeded one another in the form of a list.