"Open! Open! Open! The police!"

Bobinette grew ashen with terror.

"It is all up!" thought the desperate girl: "They will see Vagualame is free! They will find me with him! We are caught!"

She turned frantically to Vagualame. He stood calm and collected.

"Ah!" said he with a touch of raillery, looking at the proprietress: "They have been warned that you are again breaking the work law!"

Shaking a threatening finger at the rigid Sophie, Vagualame went to the shop entrance. He looked through the large keyhole to see who was demanding admittance at this late hour.... A look, and Vagualame turned, caught Sophie by the arm, and whispered:

"Detective Juve!... Inspector Michel!... Keep cool, Sophie! They cannot know all the ins and outs of your place."

Two strides and Vagualame joined Bobinette. He dragged her to the end of the shop, reached a corner, turned it, and they were standing on boards clear of books: it was hidden from the main part of the shop and from the entrance.

"Draw your skirts between your legs!" he commanded. "Don't utter a sound!... Don't be afraid!"

* * * * *

Vagualame was right. The police had surrounded the mysterious shop.

Noiselessly, gliding past the houses like shadows, revolver in hand, dark lantern at waist, fifteen detectives in plain clothes had converged on the tall house in the blind alley.

Juve was speaking low.

"Careful, Michel! We have seen our birds enter. They are inside.... I shall follow them!... Meanwhile, do not stir from this door.... There is no other issue.... Do not allow a soul to pass—not one!"

"Never fear, Juve!"

Information dropped by Corporal Vinson, who had been taken to The Crying Calf by Vagualame, more than once had caused Juve to keep a strict watch on the wine-shop for some days. He had seen first Bobinette and then Vagualame enter the place.... When Bobinette came out, almost immediately, he felt sure she had not had time for a talk with Vagualame.... When Vagualame soon followed, Juve had shadowed the old accordion player in the darkness: behind him followed his men on the trail of both.

When he saw Vagualame and Bobinette enter the library he exclaimed, in thought:

"I have them!... I know the house! I am going to arrest Fantomas and his accomplice!"

Cool as a cucumber now that the decisive, ardently-longed-for moment was at hand, Juve repeated his instructions: he did not mean to leave anything to chance.

"You understand then, Michel, not one single person is to leave these premises. Even I can only be permitted to pass when I say to you: 'It is I, Juve, ... Let me pass!' You thoroughly understand?"

"Perfectly," replied Michel.

Juve turned to his four picked men:

"Gentlemen! Are you ready?"

Revolver in one hand, lantern in the other, Juve knocked loudly on the shuttered shop door.

"In the name of the law! Open! Open! Open!... The police!"

A bare three minutes had elapsed between Juve's first summons and the opening of the library door.

Vagualame had made profitable use of the three minutes.

"Don't utter a sound! Don't be afraid!" Vagualame had repeated to Bobinette: "They will not take us this time!"

Hustled, dragged to the spot already described, Bobinette now felt the ground giving way beneath her. She rolled on to a steeply inclined plane. Gliding down into the void, clutching Vagualame, she heard a dull sound: it was the trap falling to.

"Quiet!" repeated Vagualame, as Bobinette rolled on to the wood flooring of a sort of cellar piled high with books. He signed to the girl to listen.

"Yes! They are searching the shop, knocking the books about, imagining we are hidden among them!... But, from what I know of Juve, in a very short time he will have ferreted out the trap door and will descend as we have done. He will never be such a fool as to think we have gone down the shop stairs."

"Oh!" groaned Bobinette: "Whatever shall we do?"

Vagualame calmly turned on his pocket electric torch, approached an immense pile of illustrated magazines stacked in a corner. He struck three blows on it, saying in a low clear voice:

"Open! Open to brothers!"

Bobinette, frightened past speech, saw the immense pile of volumes oscillate, then noiselessly divide, disclosing a secret door.

Vagualame pulled her towards it, saying in a joking tone:

"You see how useful it is to have friends of all sorts! Your employer, Olga Damitroff, was well advised when she once told me when and where the Nihilists gather together in Paris to plot against the Czar!"

Vagualame brought her into a large room, lit by torches, where a score of young men were assembled. They rose and reverently saluted Vagualame, who approached them with outstretched hand.

When Juve entered, he soon satisfied himself that only Sophie remained in the library. He gave orders to keep strict guard over the proprietress, notwithstanding her loud protestations.

"Do not permit anyone to leave the premises," he repeated to the men stationed at the door—"except myself, of course."

He turned to others.

"Move all these volumes! There may be a hide-hole concealed behind them.... Keep guard at the top of the little staircase. It is the only way of escape ... I am going to make a tour of the cellars and expect to run my game to earth by this staircase."...

Sophie again protested.

"There is nothing in my cellars that ought not to be there! I don't understand what the police want here!"

Juve paid no attention to these protestations. He went towards the corner at the farther end of the shop.

Juve knew all the dens in Paris; there was not a secret society he did not know of—societies, political and otherwise, holding mysterious meetings in these places: he knew of the existence of this trap-door and slide which led to the cellars below this library.

"We will go down to the Nihilists," said he.

Before the interested eyes of his subordinates, Juve set the trap in motion. A counter weight closed it over his head.

Juve rolled into the cellar but a few seconds after Vagualame and Bobinette had escaped from it!... To tell the truth, Juve did not know of the hidden entrance to the secret room. Dizzy from his rapid glide downwards, Juve raised his lantern. He was not surprised to find this retreat empty. He knew the slide led to second and lower series of cellars....

His eye caught a movement. The huge stack of magazines, looking as if it would topple over, so much on the slant was it, was slowly moving into an upright position again! He leaped forward, thrusting his revolver between the opening of the two portions, and prevented them from joining completely!...

What was going on behind this tricky collection of magazines, which had undoubtedly just opened to give passage to Vagualame and Bobinette?

Juve glued his ear to the fissure which marked the edge of the hidden door.... Ah!... Voices of men in discussion!... Juve could not distinguish all that the voices were saying, but a word reached his ear, clear, unmistakable—Fantomas!

He listened intently.

"You are right," remarked an invisible speaker: "It is to Fantomas we owe all these police visits and annoyances—his crimes exasperate the police—and to justify themselves in the opinion of the public they track us down more vigorously than ever!"

Another voice answered:

"I know for certain that these coppers are after Fantomas to-night!"

Shouts and hoots resounded.

Menacing voices repeated:

"Since Fantomas is indirectly our persecutor, let us avenge ourselves on Fantomas!... What matters one life compared with the cause we defend—the cause of a whole people!... If Fantomas is in our way, troubles us, let us kill him!... Trokoff will be here to-morrow, this evening perhaps! Trokoff will guide us! Trokoff will find this mysterious bandit who does us so much harm! Trokoff is a valiant man!... We do not know him, but we know what he has done!"

Juve smiled a sardonic smile. He thrust his hand into the opening wedged apart by his revolver, widened the space, opened the secret door, and entered the assembly room of the Nihilists.

"God save Russia!"

Juve pronounced these words with unction, in a solemn voice.

"God save Poland," was the reply. The oldest man present, who had thus been spokesman for the assembly advanced towards the stranger.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

Without the quiver of an eyelid, an eyelash, Juve answered: "I am he whom you have awaited.... He who will direct your arms—guide you! I am Trokoff!"

"Let but one of these inspired fanatics, who hold life cheap, guess that I belong to the police, and they would kill me without mercy or pity," thought Juve, as he faced the assembly of revolutionaries with a serene countenance.

There were no threatening looks. They believed themselves to be in the presence of Trokoff. Had he not opened the door?... Only Trokoff, the expected, the longed for, could have done that!

The assembly acclaimed him:

"Trokoff! We for Russia welcome you! God be with you, Trokoff! Heaven guard you!"

"God be with you, brothers!"

Juve advanced, scrutinising each in turn: neither Vagualame nor Bobinette were among them.

Juve addressed them:

"My brothers! You know that the police are now searching the shop overhead: it is a serious moment!"

One of the Nihilists stepped forward.

"We know it, Trokoff! Our brother, Vagualame, accompanied by a young disciple, came to warn us but a minute ago. Be assured, brother! The police are not searching for us this evening.... It is the vile wretch Fantomas they are after!... A criminal ruffian, foe of all liberty, whom we have condemned to death.... Therefore we are not disquieted. Vagualame has just left us.... He will direct the suspicions of the police into another channel. He told us he knew a way of quieting their suspicions."...

"If only Michel does not allow this arch-bandit to slip through his fingers!" reflected Juve, as he listened with unmoved countenance to these remarkable statements. Before the Nihilist could say more, Juve made a declaration:

"Vagualame deceives himself, brother. I must go up at once to give him the aid of my strong arm, otherwise we are finished!... I know only the secret entrance here: guide me to the other exit, so that I may not attract the attention of the police: we do not want our secret entrance discovered!"

"It shall be as you desire, brother. Follow me; but be prudent."

Marching at the Nihilist's heels, after many twists and turns, Juve arrived at the foot of a quite ordinary staircase.

"You have only to mount, brother Trokoff. These stairs lead straight into the shop. If the police ask where you come from, you have only to say that you were looking in the first cellar for a book!... But what matters it if they do visit the cellars! They will never find the hidden door!"

Juve bent his head.

"Thanks, brother! Peace be with you!"

The Nihilist turned away. No sooner was he out of sight than Juve tore up the stairs to complete the arrest of Vagualame and Bobinette!

Inspector Michel had not stirred from his appointed place by the door leading to the street.

He had been on guard about half an hour when Juve, livid, frantic, rushed towards him.

"You have let them go out, Michel!" he shouted: "They are not here!"

"No one has gone out at this door, Chief! I give you my word on it!... But, may I ask how you managed to slip back again without my having noticed you! Deuced clever, I call it!... No one, I say, has left these premises either before or after you!"

"What's that you say?" Juve stared at Michel as if he had taken leave of his senses.

"What I say, Chief, is—the only individuals whom I have allowed to pass out are you and your woman prisoner."

"I and my woman prisoner?" Juve could have howled with rage. He caught the calm, collected Michel by the coat collar, and dragged him outside the shop. Juve looked so desperate, so at his wit's end, that Michel wondered.

"Come now, Chief!" he remonstrated; "I am not dreaming, am I?... Ten minutes ago you came to me here, and you said:

"'Don't move, Michel! Let me pass. I am Juve! I take a prisoner to the station and will return.'"

Juve had grown deadly calm.

"I was disguised, Michel, was I not?"

"Yes. You had put on your Vagualame disguise."

Juve bit his lip till the blood came. That arch-bandit had done him again! Juve could not but admire his coolness and resource. He had known how to take in Michel, because Michel had arrested Juve when disguised as Vagualame at de Naarboveck's house.... Michel would naturally think his chief had again assumed the Vagualame disguise for a purpose! Oh, it was the devil's own cleverness!

Juve glared at Michel.

"It was the real Vagualame, I tell you!" shouted Juve.... "It was not I disguised as Vagualame!... It was Vagualame in person, I tell you!... It is Vagualame himself whom you have allowed to escape!"

There was a pause—terrible, heart-sickening.

Michel drew himself up.

"What then, Chief?"

Juve's anger gave place to compassion.

"It is really not your fault, my poor Michel. How could you imagine the infernal trick this bandit was playing on you?... I bear you no grudge for it, Michel!"

But Michel was inconsolable. He had committed an irreparable blunder!

Juve slipped his arm through that of his miserable subordinate. The pair made their way to Headquarters at the head of the little column of subordinates who, understanding that Juve had not found what he sought, were cursing inwardly at the failure of their expedition....

The moment Juve realised that Michel had allowed Vagualame-Fantomas to escape, he had called off his men. He did not wish the Russian revolutionaries cornered and arrested at present.... Possibly Vagualame believed Juve and his men had come to find the Nihilists, and, having failed, had left the premises in a rage!

Sophie would report to the bandit—but she had not heard everything! Thought Juve:

"He will hardly guess that I entered the assembly below by the secret door and made them believe I was Trokoff!... It leaves a way open for future transactions!... Some day, not so far ahead, I may return, may find that devil's Will o' the Wisp of a bandit there and nab him at last!"... Did Michel suspect there were Nihilists on the premises?

"Tell me," questioned Juve: "Did you overhear any suspicious talk?... This Sophie did not say anything interesting?"

"Nothing whatever, Chief."

"Your men, Michel, do not know what individual we are after?"

Michel laughed.

"Oh, they are a hundred leagues off the truth!... That they were out to arrest Fantomas!... Just imagine, Chief! This afternoon, a complaint was lodged at Headquarters with reference to the theft of a bear! The theft was committed at Troyes, at the fair.... Our men are persuaded that to-night's search has to do with this bear-stealing case!... All the more so because, just as we started on this expedition, one of my men, whose home is at Sceaux, told us that his brother, a driver down there, had been ordered to go in five days' time, with two horses, and at five in the morning, on the road to Robinson, and take a gipsy van twenty kilometres from there!... He thought there was something very queer about such a rendezvous as that!"

Juve's interest in this piece of news was keen!



XXX

APPALLING ACCUSATIONS

"But, Commandant, you cannot possibly maintain that I am not Jerome Fandor, journalist!"

The interview between Commandant Dumoulin and Fandor had already lasted an hour. It was unlike that which had taken place six days before, when Dumoulin had dealt summarily with the Fandor-Vinson case. Since then Fandor had occupied cell 27, and had had no communication with the outside world. Fandor had raged furiously against things in general, against Dumoulin in particular, and against himself most of all. He acknowledged that Juve had done his utmost to extricate him from the tangled web he had involved himself in as Fandor-Vinson.

Each day brought him one distraction which he would willingly have foregone: he passed long exhausting hours in Commandant Dumoulin's office. He found the commandant detestable. Dumoulin was hot-blooded, noisy, unmethodical, always in a state of fuss and fume! He would begin his interrogations calmly, would weigh his words, would be logical, but little by little, his real nature—a tempestuous one—would get the upper hand.

For the twentieth time Fandor had insisted on his identity, and Dumoulin, tapping the case papers with an agitated hand, had replied:

"I recognise that you are Jerome Fandor, exercising the profession of a journalist—since it seems journalism is a profession! But that is not the question; the problem I have to elucidate! I have to ascertain when, and at what exact moment, one Jerome Fandor took the personality of Corporal Vinson!"...

"I have already told you, Commandant!... Please read my deposition of the day before yesterday. I will recapitulate:

"Sunday, November 13th, at five o'clock in the evening, at my domicile, rue Richer, I received the visit of a soldier whom I did not know. He stated that he was called Corporal Vinson, and informed me that he had become part and parcel of the spy system; that he regretted it, and, not being able to extricate himself, he was going to commit suicide.... Desiring to give this unfortunate a chance of rehabilitating himself, desiring also to come to close quarters with this gang of spies, I decided to assume his personality, and take advantage of his entrance into a regiment where he was not known, and to go there in his place. It was in these conditions that I left eight days after, on Sunday, November 20th, for Verdun."

"You maintain that you did not assume the personality of Vinson before that date?"

"I do maintain that, Commandant."

"But that is the pivot of the whole business, and the important point yet to be proved!"

"That is not difficult," declared Fandor: "I have alibis who will support my statement."

The commandant raised his arms to heaven.

"Alibis! Alibis!... What do they prove, after all?"

"The truth, Commandant.... When I am in Paris it is evident I am not in Chalons or Verdun."

Dumoulin was evidently trying to find an argument to meet the accused's logic.

"Peuh!" declared he: "With fellows like you, who are perpetually disguising themselves, changing their faces as I change my collars, one never knows."... Suddenly Dumoulin's face lighted up.

"Tuesday, November 29th, you were in the shoes of Vinson—is that so?"

"Yes, Commandant."

"Very well. This same Tuesday, November 29th, you were at the Elysee ball as Jerome Fandor! So you see!"

Dumoulin was triumphant.

"I had twenty-four hours' leave, Commandant—quite regular!" protested Fandor.

"Ah!" growled the commandant, glancing knowingly at Lieutenant Servin, who with impassive countenance was listening to this discussion: "Don't talk to me about leave!... Heaven alone knows how easily you spies succeed in obtaining leave!"

Fandor was about to protest vehemently against being numbered with the spies, when the commandant started another subject.

"Added to this, there is something very serious in your case."

"Good Heavens! What now?" ejaculated Fandor.

Dumoulin looked mysterious.

"We will speak of it later on.... The next step is to confront you with certain witnesses: Lieutenant Servin, see if the witnesses are there!"

Fandor himself had demanded this confrontation. He did not deny having assumed the personality of Corporal Vinson, dating from the day when the corporal entered officially on his duties as a unit of the 257th of the line, in garrison at Verdun. But the enquiry wished to establish that, anterior to this, Fandor had already taken the place of the real Vinson: the military authorities seemed to attach immense importance to this point. Fandor had then decided that the simplest way was to be brought face to face with soldiers who had known Vinson at Chalons: they would state that the Vinson presented to them in the person of Fandor was not the Vinson they had known.

Thereupon Dumoulin had sent for two men who, as orderlies at Chalons, had lived side by side with Vinson.

There was a momentous silence while Lieutenant Servin went to the end of the corridor and signed to the two waiting witnesses to come forward. The two men entered the commandant's office, facing Dumoulin in true military style.

Dumoulin, reading out the names of the two witnesses from a paper, started his interrogation with a haughty air.

"Hiloire?"

"Present, Commandant."

"What is your name?"

The soldier opened his eyes wide, and thinking he had to give his Christian name, stammered:

"Justinien!"

"What?" growled the commandant: "You are not called Hiloire?"

The bewildered man attempted some confused explanations, from which it could be gathered that Hiloire was his surname and Justinien his baptismal name!

"Good!" declared the commandant, who proceeded to question the second soldier as to his identity! When it was made clear that he was one Tarbottin, baptismal name Niccodeme, the commandant questioned them together.

"You are soldiers of the second class in the 213th of the line, and fulfil the functions of staff orderlies?"

"Yes, Commandant."

"You know Corporal Vinson?"

"Yes, Commandant."

Dumoulin pointed to Fandor.

"Is he Corporal Vinson?"

"Yes, Commandant," repeated the two soldiers.

Lieutenant Servin intervened. He pointed out to his chief that the witnesses had replied in the affirmative without turning to look at the supposed corporal.

The commandant cried angrily:

"What kind of imbeciles are you? Before saying that you recognise a person you must begin by looking at that person! Look at the corporal!"

The two soldiers obeyed: they turned with precision and stared at Fandor.

"Is that man Corporal Vinson?"

"Yes, Commandant."

"You are sure of that?"

"No, Commandant."

Despite the miserable position he found himself in, Fandor could not help smiling at the bewilderment of the two soldiers: it was evident they could be made to say anything.

The commandant was growing more and more exasperated.

"What's that!" he shouted: "I will give you eight days in the cells if you continue to play the fool like this!... Try to understand what you are doing! Do you even know why you are here?"

After consulting each other with a look as to who should answer, Tarbottin explained:

"It is the sergeant who told us that we were being sent to Paris to recognise Corporal Vinson—well, then?"

"Well," continued Hiloire: "we recognised him!"

Then, speaking together, with an air of proud satisfaction:

"Yes, we got our orders. We have carried them out!"

The commandant was scarlet. With a violent blow of his fist he sent three sets of case papers flying to the ground. He turned to Lieutenant Servin.

"I fail to understand why the staff captain has expressly sent us the biggest fools he could lay hands on.... What the deuce can you get out of such a pair?... Has the counter verification been carried out? Have they been shown the body of the real Corporal Vinson?"

Lieutenant Servin replied that this had been done.

"And what did they declare?"

"Nothing definite.... I may say they were very much moved at the sight of the corpse—also, that it is decomposing rapidly."

Here Fandor broke in:

"Commandant, I am extremely surprised that you thought it necessary to summon only two soldiers! It is at least strange!... I have the right to expect that in the conduct of the enquiry connected with the action you wish to bring against me you should proceed more seriously than you are doing at present.... A magistrate should be impartial!"...

The commandant had risen. He bent towards Fandor across his writing-table. Fandor also had risen—Dumoulin's air was threatening: he was furious.

"What do you mean by that?" he shouted.

"I mean to say," burst out Fandor, "that for the last forty-eight hours you have given proofs of a revolting partiality—against me!"

For a minute Dumoulin drew himself up, crimson, choking: he was an embodied protest. Suddenly he dropped the official and became the fellow-citizen. He cried:

"But I am an honest man!"

Dumoulin was a worthy official of the old school. Whatever his temperamental drawbacks, he undoubtedly aimed at a conscientious conduct of any case he had in charge. Fandor had made an exceedingly bad impression on him. He had been scandalised that a civilian, a mere journalist, had dared to treat the army with contempt, by so lightly taking the place of a real soldier. Unquestionably there were grave presumptions of Fandor's guilt: that was Dumoulin's opinion.

Considering the importance of the affair, the terrible consequences which might ensue for the accused were the case to go against him, it was imperative that the enquiry should be thorough down to the minutest detail.... The commandant well knew the weak points in his procedure. There was this confrontation, with the absurd testimonies of the two soldiers: it had proved a ridiculous fiasco. Also, he would have great difficulty in showing conclusively that Fandor had been a certain time at Chalons under Vinson's uniform.

Dumoulin, mastering his emotion, resumed his official tone.

"Fandor!"...

He stopped short, glared indignantly at the two soldiers planted in the middle of the room.

"What are you two up to now?" he cried.

The ridiculous pair saluted, but did not reply.

"Lieutenant, remove those men! We do not want any more of them here! Take them out of my sight!" growled Dumoulin.

The commandant felt he must have a breath of fresh air, collect his thoughts, and calm down before resuming conduct of the case.

"We shall continue this interrogation in ten minutes' time," he announced and left the room.

* * * * *

The short interval had done its work. The commandant had calmed down, Fandor had regained his self-possession. No longer was it an irascible officer facing an inimical accused: two men, fellow-citizens, were prepared to argue and talk together.... The formal interrogation recommenced.

"Fandor," began the commandant in an amiable tone, "you have evidently been drawn on by unforeseen events to commit irregularities. Name your accomplices!"...

Fandor replied in a similar tone.

"No, Commandant, I have not been drawn into the spy circle really, nor have I practised spying.... I considered it right to assume the personality of Corporal Vinson solely to obtain information regarding the relations this unfortunate maintained, compulsorily and quite against his better judgment, with the agents of a foreign power. When I had obtained the facts I sought, my intention was to leave the law to deal with them."

"In other words," said Dumoulin: "you aimed at playing the counter-spy!"

"If you like to put it so!"

The commandant smiled ironically.

"They always say that!... In the course of my career, Monsieur Fandor, I have had to examine three or four spy cases: well, the defence of the guilty man is always the same—you have taken up an identical position: I sell secret documents in exchange for more important ones!... This system of defence will not hold water!"

"I cannot take up any other position!" declared Fandor.

"The Council will take that at its proper value," announced the commandant.

Fandor was asking himself how he was going to get out of a position that was growing worse, and that in a very curious way!

The commandant's next question struck a shrewd blow at the accused.

"Fandor—How about those accomplices you refuse to name?... Have they not remunerated you for your pains?"

"What do you mean to imply by that?" demanded Fandor.

"Have they not given you money?"

"No!"

"Think carefully, and be frank!"

Fandor ransacked his memory.... Ah!... What of that interview in the printing works of the Noret brothers? Would it be best in accordance with his aims to deny it? It went against the grain of his naturally frank nature to tell such a lie.... Nevertheless he had vowed to himself a well-considered vow that he would not reveal what he had learned: it would be a grave mistake at present.

He lowered his head as he persisted in his declaration:

"No, Commandant! I have not received money from the spies."

The commandant called to the reporter:

"Make a special note of that: underline it with red pencil. This is a most important statement!"

The commandant turned over some papers in his drawer, drew out a sealed envelope, opened it, extracted another envelope.

Fandor asked himself, with a thrill of foreboding, what this new move of the commandant's meant.

From a third envelope, Dumoulin took out several bank-notes, yellowed and crumpled. He held them up for Fandor to see.

"Here are three fifty franc bank-notes—new ones!... They bear the following numbers: A 4998; O 4350; U 5108. They were found, with others, concealed in your baggage at the Saint-Benoit barracks at Verdun. Do you recognise these notes as having been in your possession?"

"How do you think I can know that?" countered Fandor. "One bank-note is not distinguishable from another!"

"Yes they are: by the numbering," asserted the commandant.... "I willingly admit that it is not usual to write down for reference the number of every bank-note which passes through one's hands!... We have a better way of demonstrating that the notes I have in my hand were in your possession."

"What exactly is he going to spring upon me now?" Fandor asked himself.

There was an impressive pause.

"These notes," declared Dumoulin, "have been carefully examined by the anthropometric service. It has been demonstrated that they bear distinct traces of your finger-marks.... I hope, Monsieur Fandor, that you do not contest the exactitude of the Bertillion method?"

"No," replied Fandor simply. "I accept the evidence of the anthropometric method."

The commandant looked more and more satisfied.

"You acknowledge then, that these notes were in your possession?"

"Yes, I do."

The commandant again addressed the reporter:

"Note that important confession! Underline it with red pencil!"

Dumoulin fired a point-blank question at Fandor.

"Did you know Captain Brocq?"

"No."

"You did know him," insisted the commandant.

"No," repeated Fandor. He questioned in his turn:

"Why?"

"Because."... The commandant hesitated, then continued:

"You are not ignorant of the fact that an important document was stolen from the domicile of this mysteriously murdered man?"

"I know it," admitted Fandor.

"That is not all," continued Dumoulin: "A certain amount of money was also stolen from this unfortunate officer. Now, Brocq was in the habit of putting down in his pocket-book the exact sums he possessed and—mark this well—also entering the numbers of his bank-notes!... Now, bank-notes have disappeared from his cash drawer. The missing notes bear the numbers: A 4998; O 4350; U 5108; the very notes found in your pocket-book!"

There ensued a dreadful silence. Fandor was thunderstruck.... Everything seemed in league against him.... Oh, he was caught like a mouse in a trap!... These must be the notes that the red-bearded man—probably one of the Noret brothers—had slipped into his hand!... Evidently, from the time of his leaving Paris in Corporal Vinson's uniform, the traitorous gang he meant to expose had known him for what he was! Without suspecting it, he had been the hunted instead of the hunter: and this chaser of damaged goods and trumpery wares had been caught in his trap like a fool!... These unscrupulous wretches had hatched an abominable plot against him!... Fandor felt that each instant saw him deeper in the toils! His whole being was invaded by a terrible anxiety, an immense fear. Who could be so powerful, so subtle, so formidable as to have made a fool of him in such a fashion, to have led him into such traps that even Juve himself could do nothing to save him?

One being, and one only, was capable of such a diabolically clever performance; and Fandor, who would not believe it some weeks before, when discussing the question with Juve, had now to accept his hypothesis as a certainty: his acts caused his unseen personality to hit you in the eyes! Only one person could pull the strings with such a demon hand!... Yes, Fandor could no longer doubt that his desperate plight was due to the terrific, odious, elusive Fantomas!

Our journalist was now in the lowest depths. He attempted to keep calm and cool, but he had lost grip of himself.... He stammered, he mumbled confusedly, justifications, excuses, charging the Noret brothers with having given him those terrible bank-notes.

Dumoulin, on his side, was convinced that his examination had made an immense step in the right direction. He considered that the interrogation might well end with a last word, a last sentence. He turned to the wretched, over-strained Fandor, and in tones of the utmost solemnity administered his finishing stroke.

"Jerome Fandor, not only are you accused of the crimes of treason and spying, but, taking into account the formal avowals you have just made, I, here and now, declare you guilty of the assassination of Captain Brocq, of the theft of his documents, and of his money!"



XXXI

A CARAVAN DRAMA

The night was dark and stormy. On the Sceaux road a gipsy was braving the tempest, making difficult headway in the teeth of a gale which flapped her long cloak with impeding force, soaked her to the skin, dashed masses of water in her face, plastered streaming locks to her forehead, taking her breath with its suffocating rush. Shielding her mouth with her hand, the gipsy pressed steadily forward.

A church struck eleven slow strokes, borne on the wind. Lashed by the tempest, the gipsy pressed on, muttering as she moved:

"Vagualame told me that he would be at the first milestone beyond the aviation sheds.... I must get there! I will get there!"

It was Bobinette, struggling on in blind obedience to him whom she considered her master, towards the strange meeting-place fixed by the bandit five days ago.

Under her looks of Parisian delicacy, Bobinette had a valiant spirit, a high-strung temperament and a will of steel.... Bobinette wished to reach the appointed trysting-place: she would reach it.

But gipsy Bobinette had her fears. She was painfully impressed by the obscurity of the night—sinister, menacing. From the marshy fields flanking her to right and left unaccustomed sounds, weird noises reached her straining ears through the gusty darkness.

Then what did her master want with her here, and at such an hour?

Never had Bobinette confessed to herself that Vagualame's real identity was unknown to her. What dark personality was hid behind that familiar figure? She asked herself that now, with shuddering apprehension. She had remarked certain coincidences, noted certain details: she divined that this enigmatic accordion player might well be none other than—Fantomas.

Fantomas! That name was it not a frightful symbol of all the crimes, all the atrocities, the monstrous synthesis of unpunished evil?

In her tormented brain those three syllables of sinister intent were sounding like a funeral knell.... At thought of Fantomas and Vagualame co-mingled, Bobinette's terror-filled heart fainted within her. Yet, prey to haunting terrors as she was, Bobinette pressed unfalteringly forward towards what Fate held for her.

One reassuring thought came to hearten her. At every step she took the sequins of her gipsy circlet moved and shook and tinkled on her forehead. They reminded her of the words chanted by the old second-hand dealer when he sold her the string of sequins, words from the celebrated song of the Andalusian gipsies.:

"The coral shines on my skin so brown— The pin of gold in my chignon: I go in search of my fortune."...

Was she truly hastening towards good fortune through this night of wind and rain?... Why not? Bobinette felt comforted. She said to herself that since Vagualame had summoned her to meet him in gipsy costume, it must be because he intended to help her to escape: otherwise why had he foreseen the necessity for such a disguise?

To make sure of finding the rendezvous, she had taken a reconnoitering journey along the Sceaux road the night before.... She knew now she was close to the famous milestone.

Bobinette jumped as though she would leap out of her skin!

On the left side of the road tall trees, stripped of their leaves, stood swaying like skeletons in the wind. Just there her eyes had seen something dark, a black patch, blacker than the surrounding night.

What was it?

A strange sound issued from the darkness, a low, dull, deep, complaining sound breathed from some infernal throat! Was it a cry, a growl, a snarl?... She halted, shivering with fright, her ears humming, her heart contracted in the grip of an indescribable terror, doubting her senses, doubting the reality of the sound she had heard.

Bobinette stood motionless.

The wind whistling through the branches conveyed another sound to her senses. She heard a mocking voice, harsh, imperious, a menacing voice, a voice whose orders she had obeyed many a time and oft, a voice she had never heard without secret terror, the voice of her master—Vagualame!

"Go forward, you fool! Why do you halt?"

As though galvanised, Bobinette with a supreme effort of will obeyed. A few seconds and she was by the side of Vagualame, who had come to meet her.

"Did you hear?" she gasped.

"I heard the bellowing of the wind," laughed Vagualame: "I heard the sound of sleety rain, I heard the noise of trees writhing and creaking in the wind—nothing more!"

"Someone or something cried out!"

"Who could?... We are alone here!... Bobinette you are alone here with me!"

There was a pause. Vagualame's voice was once more mocking.

"Am I to think you are afraid?"

"No, Vagualame, I am not afraid; but."...

"But you are trembling like a leaf!" cried Vagualame, with a burst of laughter which sounded strangely false. He seized Bobinette in an iron grip and forced her forward.

"Come! Come under shelter!" They moved towards the black blot Bobinette had not yet identified. Almost directly they were leaning against a gipsy van drawn up at the side of the road.

"Your future domicile," said Vagualame, showing the van to the bewildered Bobinette. "But this is not the time to install yourself—there are things to be said first—between you and me, Bobinette!"

The bandit was enveloped from head to foot in a dark cloak. All Bobinette could see of him was his profile: his features were concealed by a soft felt hat with turned-down brim, which showed at intervals against the sky when the lightning flashed and flickered.

The girl shivered: her master's last words were full of some dark menace.

"What do you want to say?" she murmured.

Vagualame took a few steps forward, then returned to where the girl was leaning against the van.

"Listen to me, Bobinette, listen, for, by Heaven, the words I am about to utter are the last you will ever hear."

Before Bobinette could interrupt, Vagualame continued:

"Tell me, do you know of anything more wicked, more contemptible, more vile, more shameful than treachery, than betrayal, than a trap set, a snare laid to catch one who has always been your friend, your defender?... Tell me, Bobinette, who is more hateful than the Judas who sells you with a kiss?... Tell me, Bobinette, who is less worthy of pity than the cowardly criminal who betrays his accomplice?... Than the bandit who delivers up his chief for money, perhaps for less than money—because of fear—who betrays his master to save his own skin?"...

Bobinette did not seem to understand one word of this apostrophe. She kept silence, terrified, crushed, in front of the awful abyss she divined.

Vagualame seized her by the shoulders and shook her brutally, thrusting her fiercely against the side of the van.

"Speak! Reply, Bobinette! I command you!"

"I do not understand you! I am afraid!"

A shout of ferocious laughter burst from Vagualame.

"You do not understand me! You are afraid?... Ah! If you are afraid it is because you understand well enough!... Bobinette! You know well enough what I have to reproach you with!... What I have to force you to expiate!"...

A hoarse cry escaped the girl's parched lips:

"You are mad, mad, Vagualame!... Pity!... Pity!"

In a voice so hard, so biting, that the words seemed arrows piercing her quivering flesh, the bandit addressed his victim:

"Bobinette, you deceive yourself strangely! I am not of those to whom one cries for pity!... I know not the word, nor such weakness. I have never had it, and never shall have it for any living soul."

The bandit paused. Then, in a tone of rising anger, he continued:

"And you think me mad? But what sort of woman are you, Bobinette, to try and deceive me? What madness is yours to think, to imagine you can dupe me?... To confess that with such words and speeches as your feminine mind can think of you are going to ensnare me, make me alter my decision, turn me from my vengeance—that you should decide how I shall act—I?... I?... Vagualame?"

The bandit pronounced "I?" with such an accent of authority, with such terrific pride, that Bobinette, with a sound as though the death rattle were in her throat, cried:

"Vagualame! Who are you? Tell me!... Tell me!"...

"You ask me who I am?... You wish to know?... It be according to your wish!... Who am I?... Look!"...

Slowly, with a movement firm and dignified, Vagualame unfolded the long cloak which enveloped him. He tore off his hat and flung it at his feet. With arms crossed he apostrophied Bobinette:

"Dare to utter my name! Dare to name me!"

Before Bobinette's distracted eyes a terrifying outline showed itself.... The beggar of a moment ago, his cloak removed, his hat thrown to the ground, appeared no more a bent old man: he stood there, upright, young, vigorous, superbly muscular. He was sheathed from head to foot in a tight-fitting garment, black as Erebus!

Bobinette could not see his face, a black hood covered it: two gleaming eyes alone were visible, eyes that to the distraught girl seemed lit by fires from hell!

This vision, the vision of this man without a face, resembling no other man, this apparition with nameless mask, its body like some statue cut from solid darkness, was yet so definite in its mystery that Bobinette, uttering the indescribable cry of some inhuman thing, articulated:

"Fantomas!... You are Fantomas!"

The bandit spoke:

"I am Fantomas!... I am he for whom the entire world is searching, whom none has ever seen, whom none can recognise!... I am Crime incarnated!... I am Night!... No human sees my face, because Crime and Night are featureless!... I am illimitable Power!... I am he who mocks at all the powers, at all the efforts, at all the forces!... I am master of all, of everything; of all times and seasons.... I am Death!... Bobinette, thou hast said it—I am Fantomas."

His wretched listener could not breathe. She felt death in her veins: she felt the earth dissolving into dust.... She sank on her knees.

"Pity, master! Pity!... Fantomas, have pity!"...

"You join those words together!... Fantomas and Pity!"... A furious anger seized the bandit. "Fantomas knows not what mercy is, I tell you!... Fantomas ordains that whoso resist him shall perish—shall disappear!"

"But, Master!... What have I done?... Master!... Fantomas, what have I done?"

Slowly the bandit enveloped himself once more in his cloak.... Bobinette was on her knees, as one nailed to the earth!... Fantomas had hypnotised her into immobility, as the bird is hypnotised by the cat watching its prey. He played with her. He could seize and master her at his pleasure.

In a voice cold and hard as the nether millstone, he denounced his victim:

"Bobinette, you aimed at my betrayal!... You pointed out the Nihilist's haunt to Juve, to Fandor, to my most personal enemies, to those who would hound me to the guillotine!"

"I never did!... I did not do it!... I swear it!" shrieked the maddened girl.

Fantomas, convinced that Bobinette, and she alone, was the traitor here....

"You are to die; but not by my hand!... The hand of Fantomas does not deal death to those who once served him, to the traitorous wretches once in his employ!... But you shall die, Bobinette! I deliver you to death!"...

Fantomas laughed. He laughed because the body of this woman, huddled in the mud, crushed to the earth, was a pleasing thing, because Fantomas was happy when he made human creatures suffer, when he tortured, when he wrought sweet vengeance....

Far away sounded the church bells.... The carillon was ringing.... Church bells were chiming through the night. To Bobinette, the abject creature grovelling in the mire of the roadway, the bells sounded vaguely serene, far, far away....

She seemed to be floating in some indefinable element, floating like thistledown on an irresistible breeze.... Suddenly she had the sensation that she was sinking, falling, that she was rolling down, down, into the depths of a bottomless abyss....

When she opened her eyes, tried to move, sat up, she knew she was not dreaming.... She knew she had lost consciousness and was coming back to life.... She asked herself could she possibly be alive? Fantomas had threatened her with death, and yet she lived.... Where was she?... Bobinette felt so weak and giddy that she remained in a sitting posture.... What exactly had happened?... Ah!—yes!—when Fantomas had announced she was to die, she had fallen down on the road: her skirt was still wet and muddy, her testing fingers told her that! She was cold! What had happened since?... Bobinette heard the wind blowing rain as still falling, but she noticed none fell on her face.

"Where am I?" she asked aloud. Clear came the mental answer:

"Fantomas has shut me up in this van! I am imprisoned in this van!"... She felt about her with her fingers. She was certainly sitting on rough boards.... She knelt, she stretched out her arms: she touched rough boards.... Yes, this was the van she was in!... Was Fantomas quite near? He might appear again! She was not saved!... But in Bobinette who, terrified at being confronted with Fantomas self-confessed, had tasted the bitterness of death, a powerful reaction had set in: she was becoming mistress of herself once more.

Fantomas had said to her: "Thou shalt die!" She now decided that she would live, would save herself!... She must escape!

"If Fantomas were there I should hear him," she thought. "He must have gone.... I must at all costs escape from this prison before he returns."

Bobinette got up.... The van must have a door, a window. She would force her way out somehow. She was strong, and she was fighting for her life!... She would make a tour of the van!... She felt her way by fingering the wooden side of her prison.... The van must be empty, she thought, for she had not encountered any furniture—when, suddenly, she felt her hand come into contact with something soft and warm, which moved. What was it?...

Bobinette jumped back.... She must be mad to imagine!... She waited a few moments—she stepped forward—anew her fingers touched something.... She could not say what!... But while she tried to define the strange object her fingers touched, she felt the unknown thing was drawing back—was avoiding her caress!...

The van was now filled with a formidable growling. She recognised it as a repetition of the sound she had heard when nearing her sinister rendezvous.

Bobinette understood!... She knew!... It was a bear!... It had been asleep. She had waked it!

Fantomas had shut her in with a bear: she was to be devoured alive!

Bobinette softly withdrew to the other side of the van. She waited. No growling sound reached her. The bear must have gone to sleep again. She could hear its heavy breathing. As the air became exhausted in the confined space the noisome odour of the beast caught her by the throat.... What was she to do? Bobinette asked herself this again and again as the slow and dreadful hours of that night wore on.

"The bear sleeps," she said to herself; "but he will wake in the morning hungry: he will hurl himself on me and I shall be done for!"

After interminable hours of waiting, of aching immobility, of dull agony of mind, the interior of the van was becoming slowly visible.... She had listened to the lessening fury of the wind: the rain had ceased. The wan light of early day came through the cracks in the planking. Bobinette could see the bear waking up: it turned, yawned: suddenly it fixed its eyes on her and crouched.

What should she do? What could she do?

Bobinette had once read that the human eye could frighten a wild beast into submission: she forced herself to stare at the animal with concentrated energy. Alas! she was too frightened herself to terrify a ferocious animal into harmless submission!

The bear licked itself. As though sure of its prey, which he would presently fall upon and rend, he took his time and proceeded to make his toilette.

It was grotesquely tragic, the leisurely tranquillity of this beast face to face with this girl who could count the seconds of life remaining to her.

* * * * *

Now and again Bobinette could hear the rapid passings of motor-cars on the high road outside, speeding to Paris or Versailles, passing the van abandoned, left derelict by the wayside. Far, indeed, were these passers from suspecting the terrible drama of which it was the theatre.

Call out?

That were madness! Her cries might pass unheeded. Why should she suppose the drivers of these cars racing on their appointed way would stop, locate the cry, and succour her? No, it would but excite the anger of the bear, rouse it to action, thus hasten her own dreadful end!...

* * * * *

A man was walking on the Sceaux road—walking fast. He wore the clothes of a working man. He was leading a sorry nag.... The man halted and let the nag go free. A sound had caught his ear—a growling sound.

He listened intently.

"Did I imagine it?" he murmured.

Again that growling, punctuated by a woman's sharp scream. The man was off at racing speed towards the van, which was but a hundred yards away.

"Great Heaven! Shall I arrive too late?" ejaculated the man.

Reaching it, breathless, he glued his ear to the door. The van shook with the movement and growling of some beast of prey about to spring.

The man drew back, rushed forward, hurled himself against the door and drove it inwards.

A shot broke the silence of the morning.

The man rolled over the body of the bear, shot dead through the heart. The man freed himself; escaped the convulsive movement of its limbs, and crawled towards a crumpled heap huddled in a corner of this tragic stage. Bobinette's poor face, exposed to view, was slashed and torn: it bore the dreadful claw-marks of the bear.

The man placed his hand on her heart.

"She lives!" he said softly.

Supporting her with infinite gentleness, the man addressed her in a voice trembling with emotion:

"Do not be afraid, Bobinette! You are saved! It is Juve who is telling you so! It is Juve!"



XXXII

FREE AND PRISONER

Isolated in the cell which had served him as dwelling-place for the past fortnight, Jerome Fandor had had his ups and downs, hours of deepest depression, hours of violent exasperation when he suffered an intolerable martyrdom between his four walls—suffered morally and physically.

Yet his imprisonment had been rendered as tolerable as possible. He could have his meals brought in from outside and obtain from the library such books as there were.

How he longed for a talk with Juve; but that detective was rigorously excluded from the prison. Juve was to be a witness at the trial.

As Fandor was to conduct his own case there were no consultations with his counsel to relieve the monotony of the days; nor were newspapers allowed him. He had no friends or relatives to visit and console him or divert him.

In his sleepless hours Fandor's thoughts would revert to his past, to the frightful drama of his boyhood, to the assassination of the Marquise de Langrune, when he, a youth of eighteen, had been suspected, had even been accused of committing this murder, the accuser being his own father![8]

[Footnote 8: See Fantomas: vol. i, Fantomas Series.]

He remembered that, commencing the very day after the discovery of the crime, his existence had been that of a pariah flying from the police, from those who knew him; remembered how he had assumed disguise after disguise, denied by his father, ignored by his mother, an unfortunate woman who had lost her reason and was shut up in a lunatic asylum.

The only gleam of happiness which had come to illumine the dreary darkness of his youth resolved itself into a memory picture of a pale dawn when the lad, Charles Rambert, leaving a wine-shop, had been caught by Juve, who, believing in his innocence, had taken him under his protection, had given him the name of Jerome Fandor, and helped him to start a new life.[9]

[Footnote 9: See The Exploits of Juve> vol. ii, Fantomas Series.]

From then onwards that timid lad, disheartened by his misfortunes, had regained courage and hope, and had boldly plunged into the struggle to live.

His heart and soul were in his journalistic work. Of an enquiring turn of mind, Fandor had not been content with the episodic work of a mere reporter: he eagerly pursued the guilty, took a lively interest in the victims, and became Juve's valuable collaborator, with whom the bonds of friendship strengthened day by day.

Thus Fandor, in Juve's company, was drawn into the hurly-burly, into the troubles and torments of criminal affairs so mysterious, so phenomenal, that, for several years in succession, they created a sensation, not only in Paris but throughout France.

He constituted himself one of the most implacable enemies of Fantomas. The more so, because he was satisfied that the "Genius of Crime," as this monster had been called, had had a considerable share in the vicissitudes and troubles of his own life. Fandor felt that this monster's sinister influence was still being exercised against him.

Too often, in those wakeful hours when he reviewed his life, following the course of it in a kind of mental cinematograph, did Fandor think of Elizabeth Dollon. It was with sad yet sweet emotion, with a piercing regret, but with an unfailing hope, that he saw before his inner vision the charming, the adored face, and figure of Elizabeth Dollon, for whom he had felt, and felt still, an affection profound and sincere. He loved her: he would always love her.[10]

[Footnote 10: See Messengers of Evil: vol. iii, Fantomas Series.]

He thought of her brother's death and the extraordinary disappearance of his body, of his own pursuit of the assassin, of the discovery, made with Juve, that the murderer of Jacques Dollon was none other than the elusive Fantomas.

Assuredly that ill-omened bandit was responsible for the sudden departure of Elizabeth, immediately after Fandor had obtained from her charming lips the sweet avowal of her love.... He owed to Fantomas that he had been unable to join his life to that of this exquisite girl: to Fantomas he owed it that he could not trace her to her unknown retreat. Was she still in the land of the living? It was ultimately to Fantomas that he owed his present dreadful position—to this thrice accursed Genius of Crime—Fantomas.

* * * * *

That evening Fandor's absorbing reflections were broken into by the turning of a key in the lock of his cell at an unusual hour. Through the half-opened door he heard the close of a conversation between his jailor and an unknown person.

"I also give notice, my good fellow, that my secretary will come to join me presently," said the strange voice. The jailor replied:

"That is quite understood, Maitre. I will warn my colleague, who will come on guard in my stead in ten minutes' time."

Fandor saw a barrister entering his cell. He supposed him to be the official advocate prescribed by the Council of War.... Not in the least disposed to unbosom himself to this defending counsel imposed on him by law, Fandor was about to give him a freezing reception, but at sight of the new arrival's face our journalist stood speechless. He recognised under the barrister's gown someone whose features were deeply graven on his memory, though he had not met him but once.

"Naarbo."... escaped his lips.

A brusque warning movement of the new-comer cut Fandor short. At the same time he closed the door with a lightning quick movement. The pseudo advocate then approached Fandor, saying in a low tone:

"Do not seem to recognise me. Yes, I am de Naarboveck.... It is thanks to a subterfuge that I have been able to get near you."...

Fandor was nonplussed. A hundred questions rose to his lips, but he did not speak. He had better await developments. As de Naarboveck had run such risks to enter his cell so disguised, he must have something extraordinary to say to the prisoner, Jerome Fandor!

De Naarboveck seated himself on the one bench the cell contained. He invited Fandor to sit close to him, so that they might converse in low tones.

"Monsieur," began the baron, "I obtained a permit to visit you as the official advocate allotted to you by the president: that official's visit is due to-morrow.... Well, a favour is never lost when one is not dealing with the ungrateful!... Some weeks ago, when you came to interview me with regard to the deplorable assassination of Captain Brocq, I spoke freely to you, and at the same time asked you to give me your word not to put into print a number of those personal details with which journalists like to sprinkle their pages."...

"I remember," agreed Fandor.

"I confess I did not put much faith in your discretion, being a journalist," went on the baron. "I was then agreeably surprised to find that I had been interviewed by a man of tact. Since then I have followed with sympathy the tenebrous adventures in which you have been involved.... It was not without emotion that I learned of the grievous position you are now in. I will come straight to the point—I am here to extricate you from that position."

Fandor caught de Naarboveck's hands in his, and pressed them warmly.

"Can what you tell me be true?" he exclaimed.

The diplomat hastily withdrew his hands from Fandor's grasp, opened a heavy portfolio such as advocates carry, and drew from it a black gown like his own, an advocate's cap, and a pair of dark coloured trousers.

"Put these on as quickly as possible," said de Naarboveck, "and we will leave here together."

Fandor hesitated: de Naarboveck insisted.

"It is of the first importance that you leave here! I know where proofs of your innocence are to be found.... We have not a minute to lose: besides, as a member of the diplomatic service, it is of the utmost interest to me that the document stolen from Captain Brocq should be recovered.... I know where it is. I want you to return it to the Government. That will be the most striking proof possible of your innocence."

Fandor's critical faculties were momentarily suspended: he seemed moving in some dream. Mechanically he clothed himself in the get-up which the baron had thought good to bring him.

Fandor had seen so many extraordinary things in the course of his adventurous existence, that he did not stay to question the reason for this diplomat's interest in his poor affairs—an interest so strong that he had run serious risks to reach the prisoner and make himself the accomplice of that prisoner's flight.

Out of prison, free, Fandor could and would act!

The two apparent men of the law gently opened the cell door. De Naarboveck cast a rapid glance up and down the corridor, on to which half a dozen cells opened.... The corridor was empty and silent. De Naarboveck and Fandor stepped out, gently closing the cell door.

"The opening of the prison door is our next difficulty to be overcome," whispered de Naarboveck: "I warned the jailor that I expected my secretary. Let us hope he will take you as such and let us pass out unmolested."

* * * * *

The military prison of the Council of War of Paris is not like other prisons: that is why de Naarboveck's plan had a fair chance of success. It would certainly have failed had it been attempted at La Sante or at La Roquette.... This building had been a private hotel of the old style.

On the first floor, the former reception-rooms had been divided into small offices, and the principal drawing-room had been transformed into a court-room. On the ground floor, what were evidently the kitchens and domestic offices in the last century now constituted the prison proper, for in these quarters are arranged the cells where the accused await their appearance before their judges. No one unacquainted with these arrangements would suspect that the low door, scarcely noticeable in the vestibule facing the staircase leading to the first floor is the entrance to the prison.

Yet those who pass through this low door find themselves in the corridor lined with prison cells.

At the door of the prison a warder is posted, whose role is not so much to watch the prisoners and prevent any attempt at escape as to open to persons needing to enter that ill-omened place. At night-time supervision is relaxed. The warder has to keep the offices in good order, and when he has his key in his pocket, certain that the heavy bolts and locks cannot be forced, he comes and goes about the house.

De Naarboveck was not only well posted in these details, but was aware that up to the day of Fandor's trial, in view of the extra coming and going, it had been decided to give the guardian an assistant, and that this assistant would be at his post from six o'clock onwards.

It was past six o'clock.

The chances were, that when the false advocates knocked from the inside, the prison door would be opened to allow them egress by the supplementary guardian. De Naarboveck tapped on the peephole made in the massive door.

The noise of heavy bolts withdrawn was heard; the prison door was half opened: the warder's face appeared. Fandor stifled a sigh of satisfaction: it was a jailor who did not know him: it was the substitute counted upon.

"Ah!" cried he, saluting the gentlemen of the long robe: "Why, there are two of you!"

"Naturally," replied de Naarboveck: "Did not your colleague let you know that my secretary had joined me?"

"I knew he was coming, but I did not understand that he had already come," replied the man.

De Naarboveck laughed.

"We leave together—what more natural?"

"It is your right," grumbled the man: "Have you finished your interrogation of the accused Fandor?"

As he asked this pertinent question, the jailor made a movement to enter the prison and make sure that the prisoner's cell was locked. De Naarboveck caught his arm.

"Look here, my man," said he, slipping a silver coin into the jailor's hand: "We are not suitably dressed for the street, and our ordinary clothes are at the Palais de Justice. Will you be kind enough to stop a cab for us? We can get into it at the courtyard entrance!"

The jailor decided that he could safely postpone his visit to Fandor's cell. He went out into the courtyard with the two apparent advocates. Standing on the step of the courtyard gate he looked out for a passing cab.

A taxi-driver scented customers. He drove alongside the pavement. In a moment de Naarboveck and Fandor were seated inside it, and, whilst waving his hand to the respectful and gratified warder, he instructed the driver in a clear voice:

"To the Palais de Justice!"

As soon as they reached the rue de Rennes, de Naarboveck changed his destination....

* * * * *

He turned to Fandor.

"Well, Monsieur Fandor, what have you to say to this?"

"Ah, Baron, how can I ever express my gratitude?"

De Naarboveck smiled.... He gazed at the journalist. There was something in the situation he found amusing....

Following the baron's directions, the taxi went up the rue Lapic, and reached the heights of Montmartre. It stopped at last in a little street, dark and deserted, before a wretched-looking house, whose front was vaguely outlined in a small neglected garden.

De Naarboveck paid the driver, passed under a dark arch, crossed the garden, and reached a kind of lodge. He let himself in, followed by Fandor. They went up a cork-screw staircase to the floor above. De Naarboveck switched on a light, and Fandor saw that he and his rescuer were in a studio of vast proportions, well furnished.

Thick curtains hung before a large glass bay: it was a lofty room with very slightly sloping walls.

Two or three rooms must have been thrown into one, for several thick supporting columns of iron crossed the middle of the studio.

Fandor failed to find either piece of furniture or picture he could recognise: everything in the place was new to him.

De Naarboveck had slipped off his gown at once. He was in elegant evening dress.

Fandor also threw off the advocate's gown. He wore the black trousers de Naarboveck had brought him, but was in his shirt sleeves. The Vinson uniform had been left in the cell.

Having sufficiently enjoyed the surprise of his protege, the baron asked:

"Do you know where we are, Monsieur Fandor?"

"I have not the remotest idea."

"Think a little!"

"I do not know in the least; that is a fact!"

"Monsieur," said de Naarboveck, coming close to Fandor, as though he was afraid of being overheard: "You know, at least, by name a certain enigmatic individual who plays an important part in the affairs of which we both are victims, in different ways.... I will no longer hide from you that we are in this individual's house!"

"And," gasped Fandor, "this individual is called?"...

"He is called Vagualame!"

"Vagualame!"

Fandor was aghast! Had the devil himself appeared before him he could not have been more dumbfounded. Vagualame, the agent of the Second Bureau—Vagualame, whom Fandor, for some time past, had taken to be a spy with more than one string to his bow—it was he, then, who was the author of the crimes for whom search was being made, in whose stead Fandor himself was suffering humiliation and imprisonment, with further dreadful possibilities to come! Fandor recalled his conversation with Juve the day after Captain Brocq's assassination: in the course of their conversation Juve had asserted that Fantomas was the criminal.

Fandor himself had not followed the mysterious evolutions of this sinister accordion player as had Juve; but now he wondered whether there might not be a connection between Vagualame and Fantomas.... All this was obscure: Fandor felt he was groping amid dark mysteries....

De Naarboveck was moving hither and thither in the studio: at the same time he was observing Fandor, listening to what he had to say: he seemed to be reading Fandor's thoughts.

"Your friend, Juve, has been hotly pursuing this Vagualame for some time," remarked De Naarboveck: "Famous detective as he is, he has suffered more than one check, has been routed, rebuffed, discomfited, on several occasions by this same Vagualame, who has proved that he is not such a fool as he looks! Possibly Juve will soon have a further opportunity of realising the truth of this—however."...

Fandor interrupted:

"I hope my friend, my dear friend, Juve, does not run any risk!... I beg of you, Monsieur, to tell me whether he is in danger!... You see, I am free now."...

"Attention, Monsieur Fandor!" de Naarboveck cut in. "Bear in mind that you are an escaped prisoner, that your flight must not be known! Be on your guard, then! As to your friend, Juve, be reassured on that point!"

Abruptly he changed the subject.

"Vagualame had a collaborator, a young person whom you know—Mademoiselle Berthe, called Bobinette.... Bobinette has done wrong, very wrong, but we will speak no more of her—peace to her memory—she has expiated her crime!"

"Is Bobinette dead, then?" asked Fandor.... Immediately a conviction seized him that the girl had fallen a victim to this mysterious assassin whom no one could lay hands on.

The studio clock struck ten.

The lights went out.

Fandor stood startled, in deepest darkness.

Before he could utter an exclamation, move a finger, he was swathed in a cloth, seized, bound, with the utmost brutality. Mysterious hands fixed a supple mask on his face, pressed something on his head. Dragged violently along, the cords cutting his flesh, Fandor realised his attackers were fastening him to something which held him stiffly upright. It must be one of the iron columns.

Fandor thought he heard a receding voice mutter: "As Bobinette died, so shalt thou die—through Fantomas!"

Had he heard aright? Was it some illusion of sense and brain?... Was it not he himself who had cried it? For Fandor, whose mind had been full of Vagualame, had, at the moment of attack, spontaneously thought of Fantomas.

Fandor strained at his bonds and thought of the baron.

"Naarboveck—To me! Help!" he shouted.

No answer came through the darkness.

Did he hear a distant, stifled groan?

Dazzling light flooded the studio.

Fandor, who could see through the eyeholes of the mask, supple as skin, stared about him with intense curiosity.

This extraordinary studio revealed a blood-freezing spectacle.

Facing him, immobile, rigid, was stationed a being whom Fandor had had a fleeting glimpse of two or three times in his life. He had seen this enigmatic and formidable being under circumstances so tragic, on occasions so phenomenal, that this being's outline was graven on his memory for ever!

There was the cloak of many folds, dense black; the hooded mask, the large soft hat shading the eyes; the strange inimitable outline!... Fandor was facing Fantomas!

Fantomas!

With bent shoulders and straining muscles, Fandor made desperate attempts to free himself, the while his eyes were fixed on the terrifying apparition confronting him!

It was a mocking Fantomas he saw; for the abominable bandit was mocking him—was imitating his every gesture to the life!...

Fandor's gaze was fixed in an observing stare....

Did he not see cords binding the limbs of Fantomas? cords binding him about the middle, constricting his whole body?

Was he in some hell nightmare?... Was he mad?... Who was this facing him?... Why, himself!...

Fandor, whose image was reflected in a mirror facing him a yard or two away! Fandor had been endowed with the outline of—Fantomas!...

From the throat of this Fandor-Fantomas issued a long-drawn howl of rage!



XXXIII

RECONCILIATION

"Which do you prefer, Mademoiselle? The multi-coloured cockades or the bows of ribbon in one shade? We have both in satin of the best quality."

Wilhelmine de Naarboveck hesitated. The representative from "The Ladies' Paradise" continued:

"The cockades of various colours do very well: they are gay, look bright; but the bows of ribbon also produce an excellent effect—so distinguished! Both articles are in great demand."

Wilhelmine answered at random:

"Oh, put in half of each!"

"And what quantity, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, three hundred will be sufficient, I should think."

The shopwoman displayed her assortment of cotillion objects. She did her part ably. But Wilhelmine de Naarboveck gave but a perfunctory attention to this choosing of cotillion accessories.

The saleswoman was more and more astonished. She considered that were her customer's orders executed to the letter she would have the oddest assortment of cotillion accessories that could be imagined. She adroitly called Wilhelmine's attention to this.

Realising that she had been giving orders at random, the absent-minded girl came to a decision.

"We have every confidence in your house being able to supply us with a cotillion complete in every detail. You know better than I what is necessary. I will leave it to you, then, to see that everything is done as well as possible."

The saleswoman was full of delighted protestations. Though satisfied with a decision that simplified her task, she was surprised that a young girl as free to act and order as Mademoiselle de Naarboveck seemed to be, did not take interest in the details of a fete which, as rumour had it, was given in her honour.

"Ah!" said the young woman, as she collected the patterns scattered over a table in the hall, "if all our customers were like you, Mademoiselle, and allowed us to carry out our own ideas, we should do marvellous things!"

Wilhelmine smiled, but—would this saleswoman never have done!

"Of course, Mademoiselle, we make similar ribbons for you and your partner; but would you kindly tell me if the gentleman is tall or short? It is better to make the ribbons of a length proportionate to the height."

This question troubled Wilhelmine.... The leader of the cotillion should have been Henri de Loubersac. Was not their betrothal to have been announced at the ball?... But the painful interview at Saint-Sulpice seemed to have put an end to all relations between them!

Who, then, would lead with her?

Little she cared!

"Really, Madame," replied Wilhelmine to the woman, who was astonished at her indifference: "I do not know how tall or short my partner is, for the very good reason that I do not know who he is!... Provide, then, a set of ribbons which may suit anybody!"

When the representative of "The Ladies' Paradise" had taken her departure, Wilhelmine went up to the library. Except for the stiff and solemn household staff, Wilhelmine was alone in the house. Her father was still absent: Mademoiselle Berthe had vanished.

The house was turned upside down from top to bottom. Decorators and electricians were in possession. Hammering had been going on all the afternoon. Furniture had been displaced, pushed hither and thither. The hall had been denuded of all but the table; even the privacy of the library had been invaded—and all in preparation for the ball of the day after to-morrow, to which the baron de Naarboveck had invited the highest personages of the aristocratic and official worlds.

What a lively interest Wilhelmine had at first taken in this fete!

The baron was giving it to set a public seal on his diplomatic position, for hitherto he had not been definitely attached to his embassy; now he was to be the accredited ambassador of a certain foreign power. Also he intended to announce the betrothal of the young couple.

Alas! this latter project had suffered shipwreck!

As Wilhelmine sat in lonely state in the library, she saw a dismal future opening before her. Not only had her heart been torn by the brusque rupture with Henri de Loubersac, but everything which made up her home life, such as it was, seemed falling to pieces.... No doubt the diplomat was obliged to be continually absent, but Wilhelmine suffered from this solitude, this abandonment.... She had become attached to the gay and companionable Mademoiselle Berthe, who had been the life and soul of the house. She had disappeared: no tidings of her doings or whereabouts had reached Wilhelmine. There must be some very serious reason for this....

The mysterious occurrences of the past weeks had altered her world, shaken it to its insecure foundations, and inevitably affected her outlook. Life seemed a melancholy thing: how gloomy, how helpless her outlook!

More than ever before she felt in every fibre of her being that she was not the daughter of the baron de Naarboveck, that she was indeed Therese Auvernois. But what a fatal destiny must be hers! An existence open to the attacks of misfortune, at the mercy of a being, enigmatic, indefatigable, who, time and again, had thrown his horrible influence across her destiny, was throwing it now—the sinister Fantomas!

Wilhelmine was torn from her miserable reflections by the irruption of a domestic, who announced:

"Monsieur de Loubersac is asking if Mademoiselle can receive him!"

Wilhelmine rose from the divan on which she had been reclining. In an expressionless voice she said:

"Show him in."

When the young officer of cuirassiers appeared, his air was embarrassed, his head was bent.

"You here, Monsieur?" Wilhelmine's voice and manner expressed indignation.

But Henri de Loubersac was no longer the arrogant unbeliever of the Saint-Sulpice interview.

"Excuse me!" he murmured.

"What do you want?" demanded Wilhelmine, her head held high.

"Your forgiveness," he said in a voice barely audible.

De Loubersac had come to his senses.

His intense jealousy had distorted his judgment.

Desperate after the Saint-Sulpice interview, when, so it had seemed to him, Wilhelmine had avoided a categorical denial of his accusation regarding her liaison with Captain Brocq, the frantic lover had flown to Juve and had poured out his soul to the sympathetic detective.

Juve had shown himself no sceptic. He believed Wilhelmine's story and statements. They coincided with his own prognostications: they explained why Wilhelmine went regularly to pray at Lady Beltham's tomb: they corroborated his conjectures, they confirmed his forecasts.

If he did not confess it to de Loubersac, he knew in his own mind that these statements indicated that between this Baron de Naarboveck and the redoubtable bandit he was pursuing so determinedly there was some connection, possibly as yet unfathomed, but in his heart of hearts he believed he had lighted on the truth. His conviction that de Naarboveck and Fantomas had relations of some sort dated from the night of his own arrest as Vagualame in the house of de Naarboveck. He had gone further than that.

"Yes," he had said to himself: "de Naarboveck must be a manifestation of Fantomas!"

Corporal Vinson's revelations regarding the den in the rue Monge had but strengthened Juve's impression. He had said to himself after that, "De Naarboveck, Vagualame, Fantomas, are but one."

Juve had reassured de Loubersac: he declared that Wilhelmine had spoken the truth, that she certainly was Therese Auvernois and the most honest girl in the world.

Juve calmed and finally convinced de Loubersac.

It only remained for the repentant lover to reinstate himself in Wilhelmine's good graces—if that were possible. Now, more ardently than ever before, he desired to make Wilhelmine his wife. See her, be reconciled to her, he must!

He arrived at a favourable moment. The poor girl, lonely and alone, was a prey to the most gloomy forebodings. Life had lost all its savour. She was in the depths of despair.

De Loubersac, standing before her, as at a judgment bar, again implored her forgiveness.

"Oh, how I regret the brutal, wounding things I said to you, Wilhelmine!" he murmured humbly, sorrowfully.

The innocent girl, so bitterly wronged by his thoughts and words, crimsoned with indignation at the memory of them. Her tone was icy.

"I may be able to forgive you, Monsieur, but that is all you can hope for."

"Will you never be able to love me again?" begged Henri, with the humble simplicity of a boy.

"No, Monsieur." Wilhelmine's voice was hard.

It was all Henri could do not to burst into tears of humiliation and despair.

"Wilhelmine—you are cruel!... If you could only know how you are making me suffer! Oh, I know I deserve to suffer! I recognise that!... All I can say now is—Farewell!... Farewell for ever!"

Wilhelmine sat silent, her face hidden in her hands.

Henri went on:

"I leave Paris shortly. I have asked for an exchange. I am to be sent to Africa, to the outposts of Morocco. I shall carry with me the memory—how cherished—of your adorable self, dearest of the dear!... It shall live in my heart until the day when, if Heaven but hear my prayers, I shall die at the head of my troops."

With that de Loubersac moved slowly to the door, overwhelmed by the conviction that he had irreparably wounded the girl he adored, that he had destroyed for ever the love she had borne him!

A stifled cry caught his ear.

"Henri!"...

"Wilhelmine!"

They were in each others' arms and in tears.

How the lovers talked! What plans they made! How happy would be their coming life together! What bliss!

Wilhelmine broke off:

"Henri, do you know that it is past midnight?"

"I seem only to have come!" cried her lover.

"Ah, but you should not have stayed so late, my Henri!... The baron is not here. I am alone!... Indeed, indeed, you must go!"

"Oh," laughed the happy Henri: "Why, of course the baron is not here!"...

Wilhelmine, all smiles, shook a finger at Henri.

"Be off with you!... Do, do be off with you!"

"Wilhelmine!"...

"Henri!"...

The lovers kissed each other—a long, lingering kiss....



XXXIV

A FANTOMAS TRICK

Fandor stared at himself with wild eyes....

He must be in an abominable dream, a mad nightmare!... He must be!...

What was behind all this? This outrage? This Vagualame, criminal proprietor of this pavilion, was the author of it! To him he owed it that he was thus bound, masked, disguised!

That sinister menace was still ringing in his ears: "Through Fantomas thou shalt die!"

Well, however it might come, Death came but once! He would await the event!

Fandor's spirit rose once more—indomitable.

He closed his eyes.

He lived again, as might a drowning man, his hours of joy, of struggle, of triumph, of defeat, of high endeavour: all the thick-packed hours of vivid life. Ah, how Fantomas had haunted him from childhood onwards!

"'Tis but life's logic," he reflected: "I have fought Fantomas, and not always has the victory been wholly his! More than once I have called check to him! It is his turn to take revenge with the irrevocable checkmate. Well, I have lost. I pay."

The heavy silence of the studio was loud with menace.

Surrounded by it, he awaited Death's coming, in whatever guise....

The studio door swung open noiselessly. Some twenty men appeared, all clothed in black and masked in velvet. Their approach over the thickly carpeted floor was soundless.

Fandor stared at these strange figures.

Solemnly, silently, they ranged themselves in a half circle facing Fandor. He who was plainly the chief of them remained apart, arms crossed, head high, considering Fandor. He spoke:

"Brothers! You have sworn to defend Russia, to defend Poland, by every means in your power! Do you swear it still?"

The voices of the masked men vibrated as one:

"We swear it!"

"Brothers, are you prepared to risk all for our Cause?"

"We are prepared."

The man who posed as chief came nearer his fellow-conspirators, who bent their heads as he apostrophised them:

"Brothers, there is a man in Paris who has worked more harm to us than have all the police in the world: a man who has stirred up against us the indignant horror of public opinion by an accumulation of hideous crimes, the responsibility for which he has cast on us!... This man I, Trokoff, have vowed to deliver up to you, that you may wreak your vengeance on him!... Look well, brothers! He is before you! I deliver him up to you!"

The conspirators, as one man, stared at Fandor.

A murmur issued from the mouths of these masked men; a murmur breathing hate and menaces:

"Fantomas!... Fantomas!"

Fandor did not lose one detail of this scene.

"Ah," thought he, "the bandit's last trick!"

Trokoff was Fantomas! Fandor was sure of it! He was abusing the ardent faith and trust of his disciples, this false apostle! Wishing to rid himself of Fandor, he delivered him to the vengeance of his companions. Making him pass for Fantomas, he drove them on to murder, thus thrusting on to them responsibility for the crime, leaving them to reap what consequences might follow from the journalist's assassination.

How Fandor longed to shout:

"I am not Fantomas! Your Trokoff is a traitor!"

But how pull the scales from off eyes blinded by fanaticism? How to prove to them he was not Fantomas? Who among them could recognise the unknown, elusive bandit, Fantomas?

These Nihilists had for Trokoff an admiration beyond the bounds of reason. How could he show up Trokoff as he really was?

It would be madness to attempt it!

For Fandor divined that behind the mask of Trokoff lurked the evil countenance of Fantomas—Fantomas who was gloating over his confusion and despair, rejoicing in his agony, counting on his collapse, hoping for some act of cowardice.

Never would Jerome Fandor play the coward!

At this stake to which they had bound him he would die without a sound! Fandor drove back from his lips the cry of despair they were about to utter. He awaited the event.

A Nihilist broke from the circle, went up to Fandor.

"Fantomas! You have heard? You are about to die! What have you to say in your defence?"

Fandor was dumb.

"Fantomas! You would die unknown! But it is good that we, having gazed on your face, should be appeased when we see you dead!... Your hood and mask—I tear them off you!"

Trokoff rushed forward, crying:

"Do not lay hands on him!... This wretch belongs to me!"

Turning to his fellow-conspirators, Trokoff demanded:

"My hand should strike the fatal blow! I brought him here! The right is mine!"

Trokoff continued, in a quieter tone:

"The police may have been warned of our gathering here! We are spied on, tracked! You know it well!... Suppose we stay to watch the dying agony of this wretch! Suppose the police descend upon us! They will snatch from us our just revenge and will arrest us all!... Hand over this monster to me and leave the place. If the police are watching you they will see you go!... Leave Fantomas to me, that, at my leisure, I may see him die as he deserves to die!"

Fandor shuddered: so a lingering agony, a fearful death was to be faced!... Yes, Fantomas meant to torture him, extract from his victim some appeal for pity, for the mercy this monster in human form could never know nor exercise! Yes, Fantomas had changed his plans: rid of the Nihilists, he could have it all his own way with Fandor!

The disciples, as with one voice, cried:

"We are thy faithful followers. What thou ordainest that we do!"...

Trokoff turned to Fandor. He shook a threatening fist in Fandor's face.

"Collect yourself.... You are to pay the price of expiation soon!"

This menace hurled at his victim, Trokoff drew his fanatical partisans together, made them quit the studio, and vanished with them....

"He will return," thought Fandor: "And then it is all up with me! Courage to face the worst!"

The door of the studio had barely closed on Trokoff and his dupes when Fandor heard a breathless murmur at his ear.

"Quick! Quick! Fandor! Trokoff, you have guessed it, is Vagualame! Is Fantomas!... Cost what it may we must get the mastery of him!"

Fandor could not turn his head, but he felt his bonds were being loosened.... A minute or two and he was free! He took a staggering step or two: his limbs were stiff and numb.... Close to him, watching his first difficult movements with an expression of ardent sympathy, our journalist perceived—Naarboveck....

"You," said he.

"I!... Fandor, I will explain!... Hold! Here is a revolver!... Ah! the bandits!... They took me too! Me also they have condemned to death! But I managed to escape!... Look out! He returns! We will fall upon Trokoff!... We will avenge ourselves!"

A heavy step was heard on the stairs; someone was mounting hurriedly.... Trokoff was about to reappear....

Fandor grasped the revolver de Naarboveck had just handed to him. He bounded to the door, ready to leap on the entering man.

De Naarboveck was ambushed on the side opposite to Fandor.

Suddenly Fandor shouted:

"Do not kill him! If it is Fantomas, we must take him alive!"

Before de Naarboveck had time to reply, the door was flung back against him, thus putting him out of action for the moment.

Fandor shot forward, seized Trokoff by the throat, and, rolling on the floor with him, yelled:

"To me, Naarboveck! Fantomas, you are taken! Yield!"

Fandor's grip and spring had been so sudden that Trokoff had not been able to defend himself. He and Fandor struggled, twisted, writhed, in a terrible embrace; panting, livid, with eyes of hate and horror!

De Naarboveck had laid hold of Trokoff, shouting:

"You shall die! You must die!"

This frightful struggle lasted but a few moments. Trokoff managed to free himself from Fandor's grip. The stupefied journalist heard a familiar voice crying:

"Look out, Fandor! It is Naarboveck we must take! Go it! Go it!"

The studio was plunged in darkness: a door banged: Fandor staggered, driven violently back into the middle of the studio. He felt a man was rushing away.

"He escapes! He escapes!"

Fandor did not know who had remained with him, who, had fled, whether he was on his head or his heels!... It was a momentary bewilderment; for the voice he had heard when the struggle was at its height was still speaking, calm, mocking.... It was the voice of Juve, saying: