"This is serious—very serious—it is the mouthpiece of a large gun—larger than any I have come across!"

* * * * *

The recovered motor-car drew up before The Flowery Crossways with a flourish. The beaming chauffeur jumped down and went towards the hotel-keeper and the police sergeant.

"It was my car all right!" he cried. "And I believed that never again should I set eyes on it!... When I think."...

The chauffeur stopped short; the unresponsive hotel-keeper and the police sergeant were staring at him fixedly. Not a word did they utter.

The chauffeur stared in turn: then he asked:

"Well?... What is it?... Are you frozen, you two?... What's the matter with you?... I inform you that I have found my motor, and that's how you take it!"

The police sergeant answered:

"I must ask you to give us some highly necessary information and explanations.... Do you know anything about the priest and the soldier who hired your car and you?"

There was a questioning pause. The chauffeur broke it.

"I have already told you that I do not know them.... If I did, things would not have happened as they have!... Now, why have you asked me that question?"

The policeman's reply was another question: his tone was stern.

"Then you declare you had no idea of what they were taking with them in your car?"

"What they were taking with them in my car?" repeated the chauffeur in a tone of bewildered interrogation.

The police sergeant marched up to him.

"Look here, now! It is incredible that you do not know what is in that corded-up package you carried in your car! And now your masters have disappeared; we are to believe that you know nothing about that either!... And now you return!... What is the reason of that?... And is it to be supposed that I am going to allow you to make off again without asking you to explain yourself and this extraordinary situation?"

The chauffeur saw that the hotel-keeper sided with the police sergeant: there was no support to be got in that quarter.

"Explain yourself, policeman!" burst out the chauffeur. "What's all this humbugging claptrap you are giving me?"

"In the name of the law!" declared the offended police officer, in solemn tones: "I think it advisable to arrest you!... You may consider yourself my prisoner!"...

As the astounded chauffeur could not find words to answer this, the sergeant added:

"Ah! My fine fellow! This is the way, then, you steal guns to help the Germans to shoot the French? It's a mercy I spotted you!"

"But you are mad!—mad!—mad!" protested the chauffeur.... "You."...

The police sergeant cut him short.

"That is enough!... I am going to take you to Rouen!... You can account for yourself to the magistrates!"



XXIII

LONDON AND PARIS

Juve and Henri de Loubersac passed the night on the quay. Daybreak found them marching side by side, keeping their weary watch and ward. De Loubersac had fallen silent; monosyllabic replies to Juve's remarks had given place to no remarks at all. Juve looked at Henri and smiled.

"He has gone to the country of dreams: he sleeps standing."

In brotherly fashion, the policeman guided the young man towards the shelter: settled him in, and left him. He was within call if needed; meanwhile, he could have his sleep out.

Filling his pipe afresh, Juve resumed his walk along the quay. He was uneasy; he was also in a bad humour. Why did Vinson and this priest tarry on the way? Why should Corporal Vinson, bearer of this compromising artillery piece, plant himself at a little hotel in Rouen for the night? Had they been warned and stopped? Juve feared so.

"Evidently these men are acting for Fantomas," said he to himself: "Fantomas must be watching the police: he knows them, but they do not know him.... Suppose he knows of our arrival at Dieppe?... Suppose the two traitors, being warned, have given our men the slip on the way? Suppose this stop at Rouen was caused by the telegram they received at the garage?... If our arrival here has been signalled, our watch will be fruitless: neither Vinson nor the priest will show themselves on this quay!"

As he kept his tireless vigil. Juve eyed the yacht swinging gently on the rising tide. Could he find a pretext which would take him aboard—justify a thorough investigation of boat and crew?... The answer to more than one tormenting problem might lie hidden there!

Then Juve recalled his talk with de Loubersac. Had he been happily inspired to speak so to him of the girl he loved, the enigmatic Wilhelmine? Suppose de Loubersac, instead of questioning her, broke with her?

"It would be abominable of me to spoil this child's love affair for what are less than suspicions on my part—only the vaguest hypothesis!"

Juve smoked and ruminated as he paced the lonely quay.

"I need not worry," concluded he at last. "Granting that we shall clear up all these mysteries, Wilhelmine's innocence, her candour, will be made manifest; that being so, Henri de Loubersac will be the first to acknowledge it, the first to beg her forgiveness!... Lovers' quarrels are not serious quarrels—so!"...

Juve continued his tireless promenade.

Sailors seeking their fishing-boats swung past him in the growing light of day.

Juve looked at his watch.

"I told them to put on a special for the night, and they have instructions to send me any telegrams.... Still, it is six o'clock.... I will see if there is anything fresh!"

Juve found de Loubersac fast asleep in the sentry box, and shook him by the shoulder.

"Lieutenant!... Lieutenant!" he shouted: "Wake up! I want you to keep watch while I run to Headquarters here.... There may be news!"

De Loubersac jumped up, wide awake in a moment. He took his turn on the quay at once. Juve hurried to the police station. He was on the doorstep when a telegraph boy rode up with a telegram. It was for our detective. The paper shook in Juve's hands as his eyes devoured the message: it was in cypher.

"Corporal Vinson taken refuge in London—recognised and identified by me this morning at four o'clock when leaving Victoria Station. I followed him and know where he is. What to be done next? Awaiting your orders."

Juve wondered whether he was on his head or his heels. Vinson in London! Left Victoria Station this morning! What did it mean?

"The wire is precise in its details. The man who sends it is a sharp police spy—never hesitates, never makes a blunder!... It seems evident that Vinson has given us the slip! He must have reached the coast at some point, and, in an unnoticed boat, has passed under our noses this very night!... Here's a go! The very deuce of a go!"

Intensely irritated, excited, Juve read and reread the telegram, fussed and fumed about the police station under the scared eyes of the policeman on guard duty. That worthy began to think the detective from Paris was an unmitigated nuisance.

Juve did not take this humble colleague into his confidence. He issued orders.

"You must not stir from here till the superintendent arrives. You will hand him this telegram addressed to me here. I will wire instructions in the morning where they are to be forwarded to me in England."

"In England!"

"Yes, I am crossing immediately by a Cook's excursion steamer, which goes in an hour, unless I am mistaken!"

Juve found de Loubersac pacing the quay. He had been smoking cigar after cigar to clear his head. Juve handed him a sheet of paper; on it he had copied the text of the telegram.

"Read that!" he cried.... "These confounded spies have found means to escape our attentions—but this is not the end of the game!"

Lieutenant Henri was thunderstruck.

"What are you going to do, Juve?"

"Reach London with all speed. Will you come, Lieutenant?"

De Loubersac considered.

"No," he decided.... "In the first place, I have no right to leave the country unless authorised to do so. I am not free to act according to my own good will and pleasure: besides, I have an idea there is work for me in Paris.... To watch that little intriguer, Bobinette, will be an interesting task: from what you told me yesterday, she is up to the neck in those villainous plots and plans! While you investigate in London, Paris shall be my field of operations. You approve of this, Juve?"

"I think you are right."

Juve accompanied the lieutenant to the station: de Loubersac was in a hurry to be off. He would not wait for the noon express: he took the slow train. As it began to move, he and Juve exchanged a cordial handshake.

"Good luck!" cried he.

"Thanks, Lieutenant. Good courage!"

The latter admonition was given with a purpose; for Juve was under no illusion as to de Loubersac's feelings.

"At any other time," thought he, "de Loubersac would have seen it to be his duty to accompany me to London: he could have secured an authorisation from his headquarters if required; besides, attached to the Second Bureau as he is, no doubt the ordinary military rules and regulations would hardly apply to him: to a large extent he must be allowed a free hand in emergencies. This is an emergency—an important one!... No, he wishes to see Wilhelmine: he is in love, is worried, suspicious: he wishes to clear up the mystery surrounding Wilhelmine's identity: he is determined to know what exactly were her relations with Captain Brocq: also, he wants to find out all there is to find regarding Bobinette and her doings.... To get to the bottom of these dark mysteries, unravel the tangled threads needs a clear head and a brave heart, for his feelings are deeply involved, and they may yet be cut to the quick!... He is a straight goer, that young man!" was Juve's concluding thought.... "He will do his duty: and when one does one's duty, with rare exceptions, the result is happiness."

* * * * *

Whilst Juve returned to the jetty to await the departure of the excursion steamer, Henri de Loubersac, alone in his compartment, reflected sadly on his relations with Wilhelmine.... He had loved her a long time. A frank, a sincere affection for her had gradually grown into a love which filled his whole heart and mind. Juve's words had troubled him profoundly. This spy chase had been a momentary distraction, but now his anxieties, his suspicions, his fears, swarmed and buzzed among his thoughts: he could not banish them!

His reflections so absorbed him that he lost consciousness of time and place: when the train came to a stand-still in Rouen station, he could have vowed they had left Dieppe but a few miles behind!

He would stretch his limbs on the platform. He jumped out; but, as he strolled past the kiosks, gazing at the papers and magazines exhibited in them, his mind was haunted but by one vision: Wilhelmine....

The train was about to leave: the porters were shouting: he hastened to his compartment: his foot was on the mounting board: it might have been nailed there, for the moment!... A young woman was seated in the further corner. She had lowered her window, and, with head out, was either saying good-bye to someone or was watching the comings and goings of the station.

Her attitude, the lines of her figure, were familiar to de Loubersac. He felt sure he knew her. He took his seat and awaited the turning of her head.

A piercing whistle and the train began to move. The young woman drew back, pulled up the window, and sat back in her seat.

Henri de Loubersac saw her.

She made a movement of surprise.

"You! Monsieur Henri!"

"You! Mademoiselle Bobinette!"

"By what chance?" began de Loubersac.

Bobinette interrupted:

"It is rather I who might ask you that, Monsieur Henri!... As for me, I have been spending four days with my family at Rouen.... I asked for a holiday and Monsieur de Naarboveck very kindly granted it ... but you?"

De Loubersac was nervously chewing the end of his blonde moustache. With a shrug he replied:

"Oh, I! It is never surprising to meet me in a train: I am constantly on the move: here—there—everywhere!... You have news of Mademoiselle Wilhelmine?"

"Excellent news. You are coming to Monsieur de Naarboveck's soon?"

"I think of calling on the baron this evening."

Talk continued, commonplace, desultory. What questions crowded to his lips, sternly repressed!

"She lies," thought he, while listening to the details of her family visit. "She certainly lies!... I must pretend to be her dupe—the miserable creature!"

His whole soul revolted at the thought that this Bobinette, involved as she must be in disgraceful adventures, abominable tragedies, shared Wilhelmine's home, was her so-called friend! He was seized by a mad desire to grip Bobinette by the throat—silence her lying tongue—arrest, handcuff her on the spot—render her powerless!

He had noticed a vague line of black showing below her light coloured taffeta skirt. It might be the frill of a petticoat just too long. Thinking no more of it he continued to chat of indifferent things.... Presently, a quick movement of Bobinette's raised her skirt a little more. This time the watchful de Loubersac could not be mistaken: he had seen clearly that what showed beneath Bobinette's skirt, every now and again, was a priest's cassock!

Bobinette's dress concealed the disguise of a priest.

Too well he understood the part this perverse creature had been playing! Now he could account for their meeting in this train coming from Rouen!... She had recently associated with Corporal Vinson as a priest. She had seen him off, no doubt, and, anxious to rid herself of her ecclesiastical exterior as quickly as might be, she had slipped on a dress over her ecclesiastical garment.

What was all this but a painful confirmation of Juve's words?... How could Wilhelmine be entirely ignorant of this dreadful creature's character? How could Wilhelmine be wholly innocent of the terribly compromising actions of her daily companion? Did Wilhelmine lack intuition? Was she without that delicate sensitiveness which is the birthright of all nice women? How could a pure girl breathe the miasmic atmosphere which must emanate from the soul of this abominable woman?

It was terrible!

The desultory commonplace chat went on, whilst de Loubersac was considering how best to act.

Arrest Bobinette?

Yes. He must not, dare not, hesitate. It was his duty. If he held this young woman at his mercy, it was, perhaps, the only way, painful as it was, to ultimately clear up the position of Wilhelmine.

How proceed?

Whilst still chattering of this and that, Henri de Loubersac made up his mind.

"Being a soldier, and not a policeman, I cannot myself arrest this woman. The scandal would be tremendous! I should get into the hottest of hot water with my chiefs: it is not my job.... Directly we arrive at the Saint Lazare station I will manage to signal one of the plain clothes men always on the watch there! Two of them will have her fast before she knows where she is!"

This seemed the easier because Bobinette had a heavy valise with her: she would have to call a porter and give him instructions—this would give him time to act.

Reassured, Henri de Loubersac continued to laugh and joke, though it went sorely against the grain....

At last! Saint Lazare station! The train stopped.

"I will say good-bye, Mademoiselle Bobinette.... I must hurry away!... You will excuse me?"

De Loubersac leaped on to the platform, jostling the passengers crowding his path. He must reach the platform exit without a second's delay!... As he handed his ticket to the collecter, a hubbub arose. Passengers were stopping, turning back, running—something sensational must have happened!

He paused. He heard a porter at his elbow say in a low voice:

"Don't stop, Monsieur Henri—you may be noticed."

De Loubersac identified the speaker as a man in the employ of the Second Bureau. He handed his wraps to this detective, dressed as an ordinary porter.

"What is happening, then?" he asked.

"An arrest, ordered by the Second Bureau. There was a man, or a woman, in your train."

"Ah, Bobinette must have been identified at Rouen when she got into the train—Juve's men must have wired from there!" Henri de Loubersac rejoiced. How he hated this creature, whose detestable influence must harm Wilhelmine, whose wickedness might work woe to the girl he loved! This traitorous wretch would be under lock and key now!

Splendid!

With mind relieved, he thanked the informer and prepared to leave the station. But, as he descended the steps leading to the Cour du Havre he stopped. Two police detectives whom he knew well were walking on either side a soldier in corporal's uniform—Vinson, of course! They must be taking him to the Cherche Midi prison.

De Loubersac realised what had happened.

"By-Jove! The telegram Juve had received at Dieppe must have been false!... Vinson and Bobinette, discovering that they were under observation, had found means to send Juve a telegram announcing that Vinson had been met in London: having thus drawn Juve over to England they had returned to Paris.... The traitors must have separated: this would lessen their chances of being recognised.... They must have arrested Vinson as he was leaving the train.... Bobinette, become unrecognisable when her cassock was hidden, must have escaped!"

De Loubersac ran back. He hunted the station all over. He jumped into a taxi and drove up and down all the adjoining streets; but the chase was a useless one! Bobinette was invisible—Bobinette had seized her opportunity. She had disappeared!



XXIV

AN APPETISER AT ROBERT'S BAR

"Have another whisky, old sport?"

"Not I! We have taken too much on board as it is."

"You must! You must! Seen through the gold of old Scotch, life seems more beautiful, and the barmaids more fetching."

Perched on the high stools which allowed them to lean on the rail of the bar the two topers solemnly clinked glasses.

The younger of the two, a lean, dark fellow, emptied his glass at one go, but his companion, a big fair man about thirty-five, clean shaven, and slightly bald, handled his glass so awkwardly that the contents escaped on to the floor.

The big fair man called for fresh drinks. Their glasses were refilled so quickly that the dark young man failed to notice it: he drank on and on automatically, as though wound up to do so, but his companion barely wetted his lips with the intoxicating liquor.

It was six o'clock and a dismal December evening; but there was an animated cosmopolitan crowd in Robert's bar.

Robert's of London is the equivalent of Maxim's of Paris. The great place for luxurious entertainments, it opens its doors at twilight, and does not close them till the small hours are well advanced. When evening falls, the scene grows animated: business men and women of pleasure crowd the rooms. Gradually the crowd assumes a cosmopolitan character. A band of Hungarian gipsies plays inspiriting and seductive music. The crush increases, the noise grows louder, and amidst this babel of voices, the racket, the din, the barmaids ply their trade with calm determination: they flirt with their customers and egg them on to drink glass after glass of wine and spirits for the good of the house, in an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke.

Every ten minutes or so, a newspaper boy slips in with the latest evening editions, to be chased out by one of the managers of mixed nationality who, for the most part, talk in a strangely mixed tongue, partly French, partly English.

In this noisy crowded place the two drinkers were talking together familiarly.

The dark young man, after having listened with curiosity to the confidences of his companion, which must have been of an extraordinary nature, judging by the exclamations of surprise they evoked, asked:

"But what is your profession, then?"

"But I have already told you," replied the fat man. "I am a clown—a musical clown.... I interpret comic romances.... I dress up as a negro, I play the banjo!" This jovial individual began humming an air which was the rage of the moment.

The dark young man interrupted with another question:

"What is your native country, Tommy?"

"Oh, I am a Belgian.... And you, Butler?"

The dark young man, who answered to the name of Butler, gave what had to pass for an account of himself.

"I ... I'm Canadian—just come from Canada—hardly three months ago."

"As much as that?" remarked fat Tommy.

Butler seemed upset by this question.

"Yes, yes!... And I feel very anxious, because I don't know my way about, and I don't know English very well, and I can't find work, try as I will ... it seems no use."...

"What can you do?"

"A little of everything."

"That is to say—nothing!"

Butler said slowly:

"I can do book-keeping."

The clown burst out laughing.

"That will not take you far! There are hundreds and hundreds of stick-in-the-muds at that job!"

"What do you want me to do, then?" asked Butler.

His plump acquaintance put a hand on his shoulder.

"There is only one career in the world—the theatre!... There is only one profession worth following, that of artiste!... See how I have succeeded! And without having received the least instruction, for my parents never cared a hang for my future—I soon earned plenty money; now, though still in the full flush of young man-hood, I am on the point of making a fortune!"

The clown evidently fancied himself, for he was of a ripe age—no chicken.

His companion gazed at him admiringly.

Certainly the clown looked wealthy: his thick watch-chain was gold, English sovereigns, ostentatiously displayed, were stuffed in a bulging purse: his appearance justified his boasts.

"I would ask nothing better than to get into a theatre," said Butler with a simple air, "but I don't know how to do anything!"

The clown shot a shrewd glance at his companion: Butler's face was flushed, his eyes were wandering: his wits seemed dulled: the glasses of whisky were having their effect.

Tommy murmured into Butler's ear:

"I have known you but a short time, but we are in sympathy, and already I feel a very great friendship for you. Tell me, is it the same on your side?"

Touched by this cordiality, Butler raised a shaky hand above his glass and declared:

"I swear it!"

"Good! My dear Butler, I think things will arrange themselves marvellously well.... Just fancy! When walking on the Thames Embankment to-day, I met a theatrical manager whom I have known this long while ... a very good fellow, called Paul.... Naturally we had a glass together.... Then I asked him what he was doing. His answer was 'I am looking for an artiste!' Of course, I suggested myself! Paul explained that he did not need a clown, but a professor.... I promised to find him one if I could.... Would you like to be this professor?"

"Professor of what?" questioned Butler, who, in spite of his growing intoxication, was lending an attentive ear to clown Tommy, who laughed at the question.

"You would never guess who would be your pupils!... You would have to teach Japanese canaries to sing!"

Butler considered this a joke in the worst of taste. The clown declared there was nothing ridiculous about teaching Japanese canaries to sing.... The important point was that the professor of singing Japanese canary birds would receive immediate payment.

Whilst Butler was turning over this offer in his muddled mind—for he had persuaded himself that the offer was a genuine one—the clown fidgeted on his high stool, and hummed an air from Faust in a falsetto voice. The clown stopped.

"Come, Butler, is it settled?"

Butler hesitated.

"I am not sure that I had better."

"But yes, certainly you had better," insisted the clown. "And, as it happens, I have agreed to dine with this manager he must be in the room downstairs.... I will go and look for him!... We three could meet and talk the thing over."

"Where should I have to go?" asked Butler. "To what country?"

"To Belgium, of course," replied Tommy. "The manager is a Belgian, like myself—we are compatriots."

The clown, judging that his companion had decided to accept the offer, left him, saying:

"I am going to find the manager and tell him my friend Butler will be his professor of Japanese singing canaries."

Butler sighed, then swallowed another glass of whisky.

Pushing his way among the crowded tables of the front downstairs room, the clown reached the end of the room. He approached a clean-shaven man seated before a full glass: it was untouched.

"Monsieur Juve?" asked Tommy in a low voice.

Juve nodded.

"Captain Loreuil?"

"That is so: at present, Tommy, musical Belgian clown. And you are Monsieur Paul, theatrical manager.... That is according to our arrangement, is it not?"

"Quite so.... Anything fresh?"

Loreuil smiled. "I have got your man."

"Sure of it?"

Loreuil seated himself next Juve. He spoke low.

"He calls himself Butler ... says he is Canadian.... He declares he has been in London some time: it is a falsehood. I recognise him perfectly. I had already seen him at Chalons, when he had a connection with the singer Nichoune, and we suspected him of being the author of the leakages in the offices of the Headquarters Staff."

"That is Corporal Vinson, then?"

"Consequently you must intervene," said Loreuil.

Juve reflected. After a short silence he said:

"Intervene! You go too fast. Remember we are in a foreign country, and there is no question of a common law crime: Vinson is not accused of murder, simply of treason.

"I like that word 'simply,'" remarked Loreuil ironically.

"Don't take that in bad part," smiled Juve; "but it has its importance from an international point of view. I cannot arrest Vinson in England on the pretext that he is a spy."

"Happily we have foreseen that difficulty," said Loreuil. "Butler will accompany us to Belgium. He believes we are Belgians. Belgium means France, as far as we are concerned—the three of us!"

Juve had reached London the evening before. He had found at Scotland Yard several telegrams and a private note from a detective friend, informing him of the arrival of an individual known to be an officer of the Second Bureau.

Juve met Loreuil. The two men, on the same quest, put their heads together. They were soon on the track of Vinson. A man answering to his description had been in London several weeks. This was the truth. Juve would not admit it. He believed Vinson had arrived in England only a few hours ahead of him.

Loreuil, whose mission did not include the arrest of Vinson, considered he had done his part as soon as he had identified the corporal. Juve would do the rest.

"We are agreed, then!" said Loreuil. "If I introduce you to Butler as Paul, the theatrical manager, who wishes to engage him as trainer of canaries ... the rest you can manage for yourself.... Be circumspect! The fellow is on the lookout!"

"He must leave with me to-night—it is urgent!" insisted Juve.... "You must help me, Captain!"

Captain Loreuil frowned.

"I must confess I don't like this sort of thing!" said he.

"But this affair is more serious even than you know," said Juve. "This Vinson business does not stand alone: it is but a strand in a vast network of mystery and wickedness of the most malignant kind."

Still the captain was reluctant. To take part in such a sinister comedy; to make a poor wretch tipsy in order to deliver him to the authorities for punishment, wounded the captain's self-respect. Juve overcame his hesitations with the words:

"It is not merely a secret service matter, Monsieur: it is a question of National Defence."

"I will help you, Monsieur," was the captain's answer to this, adding:

"Let us go up! Our man's patience must be giving out."



XXV

THE ARREST

The Dover Express, the Continental Mail, was moving out of Charing Cross station.

Three travellers were seated in a first-class compartment. They were smoking big cigars: their eyes were bright, their cheeks flushed; they looked like big men who had dined well. These were Butler, Tommy and Paul, leaving for Belgium: otherwise Juve, Loreuil and Vinson bound for France! Copious libations of generous wines and strong liqueurs had reduced Butler-Vinson to the condition of a maudlin puppet: Tommy and Paul had made Butler most conveniently drunk.

The train rushed forward through station after station, brilliantly lighted, then plunged into the obscurity of the country. A stupefying warmth from the heating apparatus impelled slumber. Unfortunate Butler-Vinson, lulled by the regular movement of the train, was soon fast asleep.

Juve and Loreuil kept vigil. They were sitting side by side facing their captive.

"Dover will be the difficulty," whispered Juve, who had drawn closer to the captain.

"Yes, that is the crucial point," agreed Loreuil....

The express was entering the tunnels pierced in the precipitous coastline of the Channel near Dover. There was a short stop at Dover Town station before it drew up on the Pier. There the travellers would embark. Of these there were two distant streams: those crossing to Belgium: those bound for France. Butler-Vinson still slept soundly. Juve was waiting till the last minute. Then he would awaken his prisoner as he already considered him and shepherd him aboard the Calais boat.

Captain Loreuil got out and went on ahead.

"Come along, Butler!" Juve cried suddenly. He shook the slumbering traitor sharply.

Butler-Vinson leaped to his feet with frightened eyes and gaping mouth.

"What is it?" he stuttered. "What do you want with me?"

Juve's smile was a masterpiece of hypocrisy.

"Why, old fellow, you must wake up! We must go aboard our boat!"

The corporal heard men shouting:

"Steamer Victoria for Ostend! Steamer Empress for Calais!"

"We must hurry!" cried Juve, pushing the bemused Butler-Vinson out of the compartment.

There was a sea fog growing denser every minute. Without their powerful electric lights it would have been impossible to recognise the boats or the gangways leading to them.

Juve had Butler by the arm: a necessary precaution, for the wretched man could scarcely keep on his feet. Juve propelled him towards a gangway: a minute later both were on the boat.

Vinson caught sight of the inscription Empress on the lifebuoys. A flash of reason illumined Butler-Vinson's drink-soddened mind. He hesitated, drew back with a frightened look.

"Didn't I hear just now that this boat goes to Calais?"

A passing sailor heard this question. He was about to enlighten Butler-Vinson, but Juve pushed him aside—this imbecile was going to spoil everything!

"No, old fellow, you are quite mistaken! It is the Victoria that goes to Calais: we go to Ostend with the Empress."

Butler-Vinson accepted this statement as true.

An ear-piercing whistle sounded; the cables were drawn up: a vibratory motion told the passengers they were off.

The mast-head light was extinguished: the mail-boat silently made its way out to sea.

There was a dense fog in the Channel. The fog-horn sounded its lugubrious note.

The sea was rough: a strong wind from the south-west had been blowing all the afternoon. The boat began to pitch and toss: the passengers were drenched.

Though nothing of a sailor in the nautical sense, Juve took his duckings with equanimity: a bit of a pitch and toss would keep Vinson occupied.

The fog was Juve's friend: it lent an air of vagueness, of confusion, to Butler-Vinson's surroundings. The vagaries of the steamer would further distract what thoughts he was capable of. Still, they were on an English boat, and should the corporal grasp what was happening and refuse to disembark, Juve would be in a fix. Butler-Vinson must be kept in ignorance of the truth till they were on French soil.

Captain Loreuil had remained at Dover, declaring he still had much to do in England. Besides, he could not be brought to consider that to arrest criminals came within the scope of his duties: to mark them down, point them out, yes. Thus he had tracked down the traitor and left him in good hands.

Meanwhile, Butler-Vinson was suffering from a severe attack of sea-sickness. His head seemed splitting with throbbing pain.

"How long shall we be getting across?" he asked in a faint voice.

"Three hours," said Juve: this was the crossing time between Dover and Ostend.

Heavy cross-seas were running. Those who braved the buffetings and drenchings above deck were now few: it was a villainous crossing!

At the end of an hour and a half the odious waltz of the steamer slowed down. The fog-horn was silent: the Empress moved alongside the jetties of Calais.

The gangways were let down; porters invaded the deck, carrying away luggage to the trains awaiting the travellers in the terminus station.

"Now for it!" thought Juve.

Once on French soil it was all up with the liberty of Corporal Vinson! His arrest would be immediate.

Juve considered the miserable heap collapsed on a side bench: this traitorous rag of humanity had once been an upright man—a true soldier of France! It was terrible! It was piteous!

Juve raised Butler-Vinson. The wretched fellow could hardly stand up. Juve signed to a sailor, who took the corporal's left arm while Juve supported him on the right. Vinson disembarked. He set his feet on the soil—the sacred soil of France!

The crowd was pouring into the great hall, where customs officers were examining the small baggage.

Juve drew Butler-Vinson to the left: the traitor must not catch sight of the French uniforms. An individual seemed to rise out of the ground in front of them: Juve said to him in a low voice:

"Our man!"

* * * * *

Revived by a cordial, Vinson gradually recovered his senses. Painfully he raised his heavy eyelids: he looked about him curiously, anxiously. He was in a large, square room, dimly lighted, almost empty, with bare white walls.

"Where am I?" he asked Juve. Three men surrounded him. Juve's was the sole face he knew.

Juve wore a solemn look: his words were gently spoken.

"You are at Calais, in the special police quarters connected with the station. Corporal Vinson, I am sorry to have to tell you that you are under arrest."

"My God!" exclaimed the traitor. He attempted to rise, but fell back on his seat: his eyes were staring at the handcuffs on his wrists! He burst into tears.

Juve felt pity for this miserable being, huddled up there in the depths of humiliation and terror. But the dreadful fact remained—Vinson was a criminal, a traitor! Perhaps his errors were due to a bad bringing-up, to deplorable examples, alas!... Juve was not there to pass judgment, but to deliver the guilty wretch into the hands of the authorities.

"Come now!" he said, tapping Vinson on the shoulder. "Come, we are leaving for Paris!"

Corporal Vinson, traitor, raised supplicating eyes to Juve: then, realising all resistance was vain, he rose painfully: he assumed an air of indifference.

A policeman from Headquarters had joined Juve. The three men got into an empty second-class compartment.

In a voice quivering with shame, Vinson begged Juve not to allow anyone to enter. "I should be so ashamed," he muttered, with hanging head and hunched shoulders.

"We shall do our best to prevent it," Juve assured him. After an explanation with the station-master, the compartment was labelled "Reserved."

The train started. Vinson was wide awake now, and dejected to the last degree. After a hand-to-mouth existence, but still a free one, in England, he had allowed himself to be nabbed by the police, like the veriest simpleton! The papers would be full of it!

Vinson, who had been led into criminal ways by his love for a bad woman, troubled himself much less regarding the punishment to be meted out to him than about the dreadful distress his arrest would cause his mother. The old Alsatian mother, when she learned that her son was in prison charged with treason to France, would die of grief. Vinson wished with all his heart that he had stuck to his first decision—that he had killed himself rather than make confession to the journalist, Jerome Fandor, who had wished to save him, and had helped him to escape, but who had really done him a bad service, since, deserter as he was, he had been caught like the most vulgar of criminals!

The train stopped at a station.

"I am dying of thirst," mumbled Vinson.

Juve sent his second in command for a bottle of water from the refreshment buffet.

Vinson thanked Juve with a grateful nod.

Refreshed, Vinson pulled his wits together.

Juve, noticing this, began questioning him, promising to treat him as well as he possibly could, if he would speak out, in confidence; assuring him of the leniency of the judges if he consented to denounce his accomplices.

When Vinson realised that he was to stand his trial for spying, for betraying his country, as well as for desertion, he was only too glad to obey Juve's suggestion.

"Ah!" murmured he, while tears rolled down his cheeks, "Cursed be the day when I first agreed to enter into relations with the band of criminals who have made of me what I am to-day!"

Vinson gave Juve a full account of his temptation, his errors; nevertheless he did not tell the detective of his relations with Jerome Fandor. Had he not promised absolute secrecy? Traitor and spy as he was, Vinson had given his word of honour, and this journalist had been kind to him in return, had given him a chance to escape and start afresh: not for anything in the world would he have betrayed his oath!

Juve was a hundred leagues from suspecting the substitution which had taken place between Vinson and Fandor. He was convinced he had Corporal Vinson before his eyes; but he also thought he had his grip on the individual who had left Paris the night before, accompanied by an ecclesiastic, for the purpose of handing over to a foreign power a most important piece of a gun stolen from the Arsenal, as well as the descriptive plan that went with it.

But when he cross-questioned Vinson on this point, the corporal did not in the least understand what he was driving at! Juve, who had been congratulating himself on his prisoner's frankness, grew angry with what he believed was a culpable reservation. Why did the corporal, who, up to this, had spoken so freely, now feign ignorance of the gun piece affair?... Well, he would find out his prisoner's reasons presently.... Not wishing to scare him, Juve changed the subject.... He had any number of questions to ask the culprit. Did he not know Vagualame, the real Vagualame?

Vinson told him many things about the old accordion player with the patriarchal white beard which he already knew; but one remark particularly impressed him.

"If only the police knew all that goes on in the house in the rue Monge!"... Vinson stopped short.

This remark opened new horizons to Juve. When they arrived at the North station, some hours later, and Juve had transferred his prisoner to a cab, giving the driver the address of the Cherche-Midi prison, our detective had learned that Vagualame-Fantomas was in the habit of visiting a mysterious house in rue Monge. Here he met many of his accomplices. It was here the band of spies and traitors, of which he seemed chief, disguised themselves, issuing forth to ply their nefarious trade and mock the police.

Juve made a compact with himself.

"As soon as I have handed my corporal over to the military jailors, I know where I shall go to smoke a cigarette!"



XXVI

WILHELMINE'S SECRET

"You are alone, Wilhelmine?"

Mademoiselle de Naarboveck had just left the house in the rue Fabert. It was three in the afternoon, and she was going shopping. At the corner of the rue de l'Universite she came on Henri de Loubersac.

It was a delightful surprise. She had not seen him for several days. She was aware of the difficult and dangerous nature of her future fiance's duties; that they frequently took him from Paris for days at a time; that they forbade him writing even a post card to let her know where he was!... Now she felt delightedly sure that he had taken advantage of his first free moment to pay her a visit. How charming of him!

The truth was that de Loubersac, whose anxieties and suspicions had increased hour by hour, till he was suffering the tortures of the damned, had made up his mind to have a decisive talk with Wilhelmine. A clear and final explanation he would have, cost what it might!

Full of joy at the meeting, Wilhelmine did not seem to notice his anxious looks, his strained expression. She answered his question with a welcoming smile.

"I am alone."

"Your father?"

"Went away this morning: the calls of diplomacy are numerous, and frequently sudden, you know!"

"And Mademoiselle Berthe?"

Wilhelmine raised her beautiful bright eyes and met her fiance's questioning glance.

"No news of her for several days. Berthe seems to have disappeared." Her tone was grave.

De Loubersac did not speak: mechanically he fitted his step to Wilhelmine's. Presently he asked:

"Where do you think of going?"

"I was going to do a little shopping ... nothing much ... there is no sort of hurry!"

She felt that Henri wished to discuss something important with her: hers was too direct a nature to put him off with flimsy excuses when he desired a serious talk.

"Should we walk on a little, talking as we go?" she suggested, with a charming smile. To walk and talk with Henri was such a pleasure!

De Loubersac agreed.

The young couple crossed the Esplanade des Invalides, and by way of the rue Saint-Dominique, the boulevard Saint-Germain, and rue Buonaparte, reached the Luxembourg Gardens. Here they could talk at ease.

A few casual remarks, and Henri de Loubersac came to his point.

"Dear Wilhelmine, there is a series of mysteries in your life which I cannot help thinking about: mysteries which trouble me greatly!... Forgive me for speaking to you so frankly!... You know how sincere my feeling for you is!... My love for you is strong and deep.... My one desire in life is to join my fate, my existence, to yours.... But before that, there are some things we must speak of together, serious things perhaps, about which we must have a clear understanding."

Wilhelmine had grown strangely pale. Despite the protestations of love in which her future fiance had wrapped his questions, she was greatly troubled. The painful moment she had waited for had come: she must tell Henri de Loubersac the secret of her life: no very grave secret if considered by itself; but the consequences of it, and the innumerable deductions that could be drawn from it, might react unfavourably on their relations to each other!

Wilhelmine must speak out.

They were just outside the church of Saint-Sulpice. Some large drops of rain fell.

"Let us go into the church!" said Wilhelmine: "It will be quiet there. If what I have to say to you is said in that holy place, you will feel that I am speaking the truth. It is almost a confession." The poor girl's voice trembled slightly as she uttered these decisive words—words that frightened de Loubersac. What shocking revelations did they foreshadow?

He acquiesced: the lovers entered the porch.

As he stepped aside to let Wilhelmine pass, he noticed a cab with drawn blinds which had that minute drawn up not far from the space in front of the church. He examined it anxiously.

"It seemed to me we were being followed—shadowed," replied de Loubersac. "It is of little importance, however—we must expect that in our service."

"Yes, you also have secrets," remarked Wilhelmine.

"They are only professional ones: there is nothing about my personality to hide: my life is an open book for all the world to read!"

De Loubersac's tone was hard.

It hurt Wilhelmine.

* * * * *

For some while they had been seated behind a pillar, in the shadow: Wilhelmine had been speaking: Henri had been listening.

She told him she was not the daughter of the baron de Naarboveck, that her real name was Therese Auvernois.[5]

[Footnote 5: See Fantomas: vol. i, Fantomas Series.]

This told de Loubersac nothing.

Wilhelmine explained that her childhood had been passed in an ancient chateau, on the banks of the Dordogne, with her grandmother, the Marquise de Langrune. One fatal December day the Marquise had been assassinated. They were led to believe the assassin was a young man, son of a friend of the family, by name, Charles Rambert. This tragedy had altered the whole course of the orphan girl's life. She was taken care of by the father of the supposed murderer, a worthy old man, Monsieur Etionne Rambert. He recommended her to Lady Beltham, whose husband had been murdered some months before; thus the bereaved girl came to live under Lady Beltham's wing, and grew very fond of her. Then Monsieur Etionne Rambert disappeared in a shipwreck, and Wilhelmine went with Lady Beltham to her castle in Scotland.

Two peaceful years passed. Among other friends and visitors, Wilhelmine met the Baron de Naarboveck, a foreign diplomat. Then Lady Beltham went to France, and one sad day the orphan girl learned that her mother by adoption had died there![6]

[Footnote 6: See The Exploits of Juve: vol. ii, Fantomas Series.]

Six dreary, anxious months followed. Then the baron, the only person in the whole world who seemed to care whether she lived or died, came to find her. He took her to Paris. There he decided to pass her off as his daughter, declaring he had very grave reasons for doing so.

Though making her the centre of a mystery, for undeclared reasons of his own, de Naarboveck was very good to her, helped her to unravel her financial affairs, and informed her that she was the owner of a large fortune. He told her that some day she would have to go to a foreign country to take possession of this fortune—the baron did not say where.

Wilhelmine stopped her narrative, jumped up, pointing to a shadow moving across an altar.

"Did you see?" she questioned anxiously.

"I think I did," answered Henri de Loubersac. "It is the shadow of some passer-by thrown into relief on the light background."

"Oh, I hope we are not being spied on!"

"Of whom are you afraid?" asked de Loubersac.

Wilhelmine—or Therese Auvernois, as she had confessed herself to be—glanced about her. There was not a soul within hearing! Now she would speak her mind to Henri—her dear Henri—and tell him all.

"You want to know, dear one, why my existence has been surrounded with so many mysterious precautions of late years! You wish to know why the baron is so determined that my real identity should remain hidden! You are right; for I have long asked myself the same question. When I spoke to the baron about this for the first time—it was only a few weeks ago, and told him that I wished to appear as what I really am, Therese Auvernois, my father by adoption—I may call him that, seeing how good, how kind he has been to me—began by telling me it was impossible—that the most terrible misfortunes would result from such a revelation.... I insisted. I wanted to know what these dreadful misfortunes would be, and why they would follow as a matter of course, were it made known that I am Therese Auvernois. Thereupon the baron told me astonishing things.

"According to him, from the time of my poor grandmother's death, I, and those near to me, all those about me, were pursued, not only by a terrible fatality, but also by a being, who, for unknown motives, wished to sow perpetual death and terror among those intimately connected with us.

"The baron did not want to talk of all this, but I made him speak out. Bit by bit, I learned the details of one of those tragedies which touched my life when a child. I went to the National Library, secretly, and looked through the newspapers of that period. I noticed that in whatever concerned us, whether legally or privately, closely or distantly, one name appeared and reappeared, a terrifying and legendary name, the name of a being we think of but dare not mention—the name of Fantomas!"

Henri de Loubersac was staggered. This statement of the girl he knew as Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, far from impressing him favourably, seemed to him an improbable story invented, every bit of it, for the sole purpose of putting him on the wrong track.

He had learned to love this charming girl, believing her to be sincere, honest, pure, brought up as a young girl should be, amidst elegant and distinguished surroundings: now, behold an abyss opened before his eyes, separating him from one whom he was now inclined to consider an adventuress.

He remembered Juve's words!

Granting the truth of her statement, that a tragedy had shadowed her young life and altered her existence, this did not prevent her from having been seduced by Captain Brocq! Rather, her early experiences would tend to break down the barriers, behind which nice girls lived and moved!... There were things that called for an explanation! For instance, how explain the intimacy existing between de Naarboveck, his so-called daughter, and this Mademoiselle Berthe, whose part in the affair engaging de Loubersac's attention was open to the gravest suspicions?...

Wilhelmine continued what she called her confession, thinking aloud, opening her heart, confiding in her dear Henri, whose silence she took for sympathy and encouragement.

"Fantomas," she murmured: "I cannot tell you how often I have thought over this maddening, this puzzling personality, terrifying beyond words, who seems implacably bent on our destruction!... Again and again I have had reason to fear that his ill-omened influence has been directed against my humble self!... As if he guessed something of this, the baron has frequently sought to reassure me; yet, through some singular coincidence, each time we have spoken of Fantomas a tragedy has occurred, a dreadful tragedy, which has reminded us of monstrous crimes committed by him in the past!"

Wilhelmine's statements were impressing de Loubersac less and less favourably.

"Play acting—and clumsy play acting at that!" decided Henri: "Done to avert my suspicions, imagined to feed my curiosity!... She thinks herself a capable player at the game! She does not know the person she is playing with!"

De Loubersac came to a decision. He rose, stood close to Wilhelmine, who also rose, instinctively, looked her straight in the face, and asked, point-blank:

"Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, or Therese Auvernois—it matters little to me—I wish to know the real truth.... Confess, then, that you were Captain Brocq's mistress!"

"Monsieur!" exclaimed the startled girl. She met de Loubersac's inquisitorial look proudly.

His penetrating stare did not falter.

Suddenly Wilhelmine's lips began to tremble. She grew deadly pale: she might have been on the verge of a fainting fit. She had realised the incredulity of the man to whom, in her chaste innocence, she had given her heart. In the pure soul of this loving girl an immense void made itself felt. It was as though a flashlight had revealed to her the lamentable truth: that the strange position in which destiny had placed her—a position strange but not infamous—had made of her a being apart, had put her outside the ordinary life of humanity, outside the law of love!... A desire to explain, to convince, to justify herself, the desire of a desperate creature at bay, burned up in her like a flame: it flashed and died. Henri had no confidence in her! He believed this odious thing of her—this abominable, incredible thing!... Her heart was full to bursting with an agony of grief, of outraged innocence.... She looked him straight in the eyes—her own flashing fury.

"You insult me!" she cried.... "Withdraw what you have just said!... You will apologise!"

De Loubersac said in a low, distinct voice:

"I maintain my accusation, Mademoiselle, until you have furnished me with absolute, undeniable proofs!"...

De Loubersac's voice failed him. Wilhelmine had turned from him. She hurried to the door, descended the church steps, and threw herself into a passing cab.

De Loubersac had followed her.

In tones of contempt she had flung at him the words:

"Farewell, monsieur—and for ever!"

Henri's answer was a shrug of the shoulder.

As he stood there, an outline, a shadow, appeared under the church porch: a something, a being, indescribable, appeared, disappeared, running with spirit-like swiftness, vanishing. Henri de Loubersac had a clear conviction that during his conversation with her who might have been his fiancee in days to come, they had been shadowed, spied upon!



XXVII

THE TWO VINSONS

There were strange happenings elsewhere on the day Henri de Loubersac and Wilhelmine de Naarboveck had parted in grief and anger.

It was on the stroke of noon when Corporal Vinson heard a key turn in the lock of his cell. Two military jailors confronted him.

"Butler?"

The traitor answered to that name.

Juve, for reasons of his own, had not revealed the prisoner's true quality. Vinson had therefore been entered in the jail book as Butler.

One of the jailors, an old veteran, whose uniform was a mixture of the civil and the military, took the word.

"Butler, you are to be transferred to a building belonging to the Council of War: there you will occupy cell 27.... Our prison here is for the condemned only, so you cannot remain. You belong to the accused section."

All that mattered to Butler-Vinson for the moment was—he had to reach his new quarters by crossing the rue Cherche-Midi between two jailors.... He would be exposed to the curious glances of the public! He shuddered at the thought!... And there was worse to come! This was but the commencement of his purgatory.... As he had not known how to die at the right moment, he must arm himself with courage to expiate his cowardice!... He must leave the shelter of his cell!... With an intense effort of will he stretched out his arms, was handcuffed without a murmur, and, marching between his two jailors, he quitted the prison.

The bright light of noonday made him blink. On reaching the pavement he recoiled with a convulsive movement: the jailors pulled him forward.

It was the crowded hour, when men leave offices and shops for a midday meal. But the public of these parts, accustomed to such comings and goings of prisoners and their jailors, paid no attention to this pitiful trio.

The prisoner seemed so overcome with emotion that, after uttering a long sigh like a death rattle, he sank, a dead weight, into the arms of his jailors.

They were forced to support him. They carried him to the courtyard of the Council of War. Some, whose curiosity was aroused by the unusual pallor of the prisoner, wished to follow, but the jailors closed the great doors of the courtyard.

Before leading him to his cell, they dumped their inanimate prisoner on a chair in the porter's lodge.... The porter brought vinegar. They rubbed Butler-Vinson's temples with it. A jailor slapped his hands. In vain! The prisoner showed no signs of life!

"You had better take him to his cell," advised the porter. "Perhaps he will come to his senses if laid on his palliasse? In any case, run for the medical officer."

The jailors, who could make nothing of their prisoner's mysterious condition, transported him to cell 27. They laid him on his palliasse.

* * * * *

"Lieutenant Servin?"

"Commandant?"

"Will you help me to reduce these papers to order? It is half-past eleven: I want to go to breakfast!"

The lieutenant brought a pile of documents to his superior's table and rapidly classified them.

His superior, Commandant Dumoulin, had been chief assistant at the Second Bureau. He had passed long years at his post there. Previous to that, he had acted as Government Commissioner on the Councils of War in the various garrisons where he had been stationed.... Some six months ago Dumoulin had sent in his request to the Minister of War for a change of billet. His record being an excellent one, the Minister had appointed him Government Chief-commissioner attached to the Principal Council of War, sitting in Paris.

Dumoulin had recently taken up his new duties, and was counting on getting peacefully into the run of things, when, the evening before, he had been warned at his own home by a private note from the Minister, that a deserter, accused of treason, had been arrested, and that Corporal Vinson was the man in question.

At the sight of this name Commandant Dumoulin thrilled with excitement. As former Under-Secretary at the Second Bureau he had the affair at his finger ends, and well knew how tangled, how obscure it was, how bristling with dangers, how rich in complications.... The Vinson affair, it was the Captain Brocq affair, the singer Nichoune affair ... the story of a plan of mobilisation stolen, of a gun piece lifted from the Arsenal!... He was in for a big affair—a sensational case!...

The commandant passed a wakeful night and arrived early at his office. He must get to work! Fortunately, among his deputies he had found a competent and zealous helper in Lieutenant Servin. He turned to him now.

"Our next proceeding will be to establish the identity of Corporal Vinson. We must examine him on that point without delay.... Send for him immediately, Lieutenant!... According to the prison register, he occupies cell 26."

"Excuse me, Commandant; Vinson, who was registered this morning at the Cherche-Midi prison, must actually be in the Council buildings, where he occupied cell 27."

The commandant adjusted his eye-glasses, looked closely at a yellow paper, and corrected in his turn:

"That is an error: in cell 27 is an individual named Butler."

"Yes, Commandant: Butler—he is Vinson!"

"I do not understand," objected Dumoulin. "You must have made a mistake. Corporal Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazare station: he was brought here and was registered for cell 26; besides, I was immediately informed of this arrest by a private telegram."

"Commandant," persisted the lieutenant: "Corporal Vinson, who hid himself under the name of Butler, was arrested early this morning at the Calais station, when he landed from England. The arrest was effected by Inspector Juve, who took his prisoner to Cherche-Midi about six o'clock; and this Vinson occupied cell 27."

"Come, now, Lieutenant, you have lost your head!" grumbled the commandant: "Since Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazare station, it is evident that he was not arrested last night at Calais! Vinson and Butler—that makes two."

"I beg your pardon, Commandant: that makes only one!"

The commandant looked severely at his subordinate.

"That is enough, Lieutenant!... Send for Corporal Vinson who occupied cell 26."

"Right, Commandant!"

Some minutes later there was a knock at the door: two warders with a prisoner stood on the threshold.

The commandant assured himself with a glance that the non-commissioned officer, acting as reporter, was at his post, and that Lieutenant Servin was seated at the desk next his own.

"Enter!" he commanded.

Dumoulin solemnly opened the voluminous bundle of papers set before him, looked through the documents, affecting not to see the prisoner stationed before him.... Ready at length to begin the interrogation, the commandant raised his head, straightened himself, and ordered:

"Approach!"

The prisoner, a warder on each side of him, took a step forward.

"You are truly Corporal Vinson?"

"No, Commandant!"

Dumoulin was silent a moment, choking with anger, his hand trembling slightly—did the fellow mean to mock him?... He frowned. He did not like the manner of this fellow, with his bright, piercing eyes, his scornful looks. He repeated:

"Are you Corporal Vinson?"

"No, Commandant."

Dumoulin was boiling with rage: he was about to explode. Lieutenant Servin approached: in a low voice he said:

"Commandant! Someone wishes you to see him immediately."

Servin handed his superior a card. On it the commandant read:

Inspector Juve, Detective Force, Police Headquarters.

"What does he want?"

"He is the detective who arrested Vinson."

"Well," exclaimed the exasperated Dumoulin, "he arrives at the right moment! Let him come in!"

Juve entered and saluted Dumoulin with an amiable smile. He did not take any notice of the prisoner, who was standing with his back to the light.

"It is I, Commandant, who arrested Corporal Vinson; consequently, I have come to place myself at your disposal."

"You have done the right thing!" cried Dumoulin. "Now, will you get this prisoner to own up? Make him tell us whether or no he is Corporal Vinson!"

Dumoulin pointed an irate finger at the prisoner.

Our detective stood rooted to the ground!... The prisoner moved quickly towards him.

"Fandor!"

"Juve!"

"What does this mean, Fandor?"

"It means, Juve, that I am arrested in the place of Corporal Vinson!"

"Nothing of the sort!... I arrive from London. I arrested Vinson yesterday evening at Calais!"

Fandor laughed: he could have roared with laughter.

"My dear Juve," said he, "I should have to talk to you for two mortal hours before you would understand a word of this business!"

Fandor turned to the thunderstruck Dumoulin, and said in a voice of the most exquisite politeness:

"Commandant, I must state once for all that I am not Corporal Vinson!... I am a journalist, whom you perhaps know by name: Jerome Fandor, on the staff of La Capitale.... If you see me in this uniform, this disguise, that relates to a series of events, details of which I will give you with pleasure, as soon as I have reduced my own ideas to order.... As things stand, I am fortunate in meeting my friend Juve, who, if you desire it, will confirm the truth of my statement."

Dumoulin, more and more nonplussed, started in turn at the detective, at the journalist, at his reporter.... With face red as a boiled lobster, he turned to Lieutenant Servin....

When this farcical scene began, Servin had gone into his own office, and had given his secretary an order. The secretary had just returned. The lieutenant, having recorded the answer brought him, had just that moment returned to the commandant's office.

Lieutenant Servin looked upset.

"Commandant!" he gasped out.

He turned to our detective.

"Monsieur Juve!"

He continued staring first at one man, then at the other.

"An incredible thing has happened!... I have just heard of it!... I had given the order to have Corporal Vinson brought here immediately—the real Corporal Vinson—he whom Monsieur Juve arrested under the name of Butler: well, Commandant, it appears that on entering his cell they found him—dead!"

"What is that you say?" asked Dumoulin and Juve together.

"I say that he is dead," repeated the lieutenant.

"But how?" questioned Juve.

The lieutenant made a sign to the sergeant in charge.

"Go for the medical officer."

Some minutes passed in a silence that hummed with questions.

A young assistant surgeon appeared.

"Kindly explain what is wrong, Monsieur!" commanded Dumoulin.

The surgeon spoke.

"My commandant sent for me, about an hour ago. I was to attend to a prisoner who had fainted. This man, when crossing the rue du Cherche-Midi, had suddenly lost consciousness. His warders could not revive him. They carried him to his cell. They laid him on his palliasse. When I arrived the man was dead."

"Dead of what?" demanded Dumoulin.

"A bullet in his heart," replied the surgeon.... "I ascertained this when undressing him. The bullet will be found at the post-mortem: it has probably lodged in the vertebral column."

Dumoulin rose: paced the floor: he was greatly agitated.

"Oh, come, come!" he cried. "People are not killed like that in the open street!... It is unheard of! Unbelievable!... A bullet presupposes a revolver—a weapon of percussion of some description—a detonation!... There is a noise, a sound!"

Dumoulin went up to the young surgeon. There was a note of suspicious contempt in his question:

"Are you quite sure of what you say?"

"I am quite sure, Commandant."

During this discussion Juve had approached Fandor. When the surgeon made his statement, Juve murmured in Fandor's ear:

"Vinson shot through the heart by a bullet!... Like Captain Brocq!... Killed undoubtedly by a noiseless weapon ... when crossing the street!... Here, again, is—Fantomas!"

Things calmed down somewhat. Fandor addressed Dumoulin:

"Excuse me, Commandant, for having troubled you. I should be most grateful if you would set me at liberty. One tragedy follows hard on another! It is phenomenal!... I shall have to."...

Commandant Dumoulin burst out:

"By Heaven!" he shouted, thumping the table with his fist: "You are the limit!... The take-the-cake limit!... You flout me! You practise on my credulity!... Now you would steal a march on me! Try it on—will you?... Ah! You are not Corporal Vinson!... No?... You are a journalist!... You have got to prove that!... Even if you do prove it, you have got yourself into a pretty pickle by your fooling, by making a laughing-stock of the entire army in your own preposterous person—by assuming that uniform!...

"Guards!" shouted Dumoulin. "Take this man back to his cell! Be sharp about it!... Double his guard!"

Fandor was not allowed time to protest: he was marched off at the double.

Juve tried to get in a word of explanation.

"I assure you, Commandant, it is certainly Jerome Fandor you are deal——"

"You!" yelled the commandant. "Get out! Foot it!... Leave me in peace, can't you!... Out with you, or I'll know the reason why!... Begone!"...

Dumoulin was apoplectic with rage.



XXVIII

AT "THE CRYING CALF"

"What's your drink?"

"What's your offer?"

Hogshead Geoffrey, also nicknamed "The Barrel," thumped the table with a formidable fist, at the risk of upsetting a pile of saucers, which, at this advanced hour of the evening, showed clearly how he had spent the hours passed in the wine-shop.

"What do I offer?" he retorted. "I offer what's wanted. I don't haggle. When I ask a fellow: 'Old man, what do you want to wet your gullet?' that means: 'Choose.' There now!"

Hogshead Geoffrey's companion merely said:

"Pass the programme!"

Once in possession of the wine-list—if such could be called the crumpled, dirty paper on which the owner of the house had scribbled in pencil the fresh drinks, composed of indescribable mixtures specially recommended to his clients—the guest of Hogshead Geoffrey became absorbed in the list of strange beverages.

So mean-looking an individual was this guest that he had been nicknamed "The Scrub." He also answered to the more aristocratic title of "Sacristan." Once he had been sacristan at the church of Saint-Sulpice, but intemperate habits had led to his dismissal. What odd link there was between this sorry little fellow and the robust Geoffrey?[7]

[Footnote 7: See Fantomas: vol. i, Fantomas Series]

The Scrub ordered: "A thick 'un—jolly thick!" He eyed his host.

"What's been your lay? I haven't clapped eyes on you for days!"

Hogshead Geoffrey emptied his glass at one go. Leaning his head against the wall, his fists on the table, his legs stretched out, he stared at the ceiling.

The atmosphere of this den in the rue Monge was poisonous with the odours of stale wine and rank tobacco. The musty air was thick, the shop was ill-lighted by one jet of gas in the centre of the room.

"Well, old Scrub," said Geoffrey at last. "You haven't seen me because you haven't!... You remember I passed the Markets' test and was nominated market porter?"

"Jolly well I do!... We had a famous drinking bout that time!"

"That's so, Scrub!... And my sister Bobinette paid the piper!... You remember I was rejected?... Well, I got into the Markets all the same!... Then—one fine day I gave a tallykeeper a regular knock-down-and-outer!"

"You did?"

"Just didn't I?... I gave him such a oner—just like this!"...

Lifting his enormous hairy fist, Hogshead Geoffrey brought it down on the table with disastrous results: the ancient worm-eaten board was split from end to end!

Flattering remarks were showered on this colossus from all sides.

"Ho! ho! Nothing can resist me!" shouted Hogshead Geoffrey.... "Give me anything you choose!... Every table in the room! No matter what! I'll break it in two—man or woman! Wood or stone!... It's all one to me!"

True or not, Hogshead Geoffrey, when not too much in liquor, was a gentle soul, a simple, kind creature; quick-tempered, kind-hearted. Liable to sudden gusts of anger, he was equally capable of knocking the life out of a comrade with his gigantic fist or of comforting some sniveling street urchin crossing his path.

Well did the Scrub know it. He too was a contradictory mixture. This mean little human specimen had been newsboy, seller of post cards, opener of cab doors, Jack of any little trade, the companion of pickpockets and other light-fingered gentry, also adored the good manners of bygone vestry days, the polished phrases, the benedictory gestures!

When in hospital, chance had given him Hogshead Geoffrey for bed-neighbour. It did not take him long to realise that he would be the gainer by a friendship with this kindly giant: it would be a partnership of brain and muscle.... The Scrub commanded: Geoffrey executed.

When the admiration for his prowess had died down, Hogshead Geoffrey continued his story:

"When I had given the chief the knock-out, the next day they gave me the order of the boot, if you would believe me!... I was properly down and out! I hadn't saved a sou—was in debt right and left, to the wine-shops—was all but run in!"...

"What did you do?" enquired the Scrub.

"Bobinette helped me."

"Your sister?"

"Oh, she's a sharp one!... She's studied, too!... She did the bandages at Lariboise!... She had the sous!... I told her my troubles!... She let me have the dibs, so I could hang on!"

"Until you got a billet at The Big Tun?"

"No!... Bobine said: 'Here's gold, little brother! It's all I have ... don't come for more!... You must find a way out of the mess!'"

"And you did?... How?"

Hogshead Geoffrey hesitated: he sipped his absinthe.

"Oh ... well ... I found a way out."...

"How? I ask you."...

"I tell you I managed all right! And then I got my job at The Big Tun."

"Where you are now?"

"Where I am."

"You paid back your sister?"

Hogshead Geoffrey roared with laughter.

"I paid her back so little that I didn't know what had become of her!... She had turned her back on Lariboise without leaving an address.... Thought she must have kicked the bucket!... I would have been sorry for that!... She's a good sort!... But yesterday I had word from her.... Bobinette asked me to meet her."...

"You told her to come here?"

"Sure!"

"And how did she know your address?"

Hogshead Geoffrey scratched his big head.

"Lordy! I don't know!... Probably she saw my name quoted the other day in the Petit Journal, among the conquerors in the Who's Strongest Competition. She wrote putting the number of my old shanty, rue de la Harpe!... No good being astonished at what she does!... I tell you she has education—she has!"...

It was half an hour after midnight. The owner of The Crying Calf shouted in a stentorian voice:

"Now, boys! It's only seven sous drinks now!"

It was the accustomed warning, taken as a matter of course.

Protesting in a squeaky voice that his constitution was weakly, that his doctor had ordered him not to sit up late, the Scrub, who feared a meeting with Bobinette, knowing she had little liking for him, now took himself off.

Geoffrey ordered two drinks. He was bored. Bobinette was behind her promised time. He would have left, but Bobinette would pay for his drinks—a nice little total!

At last she appeared: an out-of-breath Bobinette, and somewhat flustered.

She was quietly dressed—almost shabby. This was no place for one of the elegant toilettes affected by Mademoiselle de Naarboveck's companion!... After her Rouen journey, after her meeting with Lieutenant de Loubersac in the train, she had thought it wiser not to go back to the baron's house. She had written to say she was ill. Then she had taken refuge in a quiet little inn in la Chapelle neighbourhood, there to await events.

Vagualame's arrest had made a terrible impression on her.... Vagualame had not betrayed her; but she sensed snares, pitfalls all about her: she might be trapped any minute: she must disappear! After Vagualame's arrest she had had but one idea: to get rid of the gun piece, hand it to the foreign power, and receive the promised reward.... When, instead of Corporal Vinson, whom she had summoned in accordance with her orders, she had perceived Fandor, she was puzzled, suspicious.

If Bobinette went to the meeting place in her own undisguised person, and met Fandor as Fandor, it was because she had had the same idea as the journalist.

"I will walk through the arcades as Bobinette, and I shall see if Corporal Vinson is there, or if, by chance, he is not alone!"

That same day at Rouen she had had a bad shock. The telegram she had received at the garage was from Vagualame!... How could an arrested Vagualame send her a telegram, and such a telegram?

This telegram, in their usual cypher, informed her that at all costs, and at once, she must separate herself from Corporal Vinson, who was not the real Vinson, but a counter-spy!... Bobinette all but fainted from fright.... She must escape from this counter-spy!... Yet, owing to the false Vinson's insistence, she had been forced to share his room!... He did not mean to let her out of his sight, that was plain!...

No sooner had the false Vinson gone down to the car in the morning than Bobinette had slipped off, hot foot for Rouen. The gun piece was left behind! The chauffeur would bear the brunt of that, thought Bobinette, as she sped on her way. Later, she read of his arrest and release.

Her meeting with Lieutenant de Loubersac and the sight of the false Vinson's arrest at the Saint Lazare station showed the terrified girl that things had gone mysteriously, hopelessly wrong!...

Without resources, Bobinette had pawned her few jewels. Then a letter from Vagualame had reached her. She had obeyed the instructions it contained.... That he had learned her address did not surprise her: she knew he never lost track of those it was to his interest to keep an eye on.

Before Vagualame's note reached her she had been worried and bored.

"I must make sure of shelter and protection if needs be," she reflected: "I will look up Geoffrey. We will meet at The Crying Calf, it is safe there!"

"Sit you down here, little Bobine!" suggested Hogshead Geoffrey.... "And now, what will you take?"

Bobinette ordered a gooseberry syrup.

"Quite the lady's drink," remarked mine host of the wine-shop with a humorous air.

Brother and sister exchanged confidences.... The good Geoffrey told of his fight, of situations obtained and lost, of fisticuff encounters, of quarrels and blows.... Bobinette went so far as to say that she was very happy, very much at her ease.

"Just imagine," said she: "I am companion to an old lady, a Russian, who in her time has had trouble with the police of her country, I think."

"The police? I don't like the police!" interrupted her brother.

"Who does?" ejaculated Bobinette. "Lots of people come to her house. I go to all the dinners, all the parties!"

"Ah, then, you'll foot the bill, Bobine, if you have such a rich situation?"

"I will pay, Geoffrey," said Bobinette: "This old lady, I think."... Bobinette stopped. She went white as a sheet.... An old man had just entered the wine-shop. His steps were uncertain, his back was bent under the weight of an old accordion.

It was Vagualame....



XXIX

I AM TROKOFF

Bobinette's astonishment was so evident that Hogshead Geoffrey, whose powers of observation were small, was struck by his sister's expression.

"You know that old fellow?" he asked. "If he bothers you you've but to pass the word, you know, and I'll soon put him on the other side of the door!"

This amiable offer terrified the girl. She felt sure Vagualame was not at The Crying Calf by chance. He had probably followed her—wished to have a word with her.... She must fall in with his wishes. She must cut short this interview with her brother. After all, it was only to pass the time she had come.

"Keep quiet, Geoffrey," she said: "I do not know the old boy, and you deceive yourself if you think he annoys me!... Besides, my dear Geoffrey, I must be off!"

"Be off!... Whatever's come to you, Bobine?"

"I have business on hand elsewhere.... And now that I know you are quite well, Geoffrey, I shall continue my walk."

"True?" protested the bewildered giant: "You're going to cut your stick already?"

"Call the governor!... There's a twenty-franc piece for you! Pay for your drinks and keep the rest," was Bobinette's effective reply.

Hogshead calmed down at once.

"As long as you pay up, Bobine, I've nothing to say; but, all the same, you have queer ideas.... You bring me here to keep an appointment, and then, we're not five minutes together, when up you get on the trot again!"

Bobinette caught her brother's huge fist in a quick handshake, made for the door of The Crying Calf, turned out of rue Monge at a slow pace, convinced that Vagualame would join her.

The street was deserted. Bobinette kept in the shadow, avoiding the bright patches cast on the silent roadway from the wine-shops and taverns still open and alight.

She had been walking about five minutes when she felt that someone was walking behind her, hastening to overtake her.... A hand was laid on her shoulder: Vagualame was beside her, regulating his steps by hers.

"Is that species of giant your brother?" he asked.

Bobinette nodded.

"You are free, then?" she asked, breathing hard.

"It looks like it!"

"Who released you?"

"Let us hurry!" said Vagualame: "Let us seek shelter."

"Where?"

"You will see—with friends."

What did it matter to Bobinette where they were going while strange doubts and horrid fears filled her mind?

"Who released you?"

They were passing beneath a street lamp. Vagualame noted that Bobinette was regarding him with defiant eyes. Was this really Vagualame? Was he an impostor?

Vagualame read her thoughts.

"Bobinette, you are nothing but a fool!" announced the old accordion player: "The man arrested at your place was a detective, who had got himself up like me to take you in!... You let him trick you! You are an imbecile!"

Bobinette stopped.

"But then ... if a detective made himself up to resemble you, it means they know you are guilty! It means they are after you! Why, it's a mad thing you are doing, coming to meet me in that rig out! Why have you not disguised yourself?"

Vagualame smiled.

"Possibly I have reason for it, a plan you know nothing about, Bobinette!... But, let us return to the false Vagualame. How was it you did not detect the fraud, if only by the voice?... How is it you have not guessed the truth since?... When you received my telegram at Rouen it should have been as clear as daylight to you!... Eh!"

Bobinette kept silence.

"Well, we will not dwell on the past," declared Vagualame, with an air of magnanimity: "Fortunately your extraordinary simplicity has not had any particular consequences—save the stupid way you let them get hold of the gun piece, and allowed the false Corporal Vinson to escape!"... In a menacing tone he said: "We will return to that question later."

"But," faltered Bobinette: "How could I act otherwise?"

Vagualame threw her such a look, a look so charged with fierce contempt that she could no longer doubt that she was face to face with her master. This master would not allow argument, discussion: well she knew that!

She screwed up her courage to ask:

"How did you learn my address?"

"That is my business!" he declared: "What I want to know I get to know—you must have seen that by this time!"

"How is it, then, you called at The Crying Calf to-day?... Geoffrey did not know you: he alone knew I was coming to see him!... You followed me?"

"Suppose I did follow you?"... Vagualame's tone changed: it became imperious.

"Have you quite finished asking me silly questions?... I consider it is my turn to put a question or two to you—What are you doing?"

Bobinette bent her head.

"You have a right to know," she murmured: "When you sent me that letter, after I took refuge in La Chapelle, telling me to go to the house of a Madame Olga Dimitroff and present myself for the post of companion, I went. She engaged me. I am still with her."

"To take refuge in an hotel was an idiotic thing to do, Bobinette.... The police could easily have nabbed you there if they had had a mind to. That is why I sent you to one of my old friends—to a person to whom I could recommend you!... Well, Bobinette, you will have to leave that house!"

The young woman bent her head, mastered, ready to accept any orders of Vagualame's before they were issued. All she asked, in a timid voice, was: "Where am I to go then?"

"Far from here."

"Why?"

Vagualame's smile was evil. His reply was like a series of sword thrusts.

"Because Juve has good eyes; because Fandor also begins to see clear.... The net begins to tighten.... I shall find means to slip through it!... I am not of those who are caught like a mouse in a trap.... But, as for you—you with your simplicity—it is high time to put you out of reach of the police!... I am going to give you some money. Five days hence, disguised as a gipsy, you are to be on the road from Sceaux to Versailles, at eleven o'clock at night, by the first milestone on the left side after the aeroplane garage.... You have followed me?"

Bobinette was trembling.

"Disguised as a gipsy, Vagualame? Why?"

"That is no concern of yours!... You have only to do as I tell you. I give orders, but not explanations!"

Vagualame felt in his pockets. He held out a note-book.

"You will find two fifty-franc notes in this. It is more than you need for a suitable disguise. I will give you more money when you start off, because I am going to send you to a foreign country."

Whilst talking, Vagualame and Bobinette had gone a long way from The Crying Calf. By a labyrinth of little streets, all darkness and mystery, Vagualame had led his companion to a kind of blind alley: a tall house blocked the end of it. A large shop on the ground floor occupied half the front of it. Although the iron shutters had been drawn down, light from the interior penetrated through apertures to the street—thin rays of light.

Vagualame laid a brutal hand on Bobinette.

"Attend to what I say: it is no joking matter. You are coming in with me. I am going to introduce you to my many friends here, whom I have recently got to know: they may say things that will astonish you, but do not show surprise.... I bring you here that you may know where to find me during the five days you remain in Paris.... You have only to write a letter and bring it to the woman who keeps this library. Address to Vagualame: it will reach me."

"Yes," replied Bobinette.

Vagualame knocked three separate times, then twice quickly, on the iron shutters. A key turned in the lock: the door opened. Vagualame thrust Bobinette across the threshold. Out of the obscurity of the streets whipped by an icy wind and torrents of rain, Bobinette found herself in a brilliantly lighted book-shop.

She stood dazzled.

A young woman came forward.

"Good evening, Sophie," said Vagualame: "Anything new?"

"Nothing new, Vagualame!"

Bobinette looked about her. She saw piles of books and collections of magazines and papers. The shop was crowded with them.

"Sophie, I bring a new friend—a sure friend—who may have to bring you a letter for me one of these days," said Vagualame.

The proprietress looked curiously at Bobinette. All she said was:

"Have our brothers been warned, Vagualame?"

"They have not been told yet; but I shall present my friend to them at the first opportunity."

There was loud knocking at the shutters! Voices were heard shouting: