Chapter 8

Monsieur Havard, Juve's chief, had talked this matter over the night before, and his last words of command were:

"Above all, Juve, manage matters so that there is no fuss!... There must not be a fuss!"

Colonel Hofferman, misinterpreting the detective's attitude, turned triumphantly to the Under-Secretary:

"Not only that," he continued, "I think there has been far too much talk made about the death of Captain Brocq. This officer was the victim of an accident. We cannot discuss it. That is all there is to be said. It really does not matter much. We of the Intelligence Department are soldiers, and believe in a policy of results: at the present moment we have lost a document: we are searching for it: action must be left to us.... And, Monsieur, I revert to my first question--what the devil was the police doing at Captain Brocq's--what business was it of theirs? Really, the detective service is arrogating to itself more and more powers--powers that cannot be sanctioned, that will not be granted or permitted."

Juve had so far contained himself, though with difficulty, but now Colonel Hofferman was going too far. It was Juve's turn to break out.

"Monsieur," he cried, in a voice vibrating with passion, turning to the Under-Secretary: "I cannot accept such observations--not for a moment! I have among my papers on the case important proofs that the assassination of Captain Brocq is surrounded with mysterious occurrences, and also of the gravest nature. The theory Colonel Hofferman has just put forward will not hold water--it does not hang together! To gain a full understanding of a thing one must begin at the beginning. This beginning I have brought, and I make you judge, Monsieur, of whether or no it is worth the most careful consideration."

Caught between two fires, the Under-Secretary looked exceedingly sorry for himself. Above everything, he dreaded being forced to act as umpire between Hofferman and Juve. There was no escape, however, so, with a weary air, he asked Juve to make his case clear.

"Well, gentlemen," began our detective, who had fully regained his self-possession, "you know what the circumstances were which led me to the discovery that Captain Brocq had been mysteriously assassinated? It was, obviously, of the first importance that I should learn every detail regarding his private life, get to know with whom he had intercourse, who his correspondents were, find out where he was accustomed to go, so that, being thoroughly posted up regarding his personality, I could discover to whose interest it would be that he should disappear.... I went to Brocq's flat in the rue de Lille to collect evidence from various sources. I have it all written down in my case papers. One fact stands out clearly: Captain Brocq was regularly visited by a woman whom we have not as yet been able to identify beyond a doubt, but we shall soon know who she is. I am certain she is a lady of fashion. She was his mistress: the commencement of a letter written to her by the deceased shows this; but, unfortunately, he has not addressed her by name. The letter was begun, according to the experts, some hours before the drama of assassination was enacted.... It is the mauve document, number 42. It commences:

"'_My darling_'."...

Juve showed this sheet of mauve letter paper to his listeners. Colonel Hofferman seemed to attach no importance whatever to it.

Juve continued:

"I should greatly value Colonel Hofferman's opinion regarding the suppositions I am about to formulate. Well, gentlemen, here is what I deduce from my investigations.... Captain Brocq was a simple, modest fellow; a hard worker; reasonable, temperate, serious-minded officer: a good middle-class citizen, in fact. If Captain Brocq had an irregular love affair, it was assuredly with the best intentions; Brocq, who perhaps had not been able to resist his senses, was too straight a man to willingly entertain the idea of not regularising the union later on. Is that your opinion, Colonel?"

Hofferman frankly replied:

"It is my opinion, Monsieur Juve. That was certainly Captain Brocq's character. But I do not see what you are driving at."

"At this," replied the detective. "Captain Brocq's mistress must be looked for, not among women of the lower orders, but among those of a higher class, who are more outwardly correct, at any rate, more women of the world. Among those with whom Brocq was on friendly terms, was the family of an old diplomat of Austrian extraction, a Monsieur de Naarboveck. This de Naarboveck has a daughter: she is twenty. This Mademoiselle Wilhelmine was terribly distressed, and in a state of profound grief, the day after Brocq's death. I am not going so far as to pretend that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress; but one might easily think so."

"How do you know that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck showed grief at the death of Captain Brocq?"

"Through a journalist who was received in the de Naarboveck family circle the day after the drama."

"Oh, a journalist!" protested the colonel.

Juve smiled slily.

"A journalist not like the others--it was Jérôme Fandor, Colonel!... He went to de Naarboveck's to fulfill a mission entrusted to him by those in high places. The Minister of War."...

The Under-Secretary cut the inspector short.

"We know all about that, Monsieur Juve ... besides the person whom the Minister wished to learn something about was not Monsieur de Naarboveck's daughter, but her companion--a young woman named Berthe."...

"And nicknamed Bobinette!" finished Juve.

"What do you think of her?" asked the Under-Secretary.

Juve's reply was an indirect one.

"The more I think about it, the more I am tempted to believe that Wilhelmine de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress--oh, in the right way, in all honour!--and that in the background, surreptitiously, a third person pushed herself into their confidence was the recipient of their secret, and on this account she could take a good many liberties with them. Berthe, or Bobinette, was this third person, of course!... She is known to have visited Brocq repeatedly.... Now, what was she doing there--what was her object? Well, we have to get a clear idea of what happened and draw our conclusions. Remember, Brocq left his flat in great haste on the afternoon of his assassination; he took a taxi at the des Saints-Pères, and drove off in pursuit of someone.... Why, we do not know, yet; but this someone was a woman, and I am convinced the woman was Bobinette."

"What is Bobinette's social position?"

"Gentlemen, I wish I could define it in a single word, but it is here that I enter the region of enigmas. Here is mystery on mystery. Without breaking the seal of professional secrecy, I may tell you that this woman should be known to me; I say 'should' because I still lack precise information about her; I await this information with impatience--I fear it also, for, gentlemen."...

Juve stopped short, got up, and began pacing the immense room. Drawing up before the Under-Secretary and Colonel Hofferman, he gazed at them. His manner was impressive.

"Gentlemen," said he, in a quiet penetrating voice, and with an air of intense conviction: "Gentlemen, if my conjectures are correct, Bobinette is naught but a girl of low birth--of the lowest--a creature who will stick at nothing, who has been mixed up with a band of criminals, the most cunning, the most artful, the most unscrupulous, the most dangerous band of criminals in all this round world--a band I have, time and again, pursued, decimated, broken up, dispersed ... only to see them spring to an associated evil life again, a ceaseless rebirth of maleficent forces, forming and reforming, a malevolent, hydra-headed monster, a band, gentlemen, of incarnated evil--the band of Fantômas!"

Juve became silent. He wiped his forehead.

The harsh voice of Colonel Hofferman broke the silence:

"Hypotheses! True to this extent, Monsieur Juve, that Brocq may very well have had a mistress--we are all agreed about that--but, in reality, it is simply romance!"

There was a discreet knock at the door.

"What is it?" demanded the Under-Secretary. The form of an usher showed itself in the half-opened doorway.

He entered, and, turning towards the Under-Secretary, said: "Excuse me, sir." Then, addressing Colonel Hofferman: "Captain Loreuil sends me to tell Colonel Hofferman that he has returned, and has a communication of extreme urgency to lay before him."

"The captain must wait!" cried Hofferman, in a harsh, authoritative tone.

But the usher, fulfilling his orders, replied:

"The captain anticipated this answer, Colonel, and told me to add that the communication cannot wait."

The usher withdrew. Hofferman glanced questioningly at the Under-Secretary.

"Go to him, Colonel, and return as soon as possible."

The Under-Secretary addressed Juve:

"The Government is greatly annoyed by all these incidents, which are assuming enormous proportions.... Are you aware that rumours of war are becoming wide-spread?... Public opinion is in a most unsettled state.... Things are bad on the Bourse, too--going from bad to worse!... Really, it is all most distressing!"

With a movement of sympathetic acquiescence, Juve said gently:

"I cannot help it, Monsieur!"

It was noon. Twelve was striking.

X

AUNT PALMYRA.

Early in the morning of the day on which the meeting took place in the private office of the Under-Secretary of State, the proprietor of _The Three Moons_ at Châlons was busy bottling his wine. Dawn was just breaking, and the good man had a spirit lamp in his cellar to throw light upon his task.

Suddenly his bottling operations were disturbed by an unknown voice calling him insistently from the top of the steps.

"Hey, there! Father Louis! Where is Father Louis?"

Fuming and grumbling, the innkeeper mounted his cellar-steps, and appeared on the porch.

"I am Father Louis! What am I wanted for?"

The publican found himself face to face with an enormously stout woman: a grotesque figure clad in light-coloured garments, so cut that they exaggerated her stoutness; a large, many-coloured shawl was thrown round her shoulders; on her head was a big round hat, tied with strings in a bow under her chin. This odd head-gear was topped with a bunch of gaudy feathers, ragged and out of curl. A veil of flowery design half hid this woman's features: though far from her first youth, she no doubt wished to appear young still. The skin of her face was covered with powder and paint, so badly laid on, that daubs of white, of red, and blue, lay side by side in all their crudity: there was no soft blending of tints: it was the make-up of no artist's hand.

"What an object!" thought the publican, staring at this oddity, who had seated herself on the porch seat and had placed on the ground a great wicker basket filled with vegetables.

"Ouf!" she cried. "It is a long step to your canteen, Father Louis! My word, I never thought I should get here! Well now, how is my little pet of a girl?"

Nonplussed, suspicious, Father Louis looked hard at this strange visitor: never had he seen anyone like her! What astonished him was to hear her calling him by the name used only by his familiars.

"Whoever are you?" he asked in a surly tone. "I don't remember you!"

"That's not surprising," cried the visitor, who seemed of a gay disposition, for she always laughed at the close of every sentence. "My goodness! It would be queer if you did not recognise me, considering you have never seen me before!... I am Aunt Palmyra, let me tell you!"

The innkeeper, more and more out of countenance, searched his memory in vain.

"Aunt Palmyra?" he echoed.

"Why, of course, you big stupid! Nichoune's aunt--a customer of yours, she is! She must have mentioned me often--I adore the little pet!"

Father Louis had not the slightest recollection of any such mention, but, out of politeness, he murmured:

"Of course! Why, of course!"

"Well, then, old dear, you must tell me where she hangs out here! I must go and give her a hug and a kiss!"

Mechanically, the innkeeper directed Aunt Palmyra.

"On the ground floor--end of the passage!... But you're never thinking of waking Nichoune at this early hour! She'll make a pretty noise if you do!"

"Bah!" cried Aunt Palmyra: "Wait till the little dear sees who it is!... Just look at the nice things I've brought her!" and, showing him the vegetables in her basket, she began to drawl in a sing-song voice:

"Will you have turnips and leeks? Here's stuff to make broth of the best! It will make her think of bygone days when she lived with us in the country!"

"My faith!" thought Father Louis, "if Nichoune opens her mouth!"

Aunt Palmyra was knocking repeatedly at Nichoune's door, but there was no response.

"Well, what a sleep she's having!"

"Likely enough," replied Father Louis, "considering she was not in bed till four o'clock!"

All the same, this persistent silence puzzled the innkeeper. He tried to peep through the keyhole, but the key was in it. Then he quietly drew a gimlet from his pocket and bored a hole in the door. Aunt Palmyra watched him smiling: she winked and jogged his elbow.

"Ho, ho, my boy! I'll wager you don't stick at having a look at your customers this way, when it suits you!"

With the ease of practice the innkeeper glued his eye to the hole he had just made. He uttered an exclamation:

"Good heavens!"

"What is it?" cried Nichoune's aunt in a tone of alarm. "Is her room empty?"

"Empty? No! But."...

Father Louis was white as paper. He searched his pocket in feverish haste, drew from it a screwdriver, rapidly detached the lock, and rushed into the room, followed by Aunt Palmyra, who bawled:

"Oh, my good lord! Whatever is the matter with her?"

Nichoune was stretched out on her bed, and might have seemed asleep to an onlooker were it not for two things which at once struck the eye: her face was all purple, and her arms, sticking straight up in the air, were terrifyingly white and rigid. Approaching the bed, the innkeeper and Aunt Palmyra saw that Nichoune's arms were maintained in this vertical position by means of string tied round her wrists and fastened to the canopy over the bed.

"She is dead!" cried Father Louis. "This is awful! Good heavens! What a thing to happen!"

Aunt Palmyra, for all her previous protestations of affection for her charming niece, did not seem in any way moved by the tragic discovery. She glanced rapidly round the room without a sign of emotion. This attitude only lasted a moment. Suddenly she broke out into loud lamentations uttering piercing cries: she threw herself into an arm-chair, then sank in a heap on the sofa, then returned to the table! She was making a regular nuisance of herself. The innkeeper, scared and bewildered, did not know how to act: he was staring fixedly at the unfortunate Nichoune, who gave no sign of life. Involuntarily the man had touched the dead girl's shoulder: the body was quite cold.

The innkeeper, who had been driven into a state of distracted bewilderment by Aunt Palmyra's behaviour, now bethought him of his obvious duty: of course he must call in the police, and also avoid scandal. Also he must stop this old woman's outrageous goings-on.

"Be quiet!" he commanded. "You are not to make such a noise! Stay where you are! Don't stir from that corner until I return ... and, above all, you must not touch a single thing before the arrival of the police."

"The police!" moaned Aunt Palmyra. "It is frightful! Oh, my poor Nichoune, however could this have happened?"

Nevertheless, scarcely had the innkeeper retired than the old woman, with remarkable dexterity, rummaged about among the disordered furniture, and seized a certain number of papers, which she hid in her bodice.

Hardly had she pushed them out of sight when the innkeeper returned, accompanied by a policeman. It was in vain that Father Louis endeavoured to get the policeman into the tragic room. He did not wish to do anything.

"I tell you," he repeated in his big voice, "it's not worth my while looking at this corpse ... for the superintendent will be here shortly, and he will take charge of the legal procedure."

At the end of about ten minutes the magistrate appeared, accompanied by his secretary, and immediately proceeded to a summary interrogation of the innkeeper; but, in the presence of Aunt Palmyra, it was impossible to do any serious work. This insupportable old woman could not make head or tail of the questions, and answered at random.

"Leave the room, Madame, leave the room, and I will hear what you have to say presently."

"But where must I go?" whined Aunt Palmyra.

"Go where you like! Go to the devil!" shouted the exasperated inspector.

"Oh, well, I suppose I ought not to say so," replied the old woman, looking seriously offended, "but, though you are an inspector, you have a very rude tongue in your head!"

To emphasise her majestic exit, Aunt Palmyra added:

"Fancy now! Not one of you have thought of it! I am going as far as the corner to look for flowers for this poor little thing."

* * * * *

Either florists were difficult to find, or Aunt Palmyra had no wish to see them as she passed by, for the old woman walked right through the town without stopping. When she reached the railway station she looked at the clock.

"By the saints! I have barely time," she ejaculated.

The old termagant traversed the waiting-room, got her ticket punched--it was a return ticket--and stepped on to the platform at the precise moment a porter was crying in an ear-piercing voice:

"Passengers for Paris take your seats!"

Aunt Palmyra installed herself in a second-class compartment: "_For ladies only._"

* * * * *

The train rolled out of the station.

An inspector was examining the tickets at the stopping-place at Château-Thierry.

"Excuse me, sir," said he, waking a passenger who had fallen fast asleep--a stout man, with a smooth face and scanty hair--"Excuse me, Monsieur, but you are in a '_For ladies only_!'"

The man leapt up and rubbed his eyes; instinctively, with the gesture of a short-sighted man, he took from his waistcoat pocket a large pair of spectacles in gold frames, and stared at the inspector.

"I am sorry! It's a mistake! I will change into another compartment!"

The stranger passed along the connecting corridor, carrying a small bundle of clothes wrapped in a shawl of many colours!... An hour later, the train from Châlons arrived at Paris, ten minutes behind time. Directly he stood on the platform the traveller looked at his watch.

"Twenty-five past eleven! I can do it!"

He jumped into a taxi, giving his orders:

"Rue Saint Dominique--Ministry of War!... and quick!"

* * * * *

Shortly after the unexpected departure of Colonel Hofferman, Juve, judging it useless to prolong the conversation, had quitted the Under-Secretary of State's office. Instead of mounting to the Second Bureau, he sent in his name to Commandant Dumoulin. Although their acquaintance was but slight, the two men were in sympathy: each realised that the other was courageous and devoted to duty; both were enamoured of an active life and open air.

Juve was hoping that at all events he would hear something new, if not facts about the affair he had in hand, at least with regard to the attitude which the military authorities meant to take up. Commandant Dumoulin, however, knew nothing or did not wish to say anything, and Juve was about to leave, when Colonel Hofferman entered.

Hofferman looked radiant. Catching sight of Juve, he smiled.

"Ah! Upon my word! I did not expect to find you here, Monsieur ... but, since you are, you will be glad to get some news of the Brocq affair."...

Juve's eyes were shining notes of interrogation.

"I rendered due homage to your perspicacity just now," continued the colonel: "you were absolutely right in your prognostication that Brocq had a mistress; unfortunately--I am sorry for the wound to your self-esteem--the correctness of your version stops there! Brocq's mistress was not a society woman, as you thought: on the contrary, she was a girl of the lower orders ... a music-hall singer, called Nichoune ... of Châlons!"

"You have proof of it?"

The colonel, with a superior air, held out a packet of letters to Juve.

"Here is the correspondence--letters written by Brocq to the girl! One of my collaborators seized them at girl's place."...

Juve scrutinised the letters.

"It's curious," he said, half to himself.... "An annoying coincidence ... but the name of Nichoune does not appear once in these letters!"

"No other name appears," observed the colonel: "Consequently, taking into consideration the place where these letters have been found ... we must conclude."...

"These letters had no envelopes with them?" questioned Juve.

"No, there were none, but what matters that?" cried the colonel.

"Very queer," said Juve, in a meditative tone. Then raising his voice:

"I suppose, Colonel, that your ... collaborator, before taking possession of these letters, had a talk with the person who had received them. Did he manage to extract any information?"

Hofferman interrupted Juve with a gesture.

"Monsieur Juve," said he, crossing his arms, "I am going to give you another surprise: my collaborator could not get the person in question to talk, and for a very good reason: he found her dead!"

"Dead?" echoed Juve.

"That is as I say."

The detective, though he strove to hide it, was more and more taken aback. What could this mean? No doubt he would soon secure additional information; but what was the connecting link? where, and who was the mysterious person who was really pulling the strings? The sarcastic voice of the colonel tore Juve from his reflections and questionings.

"Monsieur Juve, I think it is high time we had some lunch ... but before we separate allow me to give you a word of advice.

"When, in the course of your career, you have occasion to deal with matters relating to spies and spying, leave us to deal with them, that is what we are here for!... As for you, content yourself with ordinary police work, that is your business, and, if it gives you pleasure, continue your hunt for Fantômas, that will give you all the occupation you require!... Yes," continued the colonel, while Juve was clenching his fists with exasperation at this irony which was like so many flicks of a whip on his face, "Yes, leave these serious affairs to us--and occupy yourself with Fantômas!"

XI

THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTÔMAS

Leaning on his window-sill, Jérôme Fandor was apparently keeping a strict watch on the comings and goings of the passers-by, who, having finished their Sunday walk, were bending their steps towards dinner, a quiet evening, and a reposeful night. Seven o'clock sounded from a neighbouring clock, its strokes borne through the misty atmosphere, darkened by fog: it was a peaceful moment, made for pleasurable relaxation ofter the activities of the day. Jérôme Fandor, however, was not enjoying the charm of the hour. Although his attitude was apparently tranquil, listless even, inwardly he was in a state of fury, a condition of feverish enervation.

"To be so near success," he thought; "to be on the point of bringing in a magnificent haul, and then to get myself locked up, like a fool! No! Not if I can help it! Why it would be enough to make me strangle myself with my handkerchief as they believed that wretched Dollon, of sinister memory, did in the past!"

He smoked cigarette after cigarette, raving to himself, yet never taking his eyes off the pavements, where tirelessly, ceaselessly, a stream of pedestrians passed up and down the street.