The long arm of Fantômas

It was broad daylight by this time and the morning, still a trifle chilly, gave promise of a very fine day. The tragic scenes just enacted had had, thanks to the radiant beams of the rising sun, an almost cheerful setting. As the forage-wagon, now transformed into a “Black Maria,” was driving off, loaded up with the sinister crew so opportunely captured by Juve, the latter rubbed his hands, a customary mark of inward satisfaction with that officer.

“Good work Fandor!” he said—“and none too soon, neither! I was beginning to despair.”

Fandor wagged his head sententiously.

“We should never despair, Juve; but all the same, like you, I confess this morning has held some surprise for us. I was just eating my heart out down in that cellar; I thought one time neither you nor I would ever see the light of day again!...”

But Juve was lost in a brown study. With head cast down and hands clasped behind his back, he paced a few steps in the direction taken by the army vehicle carrying the gang of apaches.

“We are going to the police-station?” Fandor asked.

“To the station? no! We have something better to do.”

Fandor stood with folded arms, fixing a look of interrogation on his companion’s face.

“You are leaving all those fellows in the lurch?” he inquired.

“I am not leaving them in the lurch, Fandor! We shall catch up with them again before long; now at once, if need be. Only we have more pressing business. Never forget, my boy, that all those fellows are really and truly only supers. What we want now is to come upon the leading actor.”

Juve laughed too, a hearty laugh of triumph. After the terrible hours the gallant inspector had spent in his prison, after the depressing times he had known when everybody accused him of being Fantômas, he was at last nearing the final victory, the rehabilitation of his character, the arrest of the real culprits! It was in fact barely a few hours since M. Fuselier and his colleagues had recognized the fact that he was really Juve, and yet with marvellous skill and coolness, owing more to his own amazing boldness than to circumstances, he had succeeded in wresting the mask from a gang of the most dangerous criminals, accomplices of the ever-elusive arch-criminal himself; nay more, he had pushed his investigations so far that the actual identity of Fantômas hardly admitted of further doubt for him, that he could feel confident the arrest of the Lord of Terror was now only a question of hours.

Taking Fandor by the shoulder, Juve spoke softly:

“Egad! yes, I know who Fantômas is! I even know twice over who he is!”

“Twice over? Juve, what do you mean?”

“You don’t understand me, Fandor? Come now, you accuse Moche, don’t you? You do this, by reason of the part he played with these apaches? and you are in the right. But there’s more to follow. For Fantômas to be Moche was not enough; that travesty held good only for his confederates. Fantômas, to dupe all Paris as he did, believe me, was someone else into the bargain, someone I suspect, astounding as the thing may sound. And it is of this suspicion, Fandor, we must now establish strict, undoubted, undisputable proof.”

Dumb with amazement at the cool confidence of the man, Fandor demanded in a stammering voice:

“Whom do you suspect then, Juve? have you a scheme of investigation?”

Juve nodded his head gravely.

“I have more,” he declared: “I have a fear.”

“What do you fear?”

“Have you forgotten the corpse you showed me just now?”

“What!” he gasped, “if I am to believe you, you already think you know ...”

“The name of the dead man? Yes, by my faith! I do. Come with me.”

The two men re-entered the ill-omened ruin where they had spent such tragic, such hopeless hours of agony. It was not without a shudder Juve gazed round the damp, confined cellar where, but for Fandor’s quite unlooked for intervention, he would inevitably have met an appalling death.

“Fandor!” began his friend, “it is a hideous job we have to do. It is the grave there must give us up its secret. The unhappy man who lies in it, Fantômas’ unsuspected victim, must rise up to accuse his murderer!”

The journalist was livid. A gruesome task indeed, this work of justice Juve proposed to undertake! For one who had so lately borne such torments of fear and suspense, it called for nerves of steel, an extraordinary strength of will, to confront afresh the dismal horrors of the exhumation he was bent on. The intrepid officer stepped up to the grim hiding-place, which a few hours before the hideous hag, Mère Toulouche, had not feared to ransack in search of gold—gold Fantômas had buried there, and of which she claimed her share, boasting she had a better right to it than anyone.

Then, in the gloom of the cellar, Juve and Fandor bent over the gaping hole. A blast of pestilential gases struck them full in the face, the ignoble horror of what they saw forced them to recoil. Instinctively the two took hands, panic-stricken, yet resolved to prove their courage, to manifest at all costs that they had the right, the duty to break once again the repose of the dead man, who lay there in his unhallowed grave. The spectacle was appalling. The fleshless face, in which the eye orbits were two hideous holes, and the hanging jaw mimicked a dreadful grin, seemed to stare up at them with sightless orbs.

“The dead man is unrecognizable,” pronounced Fandor, “it is impossible to know who and what he was. Bertillon perhaps, by his scientific methods, might discover ...”

But Juve interrupted the journalist with a rapid gesture, his agitation waxing greater every moment. While the other was speaking, he had leant still closer over the grave and was examining the body with yet keener attention.

“Bertillon, say you? Fandor, we have no need of him and his system. I can guess the dead man’s name! This is what I hoped—the dead man speaks, Fandor, the dead man denounces the impostor. The corpse we have before our eyes—why hesitate to say it, our conclusion will be confirmed by the Toulouche woman when we question her—is Tom Bob’s, the unfortunate American detective Fantômas had them murder directly he knew of his arrival in France—yes, Tom Bob’s, the real Tom Bob; for the Tom Bob everybody has known for months, the Tom Bob who was afraid to meet me, the Tom Bob who was seen at the Grand Duchess Alexandra’s, the Tom Bob who only yesterday made pretence of struggling with the men who kidnapped me, you surely know his true name by now?”

Fandor, stunned by his friend’s assertions, durst hardly articulate the name of terror, “Fantômas!” Indeed the journalist had good right to be terrified—and overjoyed too! If Juve was correct, if he was not deceiving himself, the triumph they were winning over Fantômas was even more complete, more brilliant than they had ever hoped for.

But the journalist was not convinced. Too many improbabilities seemed to him to forbid Tom Bob’s being Fantômas, too many impossibilities rose in his memory to suffer him, unprotesting, to listen to Juve’s assertions.

“I tell you, Juve,” he brought out at last, “I cannot believe you; Tom Bob cannot be Fantômas, the thing is impossible!”

But Juve remained unmoved by the other’s scepticism. “And why not, pray?” he asked.

“Remember the messages despatched from the Lorraine....”

“But then, remember the attempted assassination at the Hôtel Terminus; Tom Bob, the man you accuse, might well, like me, have lost his life there ... so ...”

Juve smiled. “Silly boy!” he laughed, “why, don’t you understand that this attempt, so miraculously frustrated, had all been planned by Tom Bob himself? My precious innocent, why, that was just the very best way of avoiding any chance of his being suspected. Look you, I wager, if we inquire, we shall find the occupant who preceded Tom was Moche—that is to say himself!”

But again Fandor objected: “I grant your explanation on this point; but here’s another thing—if Tom Bob is Fantômas, why did he have the body of the bank messenger he had murdered brought to light?”

“Why, for the same reason, to impress people with his cleverness, my dear sir.... But what are you laughing for?”

“Because,” returned the journalist, “I’ve kept my best argument for the last. Remember Fantômas telephoned, before witnesses, to Tom Bob....”

But Juve knew better than to attach much weight to this last objection of Fandor’s. The latter was very evidently convinced, if he could find no stronger argument than this to bring against his friend’s theory.

“And do you remember this, my friend—how, a few days ago, they found in a garret at the Hôtel Terminus a phonograph, the roll missing, hitched on to the telephone wires. After that, what else can you think of to say? or do you admit that Tom Bob is Fantômas?”

Fandor nodded, vastly impressed.

“I admit this, Juve, that you are now and always the king of detectives; and yet, there is a doubt still lingers in my mind”—and pointing to the corpse; “Look here,” he persisted, “you say this is truly and indeed Tom Bob’s body—how do you know that?”

“Mark that,” said Juve. “In old days, once when I was working with Tom Bob, without knowing him at all well indeed, in the course of an investigation we were pursuing amongst certain anarchist associations, this unlucky Tom Bob came very near being killed by a bomb. Fortunately the explosion was not so violent as the assassins had expected. Still Tom Bob was severely hurt; his right hand was hit, and this finger damaged. The injury is therefore an unmistakable pointer, a bit of evidence that cannot be challenged. Egad! sir, it will be easy enough for us to cable to the American Criminal Department and get the precise details from the descriptive ticket certifying Tom Bob’s identity. It is only a question of hours; by this evening the dead man will have definitely avowed his name; by this evening, I tell you, we can be sure of having discovered the unfortunate Tom Bob, the real Tom Bob.”

Fandor was already on his feet. Less inured than Juve to the sight of death, he felt an instinctive longing to get back to the light of day, to be gone from this noisome cellar that had been turned into a sepulchre.

“And now, Juve,” he asked, “now, by your showing, what is best to do?”

Juve had likewise risen. Casting a last look at the corpse:

“Sleep in peace,” he murmured, “sleep in peace, you shall be avenged!”

Then, turning to Fandor: “Now?” cried Juve in his clear, ringing voice, “now? Now, it is only left us for one time more to risk our lives! We must make all speed—you can guess to whose house, I imagine? and with what object?... My lad, the hour is come at last when Fantômas is to settle up accounts with us!”

Fandor involuntarily turned pale. Oh! that decisive moment Juve announced, with what anxiety he had been waiting for it all these long months! that moment they were now to know! What a joyful triumph they would both enjoy to grip Fantômas by the collar, the ever elusive Fantômas! The journalist could hardly credit the reality; he asked:

Juve shrugged his shoulders, smiling, almost unmoved.

“Yes,” he replied, “we are going to arrest Fantômas! But can you guess, Fandor, where we are going to arrest him?”

“Not I!”

“For sure, you are losing your wits! Come, think! Tom Bob, at this present moment, must know we are hot on the scent and be thinking of disappearing. Now, is he the man simply to disappear without reaping the profits of his crimes?”

“Why, no!”

“Then, my dear man, all we have to do is to go to the grand duchess’s, to Lady Beltham’s, to seek the organizer of the famous subscription. It is heavy odds, don’t you see? that Tom Bob, before disappearing, will want to get hold of the moneys collected for his benefit. The strong-box where they are locked up, that is the decoy, the bait, that is bound to attract him powerfully; it is beside it we must take him in our toils.”

“Or shoot him down like a noxious wild beast,” concluded Fandor, brandishing his Browning.

M. Landais, Minister of Justice, was that morning at nine o’clock clad in a very summary costume. Wearing a long dressing-gown, gaping open over his chest, his naked feet thrust into a pair of slippers, unshaven, and only half awake, he was seated on his desk in his official rooms in the Rue Franklin; he held his telephone receiver in one hand, he was driving his secretaries frantic with a hundred contradictory orders, while at the same time worrying the unfortunate girl on duty at the Exchange out of her life.

“Hello!” called the Minister, “I’m asking you to put me through to the Prefecture. The Prefecture of Police? Yes! that’s plain enough, surely; can’t you understand?”

Then he dropped the receiver, and swearing out loud a terrific oath, he yelled, as if to somebody behind the scenes:

“But, hell and damnation! the thing’s outrageous! Havard has not been told about it! Else he’d be here!”

“Well, he had only to get up, eh? I’ve got up, haven’t I?...”

But the Minister stopped abruptly; he had just got connection with the Prefecture of Police:

“Hello!” he called, “well, what news?... What?... What’s that you tell me? Juve is dead? Good Lord! you are simply mad!... You don’t know? They never do know anything at the Prefecture! We must make a change there!”

Trembling with agitation, he hung up the receiver again and, all alone in the room, began a perplexed soliloquy:

“Juve is dead! Juve is dead! That isn’t true, for I was awakened by a message informing me that he was tied up at the Palais de Justice, along with M. Fuselier! But in that case ...”

Suddenly he stopped to listen; there was a knock at the door of his room.

“What now?” he yelled, “what is it?... Come in, come in!”

The same valet who had just before answered M. Landais’ summons, again put in his head.

“It is a cyclist constable who would like ...”

“Tell him to come in, for God’s sake!”

The manservant vanished, far from anxious to enjoy a prolonged tête-à-tête with his master, who was in the vilest of tempers. A second or two more and a police-officer entered the Minister’s working room. He had no time to stare in astonishment at the great man’s unconventional attire; the Minister was down on him instantly:

“Why, what is it now? Where d’you come from?”

The officer saluted respectfully.

“Sir,” he was beginning, “I’ve come from the Commissary’s office at Alfort....”

“From Alfort? Alfort, what the devil’s up at Alfort? What do you want?”

“Sir,” the man persisted, “they have just captured a dozen brigands ... a dozen accomplices of Fantômas.”

“Who has captured them?”

“Inspector Juve, sir.”

Losing all sense of the respect due to a superior, the officer, overwhelmed by the news, asked excitedly:

“Juve dead? is Juve dead?”

But, paying no heed to the worthy policeman’s emotion, the Minister proceeded:

“Or he is tied up in the Palais de Justice, since yesterday evening....”

“Tied up in the Palais de Justice?... since yesterday evening?” stammered the officer, opening eyes of sheer amazement.

M. Landais completed the man’s mystification.

“Certainly!” he affirmed. “He is tied up, because he is set at liberty! You can make nothing of it, my man? No more can I!... And that’s about enough! Clear out!”

The officer swung round on his heels as if to leave the room; then, dead set on delivering his message, he repeated:

“Well, sir! Juve may be dead, or he may be tied up, or he may be at large; anyway this much is certain, he has just arrested twelve apaches!”

And so saying, while M. Landais sprang to his instrument and began to ring up the Exchange again with frantic energy, the officer took himself off. Hardly was the door closed behind him before the manservant half opened it again cautiously:

“Monsieur le Ministre!”

“Go away! I’m telephoning.... Hello! Hello! put me through to the Palais de Justice.”

“Monsieur le Ministre!” repeated the servant.

“What is it, in God’s name!”

“It’s a lady crying in the anteroom; she says she must speak to you?”

M. Landais looked up: “A lady? what’s her name?”

“I did not quite catch her name, sir, but it’s a princess, sir, it seems—the Princess Sonia ...”

“Sonia Danidoff?... What does she want now? Show her in.”

“Monsieur le Ministre!” cried Sonia, in a voice choked by emotion, “they wouldn’t hear me at the Prefecture! Nobody would listen to a word! Make them do me justice. Look, I have just been the victim of a dreadful assault! The Grand Duchess Alexandra has disfigured me!”

Sonia Danidoff was exaggerating. With a tragic gesture she took the handkerchief from her forehead. On the pearly surface of the temple a cut was bleeding.

“Madam,” said the Minister, who knew Sonia Danidoff very well, “it is the Commissariat you must apply at!”

“No, Monsieur le Ministre! They would not understand at the police office the importance of my wound. If I have come to you, it is to denounce an abominable piece of swindling! The Grand Duchess Alexandra, the organizer of the subscription for Fantômas’ benefit, is Tom Bob’s mistress! And it was on account of jealousy, because Tom Bob is my lover, that she flew at me.”

For once the Minister quite forgot the courtesy due to a lady.

“The Grand Duchess Alexandra is Tom Bob’s mistress?” he cried. “Why, what fresh complication have we here? And what do you want me to do?”

The door opened yet again, and M. Landais’ private secretary came in, a very fashionable young man, very elegantly dressed and immaculately turned out.

“Sir,” he informed the Minister quietly, “here is a fresh communication come from the Palais.”

“What do they say?”

“It was not Juve, it was Tom Bob, who was tied up last night with M. Fuselier.”

But Sonia Danidoff, hearing this, broke in, protesting:

“Tom Bob tied up? What next! I have this moment run away from him; he was at the Grand Duchess Alexandra’s! he is there now!”

“Tom Bob is at the Grand Duchess Alexandra’s?”

M. Landais sprang to his feet once more; he clapped both hands to his head and vociferated in tones of desperation:

Once more the door opened. Calm, cool, collected, M. Havard entered the room.

“You sent for me, sir?” he asked. “Whatever is going on? I can’t see one of your secretaries, the doors stand open for anyone to walk into your working room. Your trusty servant even refuses to show me in, simply telling me to march straight into your private room! Is it a revolution?”

M. Landais cut short M. Havard’s exclamations:

“A revolution? I can’t say! It’s just a story for a madhouse—the Grand Duchess Alexandra is a swindler! Juve is dead! Juve has arrested a dozen apaches! Tom Bob is tied up at the Palais! Tom Bob is running away! he’s free and at large: he’s at the grand duchess’s! I tell you I’ve lost count of everything. I don’t understand one word of it all!”

But seeing M. Havard’s amazed look as he listened to the Minister’s wild words, the latter realized he would do well to cultivate a little more calm of manner.

“Listen, Havard,” he said, “I have really lost touch with things. Since waking this morning I have received twenty contradictory reports. It will be another dreadful panic in town unless we can clear all this up”—and the Minister told M. Havard the story of his morning as intelligibly as he found possible. All the time he was speaking, the Head of the Criminal Bureau listened quietly, nodding his head at intervals in silent assent. Where the Minister was all at sea, he, M. Havard, accustomed to matters of police, could make a shrewd guess at the truth, and it was in an unruffled voice that the police official finally proposed:

“If you think well, sir, I am going straight away to Lady Beltham’s?”

“To Lady Beltham’s?”

“Well, the Grand Duchess Alexandra’s, if you like it better.”

“But what for?”

For the Minister M. Havard’s words were incomprehensible. Still he was too well assured of the ability invariably displayed by the Head of the Criminal Department not to agree to his plan.

“Go by all means, Monsieur Havard; but tell me, is it an arrest you are going to attempt?”

“No, Monsieur le Ministre, it is an invitation I am going to proffer, but I shall be accompanied by a dozen constables when I make it.”