CHAPTER II
A NIGHT AFFRAY
The Boulevard de Belleville at nine o’clock at night presents a grim and forbidding aspect. Long rows of flickering gaslamps cast wan reflections over the far-stretching pavements, on which sinister figures—drunken men, dejected-looking street-walkers and apaches—show momentarily in the ruddy glow from the lighted window of dram-shops of the sort Belleville used to build or American bars of a later fashion.
Along the sidewalk, with slow steps and head bent in deep thought, moved a young man of twenty-five or so, with a fine, intelligent face, but so preoccupied an air he scarce seemed to know where his feet were carrying him. The man was talking to himself; anyone overhearing his monologue, or reading, if that could be, the thoughts that surged within, would have been amazed, perhaps terrified.
“An odd thing, life! an odd thing and a repulsive!” he was muttering. “Six months ago, seven months at most—God knows how I have lived meantime—I was a King, I was greeted with a string of pompous titles; gold jingled in my pockets ... Six months ago I was on the path to glory, the highest glory I could conceive of; was on the road, with my old friend Juve, after saving the Sovereign of Hesse-Weimar, to share the honour of Fantômas’ arrest! in a word, I was in the full tide of success. Then the luck changed, that devil Fantômas eluded us—more than that, he contrived that Juve was nabbed in place of himself. Juve in prison, I am myself liable to arrest as an accomplice, forced to fly, to take to hiding. The good days are over and done for me. I, ex-King of Hesse-Weimar as I am, find myself, this eighteenth day of May, starving, without a penny-piece in my pocket, and in imminent danger of being gaoled ... oh, instability of human fortune!”
The young man was Jérôme Fandor. The excellent journalist’s history to date was summed up in the few words his despair had just wrung from his lips. By Juve’s arrest under the guise of Fantômas, and that thanks to the deep duplicity of the Grand Duchess Alexandra, Jérôme Fandor had been plunged into the most alarming embarrassments.
That Juve was really Fantômas, Fandor had not, of course, for one moment admitted. To him the thing was a sheer impossibility, a supposition not only inconceivable, but positively insane. But alas! the conviction he held as to his friend’s innocence, and even the hope he entertained that Juve would soon succeed in exposing the monstrous error whereof he was the victim, did little or nothing towards bettering Fandor’s personal predicament.
On leaving the Gare du Nord, as they were carrying off Juve to prison, the young man had clearly realized that he must disappear unless he wished to be clapped in gaol, too. Now it would never do for him to be arrested, in the first place because, if still at liberty, he could perhaps help Juve to get out of the mess, secondly, because now Juve was under lock and key, he, Fandor, was the only one left to fight Fantômas and paralyse the machinations of the brigand whom he still held to be at liberty, inasmuch as he refused to believe Juve to be Fantômas.
At the time the journalist had some money in his possession. Without a moment’s delay he had changed his costume, and dressed out as a “ragged rascal,” had plunged into the underworld, the social stratum where an artful and wary fugitive can most easily cover up his tracks. This done, he had waited events. Day followed day, however, without bringing him any further information. Juve was in prison, the authorities still believing him to be Fantômas, and this evening Fandor, who had hitherto been living by casual odd jobs, was penniless and starving; what was he to do, he asked himself.
The young man continued to follow the Boulevard de Belleville, hesitating between the notion of going to find a night’s lodging under the arch of a bridge and his fear of being run in by a police-patrol, an eventuality he was far from desiring, when his attention was attracted to a passer-by, a woman who brushed past him, walking very fast, and rapidly outdistanced him.
“Hello!” muttered Fandor, looking after the form of the young woman, “doubtless a Paris workgirl; now, if I were really what I seem, an apache, I should profit by the opportunity. A little woman of this sort would be better in bed at this time of night than out and about on the Boulevard de Belleville! and she carries a bag in her hand—how imprudent! I’d wager twopence something will happen to the girl.”
Jérôme Fandor possessed something of that extraordinary instinct to be found in some veteran detectives. He seemed to have a presentiment of crime, to divine beforehand the possibility of acts of violence; and being a man of courage, he never failed to forestall and try to prevent the mischief. Mechanically, Fandor followed the young woman, keeping some distance behind, and as he went, took stock of her appearance. Small black toque, black jacket, a flowing veil, a slim umbrella, small shoes, a quite simple frock.
“A workgirl, a respectable workgirl, on her way home after doing a bit of overtime ... Good!—but, well, one may be mistaken!”
The young woman Jérôme Fandor was following had just been accosted by a street-walker, a little dark-haired creature with a touzled head, outrageously powdered and painted, clad in the typical spotted corsage of her class, the swaying skirts, the apron with scarlet bib, its pockets bulging, stuffed full of silk handkerchiefs.
“Hello! hello!” thought Fandor, “so here’s my workgirl in very odd company!—oh! dear, oh! dear.”
Next moment the young fellow darted forward at a run. From the shadow two men had just sprung out on the women; seizing them roughly by the arms, they were hustling and dragging them away.
The street-walker put her head down, fighting hard, but without uttering a sound; the workwoman gave a piercing shriek for help.
To fly to the rescue, to save the woman in this perilous strait, Jérôme Fandor’s mind was made up in an instant.
Someone else came hurrying up behind him at the same moment. A voice shouted:
“Have at ’em, mate!”
“A gallant working man,” thought Fandor, as he caught a glimpse of a young man running across the road dressed in a blue jacket, the sort plumbers wear; “there’s still honest folk left who won’t let women be molested.”
But the time for action was come; he was level by now with the two women, who were still struggling, and cried in a peremptory voice to the assailants:
“Let the women go!—or I strike.”
At this the two bullies, finding it was their turn to be attacked, suddenly loosed hold of their victims and wheeling round to face Fandor and his companion, stood on the defensive.
In an instant Jérôme Fandor realized the state of affairs; one of the fellows was putting a hand in his pocket—his purpose was manifest.
“By God!” yelled the young man, “none of your tricks here!—or you’ll make me angry.”
Fandor was wrestling savagely, locked in a close embrace with the fellow who had first laid hands on the workgirl; behind him he could hear the laboured breath and fierce cries and oaths of the working man who had hurried to the rescue, and knew that the same battle was raging between him and the second ruffian.
A few seconds, and all was over.
At the very moment Fandor, with a masterly trip, stretched his adversary on the ground, where he held him down by main force, he heard the workman give an exultant shout of victory:
“Ah, ha! I’ve got you, you hound!”
Jérôme Fandor looked round.
“Bravo, mate!” he cried, “so you’ve downed your man, too?”
A thick, hoarse, common, ignoble voice replied:
“Downed him, have I ... yes, by gosh! and what’s more I’m busy fixing the bloke up workmanlike, I am!”
“Workmanlike, eh?”—and Fandor looked, and could scarcely believe his eyes. In the calmest way possible, but with surprising dexterity, the man he had taken for a working man had whipped a coil of rope from his pocket and tied up the victim of his prowess.
“And now for your man!” he cried, pointing to the wretch Fandor held captive under his knee, and who had now ceased to offer the slightest resistance.
“Must truss him up, too—but I think we’d best not do ’em in ...”
“Well and good!” thought Fandor, “why, by Gad! this beats cock-fighting; it’s just the finest scoop I’ve ever been in!”
The other went on: “It’s the street officers, look’ee—the swine! I just love it when I can spoil their little game. And it’s all to the good for our gals, eh?”
“For sure it is,” Fandor agreed, and getting to his feet, for his companion had by this time roped up his man, too, and rolled him into the gutter, not without planting a shrewd kick or two on his carcass, the journalist proceeded to scrutinize his companion.
He was not a working man at all! True, he wore a plumber’s short blue jacket, but it only needed to note his flat cap, his brown muffler, to say nothing of the broad red sash round his waist, his velvet Zouave breeches, his elegant, down-at-heel shoes, the whole vicious cut of the fellow, to guess his vile trade.
“A fancy-man!” thought Fandor, “it was a fancy-man, a bully, was his ally! ... and the two we’ve just planted on the sidewalk are purely and simply a couple of police officers!”
But once more the other broke in on his reflections.
“’Pon my soul!” he burst out, drawing Fandor away with a friendly grip on his shoulder, “it’s a rum business, this here! ... all the same let’s pad the hoof, mate, the boulevard ain’t a healthy place for us just now, if more cops should come up.”
So Fandor and his companion raced down the street at tip-top speed and dodged in and out of a maze of dark alleys ... In five minutes the apache called a halt.
“Easy does it now,” he panted, “they’ll never nab us here.”
And then, suddenly confidential: “You know, don’t you, why my donna stopped the wench?”
Fandor, without showing a trace of surprise, replied emphatically in the negative.
“Why, look’ee, old chap, I’d told Nini—Nini my doxy’s called—I’d told her when I saw your girl go by, ‘Look, sure as my name’s Paulet, there goes a wench who is bound to have a bit of money in her bag! ... you go and talk to her, pitch her a tale, tell her you have a sick brat at home, some jeremy diddler or other, eh? and entice her down a dark street—and you and I’ll deal with the baggage.’”
Spitting on the ground to give more weight to his words, the apache Paulet—for Paulet it was—added: “I take my oath I never dreamt she was a night-bird, I took her for a workgirl by her duds.”
Fandor was far from liking the state of affairs, as he realized more and more clearly the nature of the mistake made.
His companion, Paulet, evidently the “bully” of the street-walker Nini who had accosted the young workwoman, took him, Fandor, for the latter’s protector, while the two men, whom he had supposed to be apaches, were just simply guardians of the peace wanting to arrest the two women ...
To tell truth, Jérôme Fandor was half sorry he had rescued the two unfortunates, but, for all his philosophy, he was still more amazed to have involuntarily become the antagonist of the officers of the law and the accomplice of a Belleville “ponce.”
“What’s dead certain,” Paulet summed up the matter, “it’s another evening wasted, old son; our two wenches took their hook during the fight, and I’ll wager they’ll say they’re too much knocked out of time to put in another stroke of business to-night—above all as Nini’s none too fond of work at the best of times. And so, hang it all! we’ll just go drink a glass and have a snack, eh?”
This last proposal was eminently agreeable to Fandor; it was six and thirty hours since he had broken his fast, and a supper, be it in company of an apache or no, was so much to the good.
“The fact is,” he put in, however, for he had no desire for a quarrel with Paulet after their liquor, “the fact is, for the moment I’m stony-broke, cleaned out, not a brass farthing to my name.”
But Paulet was in a generous mood. “Right O!” he cried, “I’ve got the dibs; it’s my turn this time ... to Korn’s, is it?”
For a bite of bread the unhappy young man would have gone anywhere whatsoever. “That’s the ticket,” he agreed, at once, adding by way of acting up to his rôle: “Maybe, we shall meet some of the boys there?”
At the Rendez-vous des Aminches, the famous tavern kept
by old man Korn, the two portals of which opened respectively
on the Boulevard de la Chapelle and the Rue de la
Charbonnière, Fandor did not at first notice any of the
“boys”—or rather he made a pretence of knowing nobody.
In the low-ceiled, smoky room, where seated in state, old Korn, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his bald head shining in the gaslight, was rinsing out glasses stained with the lees of red wine in a basinful of greasy water, Fandor had recognized, with a surprise that bordered on stupefaction, a whole gang of people whom he knew very well. While Paulet was pushing him along towards a little table, where sat an extraordinary-looking individual, head like a broken-down tipstaff surmounted by a well-worn wig, nose decorated with an enormous pair of spectacles, frowsy mutton-chop whiskers framing the face, whom the apache greeted with a “Good-day, Moche, old cock!” Fandor had been taking stock of the other customers.
Later on, when Paulet, after ordering a litre of “Red Seal,” bread and cheese and Bologna sausage, was describing the late encounter to old Moche and his meeting with the “new chum,” Fandor seized the opportunity to scrutinize the group of persons gathered at the further end of the boozing-ken.
So, the old gang was come together again? again the same lot haunted Père Korn’s tavern? Fandor was dumbfounded to meet once more at the Rendez-vous des Aminches the very same ill-omened crowd of apaches that had over and over again been mixed up in the crimes and wild adventures of Fantômas; he could only just contrive to play up to his assumed character and pay decent attention to what Paulet was saying, who meantime was praising him up to the skies to M. Moche.
“Certain sure,” Paulet was asseverating, “you’ll pay for drinks, M. Moche ... yes, yes, your Honour, never say no!... But look’ee here, that chap yonder—I don’t so much as know his blessed name—well, there’d be something to be made out of him, eh?... There’s no flies on that bloke, you bet. Why in two twos and a couple of shakes, crack! he’d downed his gentleman, let me tell you that, sir. Two constables, sir, and we chucked ’em both in the gutter. Cost me a bit of good rope, it did—but there, I don’t care.”
M. Moche, sipping an extraordinary mixture of brandy and absinthe, applauded Paulet’s narrative, and then turning to Fandor, asked:
“So, young sir, things going well with you, eh?” The question roused Fandor from a deep fit of abstraction. The old fellow repeated his remark.
“H’m, no!” Fandor confessed, “by no manner of means!... cleaned out!”
“And you can write?”
With the utmost seriousness the journalist declared he could—“and none so badly either,” he added, “I write quite a good hand.”
For some seconds the old man sat lost in thought; then he brought out his proposal: “Now, what would you say if I asked you to come and work with me? I am a business agent, yes, a business agent—in every kind of business, you must understand.... In one word, if you care to sleep to-night at my place, why, there’s a pile of papers in the garret, where you’d be comfortable enough ... say, does that suit your book, my lad?”
For the moment Fandor hesitated. He asked himself who and what was this dreadful person, and for what shady work was he engaging him—on Paulet’s recommendation, Paulet a common “bully,” and that after he had just heard how he had been an active participator in an assault on officers of the law.
But Paulet gave him a nudge: “Go on,” urged the young blackguard; “you’re cleaned out, ain’t you? so you risk nothing, and you’ll rake in the rhino scratching paper at the old put’s—he’s rolling in money, you ask any of the blokes here.”
So it seemed old Moche, who frequented Korn’s tavern, knew all the crew that met there.
Jérôme Fandor’s mind was made up. No matter what adventures might befall him if he agreed to “work” for M. Moche, he ought by no means to neglect the opportunity thus offered for renewing his observation of the machinations of this amiable confraternity.
“M’sieur Moche,” he gave his answer, purposely exaggerating his vulgar trick of speech, “as you might say, sir, your offer does me proud—and for that there sleeping in your garret, I won’t say no; for all it’s May time, it’s none too cosy, it ain’t, dossing under the stars.”
M. Moche, who wore an enormous great ring on his finger hammered noisily on the zinc-topped table.
“Korn,” he commanded, “another go of the same all round; it’s my treat, I’ve just enlisted a new clerk.”