Hoarse, croaking voices were whispering together:

“Must get to work, half-past two ... day’ll be here directly ... hurry up, chaps ... to business!”

As he heard the ominous words, Juve shuddered, brave man as he was. The police-officer in the course of his adventurous life had gone through such ups and downs of fortune, taken part in such desperate struggles, confronted such dangers, that he was proof against all contingencies; yet he could not help trembling, for he felt a clear and definite presentiment that his last hour was on the point of striking. The incidents of the evening before had astounded him, and despite his imperturbable coolness, the detective could not but shudder to recall the terrible hours he had lived through since then. In fact, what had occurred in M. Fuselier’s room at the Palais and the brutal fashion in which Juve had been kidnapped, overpassed all limits in the way of fantastic extravagance. Not only had the gang of scoundrels taken him unawares, thrown themselves upon him, seized and pinioned him, in the very Palais de Justice itself, but they had actually carried him off by climbing down the scaffoldings running outside the windows of the building and got clear away.

Then Juve, gagged and bound, unable to stir a finger, had been pitched into a car which had been driven off at full speed without the officer being able to gather the faintest inkling of where he was being taken. Still blindfolded by a handkerchief tied tight over his eyes, he had been led into a house, where he had waited in silence and agonizing suspense to know the decision his abductors would come to regarding his fate.

In truth he was to be pitied! He had been captured the very day he had at long last regained his freedom, when, cleared of the dreadful accusations that hung over his head, he was about to resume the struggle with the help and co-operation of that mighty organization, that all-powerful combination, formed by the police and the Criminal Bureau together. Now, in a moment, as the result of an odious plot, a plot no man could well have foreseen, he found himself plunged once more into the dark depths from which he was just emerging.

All this was assuredly the work of Fantômas! This conclusion Juve had definitely arrived at in the course of the terrible night he had just lived through, the last hours of which were still slowly dragging out their weary length. He had clearly seen that, taking advantage of his own long detention in prison, adroitly profiting by the judicial blunder to which he owed his incarceration in the Santé, Fantômas had duped his confederates and persuaded them that Juve was no other than the elusive brigand himself, and that it was actually Fantômas who was in gaol. Yes, he understood the whole scheme now, and from information gathered here and there, he could guess what was going to happen. Fantômas, the real Fantômas, not content with exploiting honest people, had exploited the apaches into the bargain—and these latter were out to take their revenge. With amazing audacity they had carried off Juve, more than ever convinced that he was Fantômas. And Juve, now in their power, was about to pay the penalty for the grim brigand’s perfidy.

Juve found himself stretched on the floor of a square chamber with bare, white-washed walls. By the light of a smoky lamp he saw he was surrounded by a score of apaches, with grim faces and surly, threatening looks. Some of these were unfamiliar to him, others he knew to belong to notorious criminals. By the chilly damp that exuded from the walls and the flagged floor of the place, as well as by the absence of windows, the detective gathered that he was confined in the depths of a cellar.

But his reflections were soon cut short. One of the apaches, the same who had untied him, now kicked a wooden stool towards him with the order: “Sit there, in the middle of us, and listen.”

Juve suddenly sprang to his feet. With a desperate, senseless impulse—for indeed it was useless to dream of escape—he pushed away the wooden seat, drove back fiercely with his elbows some of those nearest him, and darting to the farthest end of the cellar, set his back against the wall with clenched fists and furious face, ready to offer a vigorous resistance to the first who should come near him.

Alas! this spirited show of defiance had no practical result, rather the contrary. Nobody thought of coming to grips with the officer. The apaches, seeing him leap away had first jeered, thinking it a fine joke that Fantômas—for one and all took Juve to be Fantômas—should try to give them the slip, now it was impossible. But then, by way of precaution, the men nonchalantly produced their revolvers, the women borrowed their lovers’ knives and fell to polishing the keen blades on a corner of their red aprons.

Juve never flinched, but stood there impassive, waiting, though his heart was beating tumultuously. It was eventually the police-officer’s old acquaintance, the “Beadle,” who, breaking through the circle gathered round the prisoner, stepped up to him, mocking and sarcastic, both hands stuffed insolently in his pockets; the apache was bent on heaping his scorn on the man he had looked upon as the “master,” now a captive!

“Bravo! bravo, ‘Beadle’!”

With a wave of the hand, the apache silenced his comrades, signifying he had said nothing of importance yet, but he was going to begin.

“My lads,” resumed the speaker, turning to his comrades, who stood listening eagerly, again and again interrupting his discourse by cries of enthusiastic approval, “yes, my lads, we may well say we’ve brought off a fine bit of business!”

“True for you,” suddenly shouted the “Gasman,” “and it’s lucky we had cute chaps with us like the ‘Beadle’”—and another burst of applause greeted the words.

All this while Juve had not stirred or opened his lips; nerves and attention on the stretch, he had listened, understood, realized the appalling position he had to face. Meanwhile the “Beadle” resumed, emphasizing the facts, that were plain enough as they stood.

“Fantômas,” he apostrophized the prisoner, “you’re a cute devil, I don’t dispute that, but we are cuter than you, seeing as how we’ve caught you. Well, I’m going straight to the point, I am: here’s how it stands—Fantômas must shell out or croak! so look sharp and make up your mind, and tell us where the money is; you’ve got five minutes to answer, after that five minutes is up your silence will be your death warrant!”

To occupy his mind, to cheat his despair, Juve began to count mechanically, as if in a dream; there were left him, he told himself, three hundred seconds to live, after that he would face the final plunge, exchange time for eternity. Would they kill him at a stroke, or must he endure some of those dreadful tortures the apaches invent to satisfy their thirst for vengeance? Juve refused to think of it, that his courage might not fail him before the end.

Amid the deafening uproar that raged round him, the apaches were discussing, all clamouring at once, the sort of death Fantômas deserved. Juve, forcing himself to go on counting so as not to hear, continued speaking almost out loud:

The detective did not start; he stood quite still, his back against the wall; where did the voice come from? he could not tell. All round him crowded the apaches, some actually hustling him with their shoulders, others crouching about his feet.

Meantime he felt someone trying to slip in between him and the wall, to hide himself behind his back. Inspired with fresh courage, he seconded the attempt, taking a short step forward towards the middle of the room.

The voice went on: “Don’t turn round, Juve ... and answer, for the love of God answer, tell them you are going to pay!”

Ah! that voice! and the tone and the words! Juve felt a sudden return to life and hope! his heart still beat as if it would burst his bosom, but his mind experienced a prodigious relief. He guessed it was a friend come to save him, and one he could count on even more surely than on himself. He had recognized the voice of his old comrade Jérôme Fandor!—Fandor of whom he had had no tidings for six months, of whom he had heard nothing, of whose very existence he had no assurance, since the day of their unexpected parting.

How came he to be there—just at the critical moment, at the risk no doubt of his own life, clearly with the sole intention of rescuing his friend from this most desperate of plights? Had Juve been cognizant of late events and known of the eight and forty hours Fandor had passed as a prisoner in the house at Alfort up to the time when the apaches had brought thither his fellow officer, he would not have needed to ask himself the question.

But neither did Fandor deem the moment come for explanations. His compelling voice still urged Juve to answer.

“Listen, you fellows; Fantômas is going to pay you!”

Bravos broke out on every side, and the ruffianly crowd, forgetting their rancour, now felt full of sympathy for the master who manifested so praiseworthy an intention. But next minute, this outburst of satisfaction was succeeded by a resumption of sour and suspicious looks.

“No humbug, eh?” muttered one.

“We’ve been done once before!” objected another.

“Fantômas,” declared a third, “you will not leave this place before you’ve paid up!”—and to a popular air, the whole assemblage began to growl out the refrain:

“Money ... money ... money!”

But now, high above the hoarse-voiced, monotonous chant, there suddenly rang out like a peacock’s scream a shrill, screeching voice, demanding:

“Fantômas, tell us where you have put the stuff?”

Juve was losing his first fine confidence, and though to some extent reassured by the presence of his invisible ally, he began to fear he could not keep up the bold front he had shown so far. What was he to answer now?

Fortunately Fandor’s voice again whispered words of counsel, and Juve, listening with one ear to what his trusty comrade was saying, brought out in broken jerks:

“The money ... my lads ... it’s not far off, it’s here ... here in this very place, under the stone flags that pave the cellar floor.”

The announcement was received with shrugs of incredulous derision and cries of

“You’re humbugging us!”

Juve, greatly perplexed, yet obeying implicitly the instructions Fandor continued to whisper, went on:

“Stop your gab, you fools! Am I the master, or am I not?”

The rough, masterful words had their effect; a silence followed and Juve little by little entered into the very spirit of the part he was enacting literally impromptu. For sure, if ever Fantômas had found himself face to face with his numerous accomplices, it would have been just so he would have talked to them.

“Show us then where it is, take up the flags yourself!”

But Juve stopped him with a gesture full of an impressive dignity.

“Fantômas,” he cried, still prompted by his admirable coadjutor Fandor, “Fantômas scorns to work with his own hands, it is to you, you dogs, belongs the task of digging up the treasure you are going to divide amongst you.”

“Proud beast!” growled the “Beadle.”

But less sensitive, the rest of the apaches did not need twice telling; they were quite ready to obey the orders of the master whose high authority imposed itself upon them in spite of everything. “Bull’s-eye” and the “Gasman” sprang forward and had soon raised the two first flags—to find nothing underneath save sand. But taking advantage of the confused uproar that ensued, Fandor prompted again:

“Tell them to go on, tell them to raise the third stone, and you are saved!”

The detective gave the order Fandor suggested. The two apaches raised the last flag—and started back in sheer terror! An atrocious spectacle lay beneath their eyes, Juve himself, who had stepped forward to see, stood there transfixed with horror. The third stone covered a black hole in the ground in which lay a corpse half devoured by the worms! The flesh showed the greenish hues of decomposition and exhaled a poisonous stench. The chest had fallen in, a mass of shattered bones and disintegrated, putrefying flesh, and from its midst gleamed the white, polished handle of a metal money-chest. Where the dead man’s heart should have been a strongbox had been deposited. It was there the master had concealed the money destined for his confederates—a ghastly hiding place, a hideous repository!

Juve, who understood nothing and dared not so much as turn around to question Fandor with a look, yet retained his coolness. Henceforth an impassive spectator of the appalling scene, he stood waiting to become, when his friend should give the word, one of the heroes of the new scene that was now to be staged.

Again Fandor prompted, and again Juve gave the order:

The apaches gave a roar, but stood hesitating. All were bending over the gaping grave. Their eyes glittered with covetousness; their grinning faces worked spasmodically in mingled repugnance and desire; their hooked fingers twitched with eagerness to seize the shining handle of the treasure chest, the metal lid of which winked in the wavering light of the smoky lamps that supplied the only illumination in the gloomy cellar. But none dared to move; the apaches were afraid—for the first time!

But now the throng grouped round the hideous hole was pushed aside and an old woman, her face scarlet, her breath coming in gasps, advanced with arms akimbo to the edge of the grave.

“Why, what,” she croaked, “what’s amiss with you, you chaps? to be scared of a dead man, for shame! Well, I’m only a woman, I am, but I’m out to show you cowards what pluck means. True as I stand here, this hand I hold up is going to dive into the fellow’s guts and fetch out his gold heart!”

Her hearers shuddered as she carried out her gruesome purpose, remarking with a hideous laugh: “Why should I be scared of the good man? we’re old acquaintances, we are ... I was the one packed him in down there!”

Meantime the old harridan had deposited the strongbox at the feet of the man she too supposed to be Fantômas. Whereupon the apaches quickly found their tongues again and all bawling at once, demanded their fees in payment of the crimes they had committed. All that remained in fact was to open the little chest. The key was in the lock and an eager and obliging volunteer in the person of “Bull’s-eye” came forward; the lid was raised and a mass of gold coins revealed.

Fandor, more and more well pleased with the turn events were taking, had whispered to Juve:

“Let them share out the swag!”

But the journalist said no more, assailed by a new anxiety, for Juve had taken the game into his own hands and was preparing to speak.

“By the Lord!” thought Fandor, “what is he going to say? How risky, pray God he won’t make a hash of it!”

“Not so fast,” he cried, “hear me first, you chaps! The money is there, and it’s good money; you can rest assured of that, but first of all, do as I tell you. Everyone shall be paid, each according to his deserts; you have worked for Fantômas, and Fantômas means to reward you in proportion to what you’ve done! Go on, my lads, and every man tot up his accounts: the bravest will come off the best. Let’s sit down!”

A round of applause approved the officer’s announcement. Yes, he was right, those who had done nothing much did not deserve much pay, the cute ’uns who had worked hard should get the richest prizes.

Juve marshalled his men in a circle round him, and Fandor, reassured as to his comrade’s fate, slipped away and mingled unobtrusively with the crowd. A majestic figure, with flashing eye and commanding pose, the ex-detective played to perfection the rôle of the grim, mysterious Fantômas. The man’s coolness was amazing, for did he not confront the possible risk that at any moment the true owner of that redoubtable name might appear before him? He went on:

“I am listening, out with it all! give in your claims, my lads; every man shall have his deserts!”

But to begin with a protest was voiced by all present. Nothing was to be paid away to the absent, the cowards, the shirkers, who had not dared to come—and by this they meant Moche, Père Moche, the gang’s confidential agent, the man who no doubt had engineered the scheme to entrap Fantômas, but who from now on seemed of no more use and inspired only feelings of hostility.

Why yes, Juve saw no objection to sacrificing the old reprobate. “Père Moche,” he cried, “shall get nothing, that I swear.”

Another burst of acclamation; then in the pause that followed, seven or eight voices were raised.

Calmly, impassively, Juve drew a memorandum slip from his pocket, “Your names?” he questioned coldly.

One by one, the apaches filed past the officer, giving in their names and their nicknames.

The “Gasman” made a halt before his superior: “It was me,” he said, “set afire the beggars’ refuge, while you were getting ’em aboard your car.”

“Well and good!” pronounced Juve, “... and you?” he proceeded, turning now to the “Beadle.”

“You know yourself, Fantômas, you know what I did.”

“That goes for nothing; say it over!”

“What’s the good?”

But murmurs of discontent broke out; why must the “Beadle” give himself these airs? all he’d got to do was to state his case like the rest; else he’d get nothing at all!

“Well,” he let out reluctantly, “it was me did the trick about the Princess Sonia’s jewels ...”

But “Bull’s-eye” broke in furiously.

“And what about me, ‘Beadle’?” he growled, “didn’t I see you at work—with your hands in your pockets? I was in that business, too!”

Imperturbably Juve noted down on his slip three significant memoranda: “Jewels, the ‘Beadle,’ ‘Bull’s-eye.’”

“Next,” he called—and two women, “Big Ernestine” and another virago known as the “Panther,” insisted on the master’s hearing them.

“It was us,” they clamoured, “flooded the lake with petroleum, so as you could light up the blaze.”

Juve, however, had a question to put. Would he get an answer? he hardly dared expect it. Still he ventured to ask:

“And the big things, eh? the Minister of Justice, who killed the Minister of Justice?”

But at this everyone burst out laughing.

“Devilish funny,” they grinned; “none of your jokes on us, Fantômas! everybody knows it was you.”

Juve took heedful note of the information; yes, the crime should be set down to the account of the real culprit. He went on with his questions:

A chorus of voices answered him: “Moche, it was Père Moche.”

But one voice protested; someone had sprung lightly over the gaping grave and stood before Juve. It was Paulet. The young apache with the light eyes and pallid complexion growled out:

“Moche never did anything but make his profit out of the crime; he robbed me of the money, as he’s robbed me of my wench, to marry her to the rich Englishman; but as God’s above me, I swear it was I, Paulet, all on my own, who did in the bank messenger!”

“Bravo!” rose the answering cry; “bravo! it’s you, Paulet, for the big prize!”

But now mother Toulouche, the hag who had hauled out the strongbox from the half decomposed corpse, emerged from the dark corner where she had been crouching ever since.

Without the quiver of a muscle, Juve had listened to the appalling confession of the hideous virago.

“This dead man,” he asked in a low, broken voice, “who was he?”

But suddenly there rose an urgent cry of “Hush! hush!” The apaches had heard unusual sounds, the tramp of footsteps in the distance. By the wan, feeble light that filtered in through a grated opening on a level with the ground outside, the crowd could see one another’s repulsive faces drawn with anxiety. Already half suppressed vows of vengeance began to be heard. Fandor was terrified; what was to happen next? Was Juve, after escaping the gravest of his dangers, finally to fall a victim to Fantômas’ fury? Was it he, the real Fantômas, that was coming?

But Juve with superb audacity, an admirable effrontery, commanded:

“Silence, all of you, and don’t budge! if it is Fantômas alone they are after, Fantômas will defend himself alone, if it is all of us they are looking for, Fantômas will be at your head to defend you and triumph over our enemies; hush, do not speak, do not stir!”

Slowly Juve pushed through the throng and made for the door of the cellar. He tried to open it; it was locked fast!

“The key,” he demanded. The “Beadle” advanced grumbling: “Here it is,” he said, “what to do now?”

“Open,” ordered the inspector.

“You are leaving us, Fantômas?” he was asked.

“I am keeping guard over you,” replied Juve boldly.

Then he left the cellar, but did not go away. Between him and the apaches now stood the heavy door secured by an outside bolt the officer had shot with his own hands.

Juve stood there listening; a posse of men was surrounding the house.