“A nail ... another nail! Monsieur Havard, where did you put the others?”
“In the little bowl on the side-table,” replied the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department from where he knelt on the carpet, while Professor Ardell, who was holding between thumb and forefinger the nail he had just found, stood up again, rubbing his back with his free hand.
“Extraordinary! most extraordinary!” muttered the learned professor, while M. Casamajols, who was also present, questioned the doctor anxiously:
“Well, your diagnosis, Professor?”
“Egad! Monsieur le Procureur, my diagnosis is perfectly plain and simple, and equally positive, M. Désiré is dead, and he has been dead several hours now.”
At seven o’clock that morning, the discovery of the dead body of the Minister of Justice lying lifeless on his bed had thrown the personnel of the Ministry into the wildest commotion. The domestics, well trained servants, had immediately advised the police, and M. Havard, hurrying with all speed to the Ministry of Justice, had passed on the intelligence to M. Casamajols’ private residence and sent an urgent summons to Professor Ardell. The three men, when they arrived almost simultaneously at the Place Vendôme, had been forced to abandon any false hopes they might have entertained the instant they set eyes on the unfortunate man. Désiré Ferrand was dead! For the tenth time the professor confirmed the fact to M. Casamajols, who could not believe his own eyes and ears.
M. Havard, pale and haggard, intervened:
“Dead!” he exclaimed, “you mean murdered, do you not, Professor?”
“Why, yes, I do mean murdered; the fact is obvious. M. Désiré Ferrand, awakened suddenly in the night, was struck with an instrument which evidently stunned him without leaving any wound—perhaps one of those cudgels murderers sometimes use.”
“I see what you mean,” broke in M. Havard, “a sandbag, a sack, that is, filled with sand; it makes the most deadly weapon you can imagine when wielded like a sling.”
The professor signified his agreement with the Chief’s version of the affair, and went on:
“The victim, thus incapacitated, nothing easier than to pierce his heart with a needle; as a matter of fact, we have discovered one driven in under the left breast of the unfortunate man.”
Noting the disordered state of the room, M. Casamajols observed:
“Before the end there was evidently a struggle, a desperate struggle,” and the professor agreed.
But M. Havard now broke in again:
“A struggle, however, that was suddenly interrupted when the Minister, who was barefooted, stopped all of a sudden and fell to the floor. Evidently the aggressor, in order to handle his man more easily, and taking advantage of a favourable opportunity, emptied a bagful of nails over the carpet, the nails we have been picking up all this time.”
“You are quite right,” agreed the professor, “the little superficial punctures we noticed scarring the dead man’s limbs were no doubt caused by the nails scattered about the floor.”
“The scoundrel! he provided for everything, it appears—left nothing to chance.”
M. Havard was profoundly agitated and perplexed. Striding up and down the room like a caged lion, casting furtive glances at the Minister’s body, he pondered the tragic origins of the crime and strove to fathom the mystery of who the criminal was.
At seven in the morning he had been awakened by the telephone ringing him up from the Ministry of Justice. Summoned in all haste to the Place Vendôme, in a quarter of an hour he was at the scene of action, questioning the staff, examining the Minister’s bedroom, the adjoining apartments and the precincts generally of the mansion, but entirely, absolutely without result.
Subsequently, however, when he came to search among the papers littering the Minister’s desk, he had been astonished, as had Ferrand himself, by the great number of holograph memoranda, all relating to Fantômas’ million francs and no doubt intentionally intermingled with the “urgent” correspondence. It was deliberately done, it was evidently the sign manual once more of the criminal, it was Fantômas, who, in ironic mood, anxious to rouse public opinion afresh, thus affirmed his presence and confirmed his impunity.
Fantômas?—no, it could not be Fantômas! For six months past, M. Havard had cherished the absolute conviction that the notorious criminal had been personated by his subordinate, Inspector Juve, of the Criminal Investigation Department, who under pretence of relentlessly tracking down the elusive ruffian, had carried out a whole series of thefts and other crimes under this sinister disguise. But Juve was in prison, there was no shadow of doubt about that. Then what was one to think?
As time went on and the day lengthened, corridors and antechambers grew more and more crowded, hummed louder and louder with excited talk—magistrates having appointments to confer with the Chief, electors from Ferrand’s constituency come to see their member, officials and employés coming and going unceasingly; outside the very door of the death chamber eager voices were raised in discussion and dispute, regrets for the past mingled with hopes for the future.
So far, however, the tidings of Désiré Ferrand’s death had hardly spread beyond official circles. The Elysée, the Ministries, were aware of the tragedy, the public knew little or nothing. But this was not to last long. Suddenly a swarm of newsboys, crying special editions, burst with strident shouts into the Place Vendôme, debouching from the Rue de la Paix, deploying under the windows of the Ministry, then tearing off like a whirlwind towards the Tuileries, red and breathless, their papers selling like hot cakes at a premium. The special edition of La Capitale penetrated to the private apartments of the Ministry, and M. Havard, impatient to know in what terms the tragic story was told and to read the criticisms on the police with which the Press was evidently supplementing the narrative of the murder, secured a copy of the paper. Looking over his shoulder, M. Casamajols read in huge capitals, immediately below the name of the journal:
“Assassination of the Minister of Justice.”
Below this again, figured the cryptic headline:
“Will he arrest Fantômas?”
“That question, M. Havard,” slyly suggested M. Casamajols, “is probably addressed to you.” The head of the Criminal Investigation Department made no reply, but with pursed lips, ran his eye rapidly over the detailed account of Ferrand’s death, though without learning anything he did not know already, and then went on to the article he believed, like M. Casamajols, to specially concern himself. But as he read on, M. Havard was lost in deeper and deeper wonderment. The article in question ran as follows:
“From mid-Atlantic, from aboard the liner ‘La Lorraine’ which sailed the day before yesterday from New York, bound for Hâvre, comes the information by wireless that the American detective, Tom Bob, a passenger on the vessel in question, strongly and justly moved by the daring acts of violence committed of late in Paris, has announced his intention to devote all his time and all his energy, from the first moment of his arrival in Europe, to the discovery and arrest of Fantômas.”
The writer concluded the article with the words: “Let us wish Tom Bob every good luck, but will he arrest Fantômas?”
M. Havard and M. Casamajols looked at each other completely at a loss.
“Do you suppose it is serious, this story?” asked the latter; “surely it must be a newspaper canard ... very American, too American ... I don’t believe it, do you?”
“Egad!” confessed M. Havard, very much put out, “I am bound to allow that this Tom Bob exists, and even that he enjoys a certain reputation in the New York police force, but then, to advertise himself like that, really!”
M. Casamajols suggested with a smile of irony:
“Eh, Havard, suppose Tom Bob did run down and arrest Fantômas?”
Lifting his hands to heaven, the Chief of the Investigation Department turned his back on the Procureur Général:
“God Almighty!” he swore, “hadn’t we enough to worry us, enough to make us look ridiculous, without this Tom Bob shoving his finger in the pie. Upon my word, it’s the last straw, that!...”
Havard stopped dead in the middle of his tirade; the door of the room had opened.
“Do you mean me by that, Monsieur Havard?” demanded the newcomer.
M. Havard curbed a gesture of annoyance; decidedly he was in Fortune’s bad books that day. He drew back, and bowing low to the President of the Council—it was no other than M. Monnier himself who asked the question.
“I do assure you, sir,” he replied respectfully, “I should never allow myself to think such a thing of you.”