Chapter XXXVI: Ambassador! 320 (6)

"Come here some afternoon, and I will show you the machine in full work!... Come soon!"

He led Fandor to another part of the printing-room.

"Do you know anything about linotypes?"

Again Fandor-Vinson played the admirer's part, though he knew these machines were out-of-date.

"What is his game?" was our journalist's mental query.

The answer soon came. His guide led him to a strange-looking object concealed by some grey material. It might well be a cabinet for storing odds and ends, but Fandor felt sure the grey stuff covered something metallic.

"See, Corporal, this will please you!" said the red-bearded young man. He uncovered the object.

"You know what it is, do you, Corporal?"

"Not in the least!"

"A machine for making bank-notes!"

"Really! You manufacture bank-notes, do you?" remarked Fandor. His tone was non-committal.

"You shall see for yourself, Corporal! Of course they are only made for the fun of the thing--still, they might happen to prove useful--one never knows!"

Again the marked accent on "useful."

Again Fandor-Vinson played up.

"I should like to have a squint at those holy-joke notes!"

"I was going to suggest it!"

Turning a handle, the red-bearded young man put the machine in motion.

"Place yourself there, Corporal! Put your hands to it! You shall see what will happen!"

Fandor did as directed.

"Hold out your hands!"

Fandor-Vinson held out his hands.

A new fifty-franc note fell into them.

"What do you say to that? Is it not a good--a perfect imitation?" The red-bearded young man's tone was triumphant.

Fandor-Vinson examined it.

"That it certainly is," he acquiesced.

"Here are more!... Look!... Take them!"

Nine notes fell into the outstretched hands of Corporal Fandor-Vinson of the 257th of the line, stationed at Verdun.

Our journalist had sharp eyes. He was no longer puzzling over this performance.

"Look here, Corporal! Keep these notes if they amuse you!" said the red-bearded young man, smiling.

"You might even try to pass them off, if the joke appeals to you!"

Fandor's replies were monosyllables: he was watching the machine.

"What a childish trick!" he said to himself: "Why, these notes dropped into my hands are real!... This machine does not print anything!... My new friend has slipped these notes under the rollers as payment for future treachery, expected betrayals--it is a way of paying me!"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson found the necessary words to show he fully understood the quality of the payment--its real value. Supposing that no more would be required of him, he tried to get free of this spy, and leave the premises, but his red-bearded paymaster had other views.

"Now, Corporal," said he, "shall we empty a bottle together in honour of our meeting?"

Fandor was far from wishing to clink glasses with the spy: still, needs must when the devil drives you into a tight corner of your own choosing! The offer was accepted with feigned pleasure. Corporal Fandor-Vinson kept a smiling face, whilst, glass in hand, he talked trivialities with his host.

At last Corporal Fandor-Vinson rose:

"My leave has not expired, it is true, Monsieur," he said, "but I have some rounds to make. Pray excuse me!"

The thin, red-bearded young man did not seek to detain him. The interview was at an end: the business done for that evening.

"You will return, will you not, Corporal?" asked his host. "We are at your disposal, I and my brother, whenever you have need of us--our friends also. They will regret having arrived too late to meet you!... And, Corporal ... we know some officers--if you want leave now and again--you must let us know--will you not?"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson said the expected things, and hastened away, glad to be quit of this red-bearded young spy of a printer. He hurried off towards the centre of the town, covering his tracks as Juve had taught him how to do. He had time to spare before returning to barracks. He entered a small café and ordered a drink.

"Behold me one of the precious spy circle of Verdun," thought he. "I must make the most of my privileges."

His glass remained untouched while he sat thinking long and deeply.

XVI

AT THE ELYSÉE BALL

The ball was in full swing. There was a crush in the brilliantly lighted reception-rooms of the Elysée. Prominent members of Parliament, diplomats, officers naval and military, representatives of the higher circles of commerce, and finance, rubbed shoulders with the undistinguished, at the official reception given in honour of Japan's new ambassador, Prince Ito. The prince was stationed in the centre of the inmost drawing-room, gorgeously arrayed in his national costume, a delicate smile on his lips as he watched the President's guests with bright shrewd eyes, while music from an invisible Hungarian band floated on the air.

In this particular room two men were in earnest conversation: Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac.

"Well, Lieutenant, I have been too pressed for time to-day to see you ... but, Heaven knows, I have not forgotten for a moment the matter I entrusted to you.... They are causing me the greatest anxiety."...

"I can well understand that, Colonel."...

"Anything new?"

"No, Colonel.... That is to say--I ought to say 'No' to you."...

"What the devil do you mean?" The colonel stared at his junior a moment; then, taking him by the arm, said in a confidential tone:

"Let us take a turn in the garden, it is not cold.... We had better have our talk away from such a collection as this ... one does not know who or what one's neighbours may be."

"Right, Colonel, prudence is the mother of surety."

The colonel shrugged.

"I have no desire to pun, but since you speak of La Sûreté,[4] I cannot help noticing that they are blundering terribly over these very affairs. Confound those clumsy fools and their meddling! They will interfere with things which are no concern of theirs--not in the slightest!"

[Footnote 4: La Sûreté-Scotland Yard detective service.]

"Are they still investigating?"

"No. The warning I myself administered to their famous Juve has taught them a lesson. They are keeping quiet at present. Plague take the lot of them!... It makes me furious when I think what happened the other day--creating a scandal about things the public ought to be kept in ignorance of--ought never to hear of--never!... Those confounded meddlers complicate our task abominably."

Colonel Hofferman paused: de Loubersac kept a discreet silence.

The two men were walking down the little path which encircles the principal lawn of the Elysée Gardens, now almost deserted.

The colonel turned to his companion.

"What was that you were saying just now?... You had something fresh to tell me, and you had not.... That is the Norman way of putting it!... Not like you, de Loubersac!"

"It is merely the answer of one who hesitates to speak out," replied de Loubersac, laughing, "... who hesitates to give a definite opinion, who, nevertheless."...

"Who nevertheless what?... De Loubersac, just forget I am your colonel--speak out, man!... Have you an idea of where the document was lost?"

"That?... No."...

"Then what conclusion have you arrived at? Have you further information about Brocq's death?"

"Hum!"...

"About Nichoune's death, perhaps?"

"Colonel! Have you noticed that for some time past I have not handed you any report from the agent Vagualame?"

"The deuce.... What do you imagine that means?"

"I do not imagine anything, Colonel--I state facts!... Nichoune is dead, murdered: there is not a shadow of a doubt about that.... Nichoune was the mistress of Corporal Vinson.... This Vinson was on the point of playing the traitor, if he had not already done so; he was also a friend of Captain Brocq, and Brocq died just when the document disappeared--the document confided to him by our service ... so much for facts."

The colonel was staring fixedly at de Loubersac.

"I do not see what you are driving at!" said he.

"I am coming to it, Colonel.... Nichoune was found dead on Saturday, November 19th, but on the evening of November 18th Nichoune received a visit from our agent, Vagualame, whom I had sent to Châlons by your own orders to occupy himself with the V. affair."

"Well?"

"Well, Colonel, I do not much like that, but what I like still less is, that, a few days ago, I had occasion to see Vagualame ... and this agent far from bringing me details of Nichoune's death, at first go off wanted to deny that he had been at Châlons! I could swear he was going to declare he had not been there, when a reply of my own--a blunder, I confess it--I did not take time to think--informed him that I knew of his visit to Nichoune."

Colonel Hofferman weighed the gravity of de Loubersac's words; he strode along, head bent, hands clasped behind his back, gazing with unseeing eyes at the pebbles on the path. At last he spoke.

"Tell me how you knew for certain that Nichoune had received a visit from Vagualame!"

"For some time past, Colonel, Vagualame has been under the eye of the officer charged with the supervision of our spies, de Loreuil. Under the guise of Aunt Palmyra he discovered that Nichoune had been murdered. This was the morning after her interview with Vagualame. The discovery, I may tell you, did not take de Loreuil altogether by surprise. He had observed Vagualame's attitude towards the girl, and had considered it queer--suspiciously so."

"This is serious, but it is not sufficiently definite," pronounced Colonel Hofferman.... "Let us admit that Vagualame has played a double game, has been at once traitor and spy. That being so, he may have murdered Nichoune; but as to incriminating this agent whom we have known a long time ... well ... you have merely a vague indication to go upon ... the kind of reticence, or what you thought was reticence, he wished to maintain regarding his journey to Châlons."

"Yes," admitted de Loubersac, "if that were all I had to go upon, it would amount to little."

"You know something else?"

"I know that I arranged to meet this agent yesterday in the Garden, as our custom is, that I waited there, that he never turned up."

Colonel Hofferman took de Loubersac's arm as they walked slowly back to the reception-rooms.

"What you have just told me is exceedingly serious: we must enquire into this at once--without loss of time. If Vagualame has really fled, the probability is that he is Nichoune's murderer.... In that case, there is nothing to prevent our suspecting him of no end of things which I need not particularise."...

The colonel pointed to an individual standing by a buffet near the entrance to the great reception-room.

"Let us go the other way," said he. "There is Monsieur Havard! I do not at all want to meet him!... If we have to arrest Vagualame, it would be unnecessary to take Police Headquarters into our confidence."

"Undoubtedly, Colonel."

"Then let us keep clear of Monsieur Havard! Devote your whole attention to clearing up the questions raised by your talk. Find Vagualame for me in three days. If you have not run him to earth, then set our special enquiry men on his track.... I shall see you to-morrow at the Ministry--six sharp."

* * * * *

Whilst Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac were having their talk, Jérôme Fandor, who was also at the Elysée ball, in his own proper person, was busying himself with the affairs which had led him to consider that the murder of Captain Brocq was a crime which must be imputed to one of those foreign spies with which France was now swarming. At Verdun, along the entire frontier, there were nests of these noxious vermin.

Fandor was, of course, still stationed at Verdun. He had arrived early at the ball, hoping to pick up information from some friend as to how the Second Bureau was taking the disappearance of Corporal Vinson. Did the Second Bureau suspect anything?... What?... Had Nichoune's murder been explained?

Fandor stationed himself near the entrance to the first reception-room, watching all who entered, seeking the welcome face of friend or acquaintance.

Someone slapped him on the shoulder.

"Hullo, Fandor! Are you reporting the official fêtes nowadays?"

"You, Bonnet? What a jolly surprise! I have heard nothing of you for ages. How goes it?"

"My dear fellow, good luck has come my way at last!... I am police magistrate at Châlons! There's news for you!"

"By Jove, Bonnet! That is good hearing! You arrive here in the very nick of time!"

"Old Bonnet at Châlons and police magistrate!" thought Fandor. "What a bit of luck for me!"

"I want to ask the police magistrate of Châlons most interesting things," said Fandor, smiling at his friend.

"Information for a report?" queried Bonnet.

"Just so."

Fandor drew his "old Bonnet" away from the crowd of eyes and ears around them. They came on an empty little smoking-room. The very place!

"Now tell me, my dear Bonnet, have you not been engaged on a recent case--the death of a little singer, called."...

"Nichoune?... That is so. My first case at Châlons."

"Ah!... Now, just tell me!"

The examining magistrate shook his head.

"I cannot tell you much, for the good reason that this affair is as mysterious as can be, and is giving me no end of trouble.... You knew Nichoune, Fandor?"

"Yes--and no.... I would give a good deal, though, to know who her murderer is!"

"I also," said Bonnet, smiling. "Would I not like to put my hand on the collar of that individual!... Naturally, I want to carry through the enquiry with flying colours!"

"Have you no idea as to who the murderer might be?"

Police Magistrate Bonnet rose.

"That is as may be!... It seems that on the eve of her death, this Nichoune received a visit from an old man--a beggar--whom I am unable to identify--who has vanished into thin air.... Would you like me to keep you informed? Rue Richer is still your address?"

"Yes. It would be awfully kind of you to write when you have any fresh facts to disclose about this case. I cannot explain to you all the importance I attach to that, but it is enormous!"

"It is understood, then! Count on me. I shall tell you all I can without breaking professional secrecy.... Shall we take a turn through the rooms, old boy?"

"If you like, my dear Bonnet."

The two men strolled through the thinning rooms, talking of what all the world might hear.

"Dear boy, I must leave you," said Fandor suddenly.... "An interview!... Till our next meeting!"

Fandor went up to a man standing in a doorway, gazing disdainfully at the couples revolving in the centre of the room.

"Will you grant me a word or two, Monsieur Havard?" asked Fandor respectfully.

The chief of police brightened.

"Four, if you like, my good Fandor, I am bored to death. I would rather submit to your indiscreet questioning than stick here in a brown study--black, I might say--with only my own thoughts for company."

"Good heavens, Chief! What is troubling you to such an extent?"

Monsieur Havard laughed.

"Oh, I will tell you the reason of this melancholy mood!... You are on pretty intimate terms with Juve, are you not?"

"You have heard from him, Chief?"

"No, it is precisely."...

"You are anxious, then?"

"No, no! Be easy!" smiled Monsieur Havard.

He caught Fandor by the lapel of his coat.

"Look here, my dear fellow! It is precisely because you and Juve are on such intimate terms--this friendship between you is a fine thing--that I should like you to use your influence with Juve."

"With Juve?"

"Yes. With Juve. You know how highly I esteem him? He is our best detective. Very well he is making a thorough mess of his career: he prevents his own promotion, because he is so obstinately set on searching for his elusive, fugitive, never-to-be-caught Fantômas!"

"I do not understand you, Chief."

"You soon will. Do you know where Juve is at this moment?"

"No."

"I am as ignorant of his whereabouts as you are!... It is beyond bearing!... Juve goes his own way beyond what is allowable. He declared to me, the other day, that he was certain the death of Captain Brocq must be credited to--whose account do you think?... Why to Fantômas! And clac! Since then I have not heard a word from him! Juve is pursuing Fantômas! Now, Fandor, how can I tolerate this?"

Fandor considered Juve had a perfect right to take his own initiative in this particular matter--he had earned the right if ever a man had. He answered his aggrieved chief with a question.

"But suppose Juve is right?"

"Right?... But he deceives himself.... I have proof of it!"

"You have proof of it?... But who then, according to you, Chief, has killed Brocq?"

"My dear fellow," said Monsieur Havard, in a positive tone, "for a logical mind that reasons coolly, for one who does not bewilder himself in a network of Fantômas hypotheses, he who killed Brocq is assuredly he who has killed Nichoune! Brocq, I imagine, was killed by someone lying in wait on the top of the Arc de Triomphe. An accomplice, during this time, or some hours before--it matters little--had stolen the document the Ministry are looking for.... Brocq knew Corporal Vinson ... you are aware of that, Fandor?"

"Yes, yes! Please continue!"

"Good. Vinson had the murdered Nichoune as his mistress.... Do you not think the link between these two names is evident?... Brocq and Nichoune have died by the same hand."...

"But all this does not exclude Fantômas as the guilty person!"

"You go too fast, Fandor. I know who killed Nichoune!"

"Oh! I say!"

"But I do. Deuce take it, you do not suppose I go by what these officers of the Second Bureau are doing in the way of a search, do you?... They fancy they are detectives!"

"Oh, that is going too far, surely!" expostulated Fandor.

"No," asserted Monsieur Havard. "Who did the deeds?... I know. The investigations of my own agents, the information obtained through the Public Prosecutor and the magistrates, point to one person--Vagualame--an old sham beggar, who has relations of sorts with the Second Bureau."

Fandor could scarcely keep his countenance: he nearly burst into derisive laughter. Vagualame guilty! Monsieur Havard evidently had not all the facts. Could he possibly realise that Vagualame was one of Colonel Hofferman's most trusted men?

Jealous of the Second Bureau and all its works, Monsieur Havard meant to carry off the honours this time: he was going to arrest Vagualame as the murderer of both Captain Brocq and Nichoune! And then what a jolly blunder Police Headquarters would make! What a fine joke! Fandor really must help it on! He said to himself:

"Only let the police paralyse the action of the Second Bureau agent, old Vagualame, and I, the false Corporal Vinson, will be all the more free to act."

"You have serious circumstantial evidence against this person?" Fandor asked with a grave face.

"Very serious. I know for certain that he saw Nichoune the evening before her death: he was even the last person known to have spoken to the singer. I know that he then left Châlons, and has not returned there!... I know that he was on good terms with very shady people, some of whom are suspected of spying; and all that."...

Fandor interrupted:

"If I were in your place, Chief, and knew what you seem to know, I would not hesitate a moment.... I should arrest Vagualame!"

Monsieur Havard's glance was ironical.

"Who told you that I had not so decided?... At this moment my best trackers are out on Vagualame's trail.... If I run him to earth, he will not be at large long, I can promise you! It would end a bothersome affair, and would open the eyes of Colonel Hofferman who must be a hundred leagues from imagining that Vagualame is the murderer of Captain Brocq and Nichoune."

On this Fandor and Monsieur Havard parted. Dancing went gaily on in the warm, perfumed atmosphere of the ball-rooms; but Fandor and Monsieur Havard, Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac had had their serious interviews and had gone their respective ways.

XVII

IN THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ENEMY

The curtain with its pictured red cock was down, lights were up in the modern Cinema Concert Hall, rue des Poissonniers. Most of the spectators were on the move. An old white-bearded man of poverty-stricken appearance rose from his seat beside a pretty, red-haired girl, elegantly dressed. He murmured:

"I am going out for a smoke."

The girl nodded. She stared at the spectators with indifferent eyes. They were mostly women and girls. There was a mingled odour of hot coffee and orange peel. Drinks and refreshments, for the good of the house, were now the order of the evening.

The odd-looking old fellow, with a shabby accordion slung over his bent shoulders, making his way to the exit, was detective Juve, Juve-Vagualame in fact. He had kept the appointment made with Bobinette a week ago. This cinema entertainment in an unfashionable quarter suited his purpose exactly. In such an audience his appearance would attract but little attention, and the long intervals of darkness were all in his favour. Bobinette must not have her suspicions aroused.

Juve-Vagualame marched up and down outside the hall, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. Things were going well. Bobinette had been with him less than an hour, but she had given him an almost complete account of her doings during the past week. She announced that her trip to the frontier had been crowned with success: that the plan arranged with Corporal Vinson had proved astonishingly successful. She could not praise this wonderful Vinson enough. How intelligent he was? Say but half a word and he understood everything. As cynical as you please, he would stick at nothing, declaring himself ready for anything, regardless of consequences!

From this, Juve-Vagualame gathered that Corporal Vinson was a daring traitor, was the most out-and-out scoundrel imaginable.

Bobinette also told her supposed chief that the moment for the great stroke was at hand. She whispered low: "To-morrow Vinson will be in Paris!"

Juve had already learned that Vinson was stationed at Verdun, was granted frequent leave, and that on the morning of December 1st he would be in Paris. This was the evening of November 30th! Bobinette had not said exactly what he was coming to do, and Juve feared to ask questions that might arouse the red-haired girl's suspicions.

A shrill-sounding bell warned spectators that the interval was over. Juve-Vagualame returned to his seat. He was saying to himself:

"I must know exactly what Vinson is coming to Paris for."

After several attempts, he drew an important statement from Bobinette. He played the part of sceptic. The more enthusiastically convinced Bobinette was that the "great affair" would be successful, the more sceptical he grew.

She committed herself to a statement of extreme importance.

"Don't I tell you, old unbeliever that you are, that Corporal Vinson is to bring the plan of the piece in question?"

"The plan!" objected Juve-Vagualame. "That is good, as far as it goes; but that is not sufficient!"

Bobinette shrugged her plump shoulders. She was exasperated. The noise of the orchestra covered the sound of her imprudently loud answers.

"Since I tell you I have in my hands the piece of the gun which is to go to the Havre agent! I expect you have forgotten the details concerning this object? The manufacture of it is so complicated that, without the design for its construction, the piece would be much like any other.... We have the piece--I tell you it is in our hands.... To-morrow we shall possess the design of it, thanks to Vinson--can we possibly expect anything more complete than that?"

There was a pause. Then Bobinette announced:

"If, after that, you do not pay me what you owe me, you can be sure I shall not serve you ever again!"

Juve-Vagualame promised immediate payment.

"But," said he to himself, "her remuneration will not take the form she expects!"

To mislead the curious, the serious talk of this incongruous pair was punctuated by loud-voiced remarks having no connection with the real matter in hand.

Juve's one idea now was to see this piece of a gun for himself. When Bobinette, at last, grasped this, she stared at him with bewildered eyes.

"But what are you thinking of, Vagualame? I do not carry the thing about with me."

"I think, on the contrary, that you keep it well hidden in your own room."

"Assuredly," confirmed Bobinette.

"I mean to see it. I expect you to agree to that," declared Juve-Vagualame.

"You intend to come to?"... Bobinette looked terrified.

"Exactly."

"But when? Do you recollect, Vagualame, that I shall have to hand it over early to-morrow morning?"

"There is time for me to see it between then and now! See it, I must! Examine it, hold it in my hands, I will! I have my most excellent reasons for this!"

Juve meant to seize the piece of a gun and arrest the guilty girl.

Bobinette dared not openly kick against her chief's iron determination; but she made another attempt to turn him from his purpose.

"You know quite well that I am living in the Baron de Naarboveck's house. The least noise, an alarm raised, and I would not answer for the consequences: we should almost certainly be caught!"

"We have nothing to fear. An hour from now I wish to be in your room!"

"But--how shall you get into it?" asked Bobinette, who was giving way before this persistent attack.

"You will return alone. You will go up to your room. I know whereabouts it is: you will leave the window half open. I will enter your room by the window."

Bobinette saw this was possible, though risky. A large gutter pipe ran up the whole height of the house; it was fastened to the wall by projecting clamp-hooks of solid iron. For an agile man this was simply a staircase. Bobinette was aware of this. In the course of her adventurous life, she had been initiated into all sorts of tricks and stratagems; she was practiced in every form of gymnastic exercise. Vagualame could and would reach her room by the gutter-pipe ladder, it was not too difficult; but it was a risky undertaking, for, and particularly from the Esplanade des Invalides, a climber might be seen, an alarm raised, and the police would intervene.

* * * * *

Juve-Vagualame and Bobinette left the "movies" hall at half-past ten. In a taxi they discussed how best to effect an entrance into the de Naarboveck mansion. Juve-Vagualame stuck to his original idea.

The taxi drew up at the bridge. Juve-Vagualame paid the driver. Bobinette hurried away, slipped into the house, and went straight up to her room. She busied herself with the preparations agreed on, whereby Vagualame could the more easily effect an entrance in his turn.

Safe in her room, Bobinette experienced a strange, a penetrating emotion. She felt as though something around her in which she had moved safely, was cracking; with a sudden and terrible lucidity she saw herself marching forward, powerless to draw back, marching helplessly towards an abyss--an abyss which was about to engulf her! She trembled, trembled violently. She was encompassed by vague and agonizing terrors.

* * * * *

Out in the night Juve, wandering restlessly, awaited his hour! This time! Ah, this time! He murmured:

"I shall be in the stronghold of the enemy at last!"

XVIII

IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!

The Baron de Naarboveck and his daughter, Wilhelmine, were comfortably seated before a wood fire in the library. So numerous were their social engagements they rarely had time for a quiet talk together. Wilhelmine was in good spirits. De Naarboveck listened with an indulgent smile to her vivacious account of the little happenings and doings of her day. Presently a more serious subject came up for discussion. The word "marriage" was mentioned. Wilhelmine blushed and lowered her eyes, while the baron sounded her teasingly on her feelings for de Loubersac.

"My dear child," said the baron; "this young officer has a fine future before him; he is charming; is sufficiently well connected; adequately endowed with this world's goods; bears a known name; you would find him a suitable match."

Wilhelmine kept silence. An anxious, preoccupied look replaced her bright expression: her animation had died down. At last she murmured:

"Dear father, I have nothing to hide from you, and I willingly confess that I love Henri with my whole heart. I know he loves me also; but I ask myself whether he will not raise objections when he learns my life's secret!"

"My dear child, there is nothing in this secret which impugns your honor: you are not the responsible party. If, up to the present, I have thought it well to introduce you to my friends as my dau."...

De Naarboveck stopped short; the library door had opened. A footman appeared and announced:

"A woman has just arrived with her son, and wishes to see Mademoiselle or Monsieur. She says it is the new groom she has brought."

The baron looked puzzled. Wilhelmine rose.

"I forgot to tell you I was expecting the stable boy this evening. He replaces Charles."

She turned to the impassive footman.

"Please ask Mademoiselle Berthe to attend to these persons. They come late--much too late!"

"Mademoiselle will please excuse me for troubling her," replied the footman, "but Mademoiselle is still out, and."...

"In that case I will see them myself, though it is an unconscionable hour--not at all a good beginning."...

* * * * *

The woman and her son had been shown into the smoking-room. When Wilhelmine entered, the pair bowed respectfully.

The would-be groom was a nice-looking lad, and gave the impression of being superior to the common run of his class and calling. Agreeably surprised, Wilhelmine asked to see his references: she wished to make sure that they were in order; preliminaries, through the medium of an agent, had been gone into some days before. The woman displayed them, announcing in a loud, harsh voice:

"I am his mother!"

This mother was as unpleasant to behold as her son was the contrary, thought Wilhelmine.

She was a stout, vulgar, clumsy creature, enveloped in a large shawl of many colours which did not hide her obesity. The old termagant's face seemed all paint and large gold-rimmed spectacles, and peering eyes. This grotesque visage was shaded by a flowered veil.

"What a horrid old creature!" thought Wilhelmine, as she listened with scarcely concealed distaste to the woman's voluble praises of her son's qualities.... According to her, he was a marvel of marvels.

Monsieur de Naarboveck remained in the library pacing up and down, smoking an expensive cigar. Wilhelmine did not return. Feeling sleepy, he quitted the room and went down the long gallery at a leisurely pace. The reception rooms opened on to it. The spacious entrance hall was visible from the wrought-iron balustrade bordering this gallery.

The baron stopped. He listened. Surely there were voices in animated discussion in the vestibule! Yes. Men were arguing with the porter--insisting.... The porter was coming up. The baron went down to meet him. Two men, in derby hats and tightly buttoned overcoats, confronted him. They carried neither stick nor umbrella, their hands were gloveless. There was an air of suppressed haste about them. They saluted. One of the two offered his card. The baron read:

_Inspector Michel,
Detective Force,
Police Headquarters._

"Kindly follow me, gentlemen!"

De Naarboveck walked quietly up the grand staircase, his hand on its superb wrought-iron balustrade.

The two men followed in silence.

The baron opened the smoking-room door, saw it was empty, entered, signed to the policemen to follow, and closed the door.

"To what do I owe the honour of your visit, gentlemen?"

De Naarboveck's tone was icy.

Inspector Michel spoke.

"You must pardon us, Monsieur. Only a matter of the most serious importance--exceptionally serious--could have brought us to your house at so late an hour.... We hold a warrant, and, with your permission, we shall proceed to make an arrest."

De Naarboveck looked fixedly at the policemen.

"Gentlemen, that you should invade my house at such an hour, this matter must indeed be of singular importance," he said stiffly. Then, in a voice quivering with sarcasm, he enquired:

"Am I to be permitted to know what it is all about?"

"There is no harm in asking that, Monsieur," replied Inspector Michel, in a matter-of-fact tone. "The individual we have come to arrest here is a ruffian, wanted for a couple of murders: that of a Captain Brocq, and that of a little music-hall singer called Nichoune."

That this statement had upset the baron was evident: he had grown white to the lips. Inspector Michel realised that the idea of this double-dyed murderer having taken refuge in his house must have given the rich diplomat a horrid surprise. He continued his statement.

"The individual we have come to arrest is known under the name of Vagualame!"

"Vagualame!" stammered de Naarboveck. He staggered slightly and caught at the mantelpiece for support.

"How upset the baron is!" thought Inspector Michel. "Hardly to be wondered at!" He hurried on with his statement.

"We were on the watch on the Esplanade des Invalides, about half an hour ago--nothing to do with this affair--when we saw Vagualame approaching this house."

"You saw Vagualame!" exclaimed the baron, with the amazed, incredulous look of a man who finds himself suddenly faced by a set of lunatics. "But--it's--it is ..." he gasped.

"It is so, Monsieur," asserted Inspector Michel. "This old ruffian, after lingering about a few minutes to assure himself that he was not being followed--we managed to conceal ourselves sufficiently behind the trees--Vagualame effected a most suspicious entry into your house, Monsieur. He climbed the wall with the help of a gutter-pipe, and entered the house through a half-opened window on the third floor! You permit, Monsieur, that we take action at once!"

Without waiting for the baron's authorisation, Inspector Michel made a sign to his colleagues. They removed their overcoats, placed them on a chair, drew out their revolvers, and left the room.

The detectives were on the first steps of the flight of stairs leading to the third story, when they heard voices just above them. The piercing notes of the new groom's mother mingled with the refined accents of Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, who, in the absence of her companion, was about to show the new groom the room allotted to him. In such matters Wilhelmine was more punctilious than most.

* * * * *

"Did you hear, Vagualame?"

Bobinette paled. Could her overstrung nerves be playing her tricks? No.... There certainly were voices, voices on the floor below, strange voices!... Whose?... Why?

Vagualame was seated at the foot of the bed, much at his ease. His accordion lay on the floor. He met Bobinette's urgency with a shrug.

"Bah!"

With a despairing gesture, the terrified girl moved close to the old man.

"Don't you understand?... They have seen you! They are after you!... Master!" Bobinette bent forward, looked Vagualame in the eyes ... started ... drew back with a jerk.

This was not the Vagualame she knew!... Not her master!... Who, then?... Who but an enemy?... A police spy?... Horror!... She was trapped!... Lost!

Her heart was beating frightfully--beating to bursting point. Were her knees going to give way?... They should not!... Play the poltroon?... Never!... Rage boiled up in her; brain and will were afire.... She submit to the humiliation of arrest, the long-drawn-out agonies of cross-examinations, the tortures of imprisonment in Noumea?... Not Bobinette!... Never, never, never!

Almost simultaneously with her backward jerk from the stranger eyes of this Vagualame, Bobinette darted to a chiffonier, slipped her hand into a drawer among ribbons and laces, seized a revolver, and snatched it out....

Agile as a panther, Vagualame leaped at the girl, caught her wrist in a grip like a vice. The pain of it was intense--Bobinette dropped her weapon.

"No more of this nonsense!" commanded Vagualame in a hard voice.

"Keep cool, I tell you!... Go on to the landing. Look over. See what is happening. You are not to be afraid."

Struck speechless, Bobinette stared at the old man, who commanded her as a master, and might stand by her as an accomplice--but--those terrifying eyes were not the eyes of her own Vagualame--no! How to act?

She was left no choice. The old man was pushing her relentlessly towards the door. He must be obeyed.

Listening, on the alert, Juve-Vagualame remained in the room, ready to conceal himself behind the curtains. Who were these mounting the stairs? Some of the household? Suppose Bobinette's agitation was so marked that it aroused their suspicions, and his presence was revealed?... Should the position become untenable, he would leave by the window, close to which he was standing, make his way over the roofs to a neighbouring house--but--confound it!... neither the gun piece would be in his hands, nor would he have learned where Bobinette had her rendezvous with Corporal Vinson next morning!...

Bobinette was swaying in the doorway, as though the landing were red-hot ploughshares to be walked on! The ordeal was beyond her!

* * * * *

Four persons set foot on the landing. (A peremptory order from de Naarboveck had caused Wilhelmine to descend.)

Inspector Michel and his colleague stared at the individuals in whose company they found themselves--the young groom and his amazing mother!

With a caricatural gesture of disdain, and an off-handed air, this corpulent personage demanded stridently:

"Who are these gentlemen?"

Inspector Michel looked the outrageous creature up and down.

"Who are you, Madame?... What are you doing here?"

The inspector's tone was severity itself.

Juve, behind his window-curtains, breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ah, Michel has it in hand! That's all right!"

The groom's mother was taken aback--she hesitated; thereupon, Inspector Michel stated his name and rank! On that, the large body of this irrepressible personage made straight for him, caught him familiarly by the neck, and whispered in his ear.

The effect of the whispered words was to put Inspector Michel out of countenance: he looked abashed. He was annoyed: his tone was one of protest.

"I recognise you now, certainly--Monsieur!... But since when have you taken it upon yourself to--to start operations of the kind we have in hand--_we_, the representatives of Police Headquarters?"

The woman's retort was haughty.

"I belong to the information department of the Second Bureau."

"The Second Bureau does not make arrests--not that I am aware of--Captain!"

The obstreperous mother of the pretended groom was--Captain Loreuil!

Pointing to his young companion, Captain Loreuil announced:

"This gentleman belongs to the secret service department of the Home Office!... But what really matters, Inspector, is that we are losing time! Let us effect a capture--the capture is the thing!"

The distracted Bobinette, still swaying in the doorway, failed to grasp the full meaning of what these intruders were saying. Inspector Michel marched up to the trembling girl.

"Mademoiselle! Are you alone in your room?"

Bobinette nodded. She was incapable of speech. The inspector ignored the nod, brushed past her, stepped into the room and glanced rapidly round.

Bobinette, wild-eyed with fear, watched the proceedings. She saw the stout woman moving the chairs, looking under the bed, shaking the hangings. The fussy, obnoxious creature tore apart the window-curtains.... Vagualame was exposed to view!... He had not escaped, then!

They dragged the old fellow from his hiding-place: they promptly handcuffed him.

"Vagualame! In the name of the law I arrest you!" declared Inspector Michel.

Captain Loreuil shouted in his natural voice, which, issuing from this apparent woman, had a ludicrous effect:

"Ha! at last we have got him!"

Juve-Vagualame did not budge. With inward joy, he awaited the arrest of Bobinette.

"Things go well," he thought: "if not so well as old Michel believes. Comrade Juve in the bracelets, and Vagualame free! But he holds Bobinette in his hand--the old ruffian's accomplice, unmasked!"

What was this? Could Juve believe his ears?... Michel apologising to this guilty creature! Felicitating her on her escape from Vagualame's clutches! What the deuce?...

"Ah, Mademoiselle! You never suspected who was so near you, now did you?" Inspector Michel was saying to Bobinette, whose self-confidence was beginning to return.

"You have certainly had a narrow escape," he went on with a congratulatory smile. "This old ruffian meant to murder you, I am convinced."

Pointing triumphantly to Juve-Vagualame, he added:

"But Vagualame cannot harm you now! The law has got him! The law has saved you, Mademoiselle!"

Inspector Michel made a sign. His colleague and the Home Office detective dragged Juve from the room. Juve offered no resistance.

"That Michel is an idiot--the completest of idiots," he thought.

"Come along, now! We are off to the Dépôt!" commanded Michel, shaking Juve-Vagualame by the shoulder.

Juve was about to tear off his false beard, make himself known, and get Bobinette arrested. He thought better of it. He was pretty sure the girl doubted his genuineness. This arrest under her eyes would persuade her that the Vagualame they were taking to prison was the real Vagualame.... Better that she should cherish this delusion for the present. Once out of the de Naarboveck house, he could explain matters to his colleagues.

Thinking thus, Juve-Vagualame, encircled by watchful policemen, descended the stairs. On the first floor he caught a glimpse of the baron and his daughter in the ante-room. De Naarboveck's bearing was dignified: Wilhelmine seemed terribly frightened. There was a scared, hunted look on her pallid face.

Behind Juve-Vagualame in his handcuffs followed the pseudo-mother. Judging it unwise to make himself known to the master and mistress of the house, Captain Loreuil played his part vigorously to the last. Close on Juve's heels he came, shouting:

"This is a nice kind of shop, this is!... You shall not remain here, Sosthène, my child! Come, then, with your mother! She will find you a very different situation to this! My poor Sosthène!"...

Majestically, with a wave of her arm signifying disdainful rejection, the pseudo-mother drew her shawl of many colours about her corpulent person and sailed out of the de Naarboveck mansion.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, up on the third floor, a puzzled, confused, battered Bobinette was recovering from the shocks and terrors of the evening. She lay back in an arm-chair trying to piece things together.

Two things were clear: Vagualame was arrested; she was free, and with the famous gun piece still in her possession.... To-morrow, she would obey orders received: she would take the piece to Havre, accompanied by Corporal Vinson, who would bring the plan of the apparatus.

Bobinette had bent her head to the storm: she now raised it proudly.

XIX

THE MYSTERIOUS ABBÉ

Fandor half opened his eyes. Was he dreaming? This was not the barrack dormitory, with its gaunt white-washed walls and morning clamour.... Of course! He was in a bedroom of a cheap hotel in Paris. Cretonne curtains shaded the window. A ray of light was reflected in a hanging mirror of scant dimensions, decidedly the worse for wear. Below it stood a washstand. On its cracked and dirty marble top could be seen a chipped and ill-matched basin and soapdish. A lopsided table occupied the middle of the room. On a chair by his bed lay Fandor-Vinson's uniform. His valise reposed on a rickety chest of drawers. Fandor was loath to rouse himself. His bed was warm, while about the room icy draughts from ill-fitting door and window were circulating freely.

He would have to get up presently, dress, and keep his appointment. His appointment! Ah! Wide awake now, our journalist considered the situation.

A couple of days ago the adjutant had announced:

"Corporal Vinson, you have eight days' leave: you can quit barracks at noon to-morrow."

Fandor had been given leave several times already: he merely replied:

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

He then looked out for a post card from the spies, appointing a rendezvous. A letter was handed to him by the post sergeant.

The letter commenced:

"_My dearest darling_."...

"Ah!" thought Fandor. "Now I am indeed a soldier. I receive a love letter!"

His unknown correspondent wrote:

_"It is so long since I saw you, but as you have eight days' leave I can make up for lost time! Would you not like to arrange a meeting for your first morning in Paris? You will go as usual, will you not, to the Army and Navy Hotel, boulevard Barbès? You will find me at half-past eleven to the minute, in the rue de Rivoli, at the corner of the rue Castiglione. We might breakfast together. To our early meeting, then! I send you all my kisses."_

The signature was illegible.

Fandor understood the hidden meaning. He was to hand over the design as he had promised; but he had decided to put them off with a concocted design of his own! He must hasten now to the appointed meeting place.

Fandor rose at once. Whilst dressing he decided:

"I shall go in mufti--be Jérôme Fandor, undisguised. Better be on the safe side--this may be an anti-spy trap. Of course I shall miss my rendezvous; but _they_ will not be put off so easily. They will write at once, making a new appointment. Then I shall go as Corporal Vinson, if I think it the wisest thing to do."

Fandor ran down the rickety stairs. He learned from Octave, the hotel porter, that his room had been paid for three days in advance. Saying he would not be back until the evening, probably, Fandor stepped on to the boulevard Barbès, and hailed a cab.

"Take me to the foot of the Vendôme column," he ordered.

* * * * *

Arrived at the rendezvous, Fandor sauntered along, awaiting developments. Presently he noticed in the distance a figure he seemed to know. It was moving towards him.

"My word! I was not mistaken," thought Fandor, watching the young woman. She also was sauntering under the arcades of the rue de Rivoli, glancing at the fascinating display of feminine apparel in the shop windows. Fandor drew aside, watching her every movement, and swearing softly.

The girl came nearer. Fandor's curiosity made him make himself known, that he might see what she would do. He showed himself, and saluted with an impressive wave of his hat, exclaiming:

"Why, it is Mademoiselle Berthe!"

The girl stopped.

"Why--yes--it is Monsieur Fandor!... How are you?"

"Flourishing, thanks! I need not ask how you are, Mademoiselle!... You bloom!"

Bobinette smiled.

"How is it I find you here at this time of day?"

"Why, Mademoiselle, just in the same way as you happen to be here--the fancy took me to pass this way!... I often do."

"Oh!" cried Bobinette in an apologetic tone. "Now, I am going to ask you how it is you have never responded to Monsieur de Naarboveck's invitation to take a cup of tea with us now and then! We were speaking of you only the other day. Monsieur de Naarboveck said he never saw your signature in _La Capitale_ now--that most probably you were travelling."

"I have, in fact, just returned to Paris. Are all well at Monsieur de Naarboveck's? Has Mademoiselle Wilhelmine recovered from the sad shock of Captain Brocq's death?... His end was so sudden!"

"Oh, yes, Monsieur."

Fandor would have liked to find out the exact nature of Bobinette's intimacy with the ill-fated officer, also to what extent she was in love with Henri de Loubersac; but, as she showed by her manner that she did not relish this talk, either because of the turn it had taken, or because it was held in a public place, Fandor had to take his leave. Bobinette went off. Fandor noted the time as he continued his saunter. It was a quarter to twelve. Of the few passers-by there was not one who merited a second glance or thought!... Impatiently he waited, five, ten minutes: at one o'clock he betook himself to his hotel. There he found an express message, unsigned. It ran:

"_My darling, my dear love, forgive me for not meeting you
this morning in the rue de Rivoli, as arranged. It was
impossible. Return to the same place at two o'clock, I will
be punctual, I promise you.... Of course you will wear your
uniform. I want to see how handsome you look in it!_"

"I do not like this," thought Fandor, rereading the message. "Why ask me to come in uniform?... Do they know I came in mufti this morning?... I shall go again; but I think it is high time I returned to civilian life!"

* * * * *

It was two by the clock on the refuge, in the rue de Rivoli. Fandor-Vinson emerged from the Metropolitan and crossed to the corner of the rue Castiglione. He took a few steps under the arcade, saying to himself:

"Punctual to the tick and in uniform! The meeting should come off all right this time!"

A delicately gloved hand was placed on his shoulder, and a voice said:

"My dear Corporal! How are you?"

Fandor-Vinson turned sharply and faced--a priest!... He recognised the abbé. It was he of the Verdun motor-car.

"Very well! And you, Monsieur l'Abbé?... Your friend? Is he with you?"

"He is not, my dear Corporal!"

"Is he at Verdun?"

The abbé's reply was a look of displeasure.

"I do not know where he is," he said sharply, after a pause.... "But that is neither here nor there, Corporal," he went on in a more amiable tone. "We are going to take a little journey together."

This news perturbed Fandor-Vinson: it was not to his liking.

The abbé took him by the arm.

"You will excuse my absence this morning? To keep the appointment was impossible.... Ah! Hand me the promised document, will you?... That is it?... Very good.... Thank you!... By the by, Corporal--there you see our special train." The priest pointed to a superb motor-car drawn up alongside the pavement. A superior-looking chauffeur was seated at the wheel.

"Shall we get in? We have a fairly long way to go, and it is important that we arrive punctually."

Fandor could do nothing but agree. They seated themselves. The abbé shared a heavy travelling rug.

"We will wrap ourselves up well," said he. "It is far from warm, and there is no need to catch cold--it is not part of our programme!... You can start now, chauffeur! We are ready."

Once in motion, the abbé pointed to a voluminous package which prevented Fandor from stretching his legs.

"We can change places from time to time, for you cannot be comfortable with this package encumbering the floor of the car like this."

"Oh," replied Fandor-Vinson, "one takes things as they come!... But we should be much more comfortable if we fastened this rather clumsy piece of baggage to the front seat, beside the chauffeur, who can keep an eye on it!"

"Corporal! You cannot be thinking of what you are saying!" The priest's reply was delivered in a dry authoritative voice.

"I have put my foot in it," thought Fandor. "I should just like to know how!" He was about to speak: the abbé cut in:

"I am very tired, Corporal, so excuse me if I doze a little! In an hour or so, I shall be quite refreshed. There will be ample time for a talk after that."

Fandor could but agree.

The car was speeding up the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. They were leaving Paris--for what destination?

"Does your chauffeur know the route, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

"I hope so--why?"

"Because I could direct him. I could find my way about any of these suburbs with my eyes shut."

"Very well. See that he keeps on the right road. We are going towards Rouen." With that the abbé wrapped himself in his share of the ample rug and closed his eyes.

Fandor sat still as a mouse, with all the food for thought he required.

"Why Rouen? Why were they taking him there?... What is this mysterious package which must remain out of sight at the bottom of the car?"

Fandor tried to follow its outline with the toe of his boot. It was protected by a thick wrapping of straw.

"Then who was this abbé?" His speech showed he was French. He wore his cassock with the ease of long habit: he was young. His hand was the delicate hand of a Churchman--not coarsened by manual labour. Fandor, plunged in reflections, lost all sense of time.

The car sped on its way, devouring the miles fleetly. No sooner out of Paris than Saint-Germain was cleared--Mantes left behind! As they were approaching Bonniéres, Fandor, whose eyes had been fixed on the interminable route, as though at some turn of the road he might catch sight of their real destination, now felt that the abbé was watching the landscape through half-closed eyes.

"You are awake, then, Monsieur l'Abbé?" observed Fandor-Vinson.

"I was wondering where we were."

"We are coming to Bonniéres."

"Good!" The abbé sat up, flung his rug aside.

"Do as I do, Corporal. Do not fold up the rug. Throw it over our package. Prying eyes will not suspect its presence."

With the most stupid air in the world, Fandor asked:

"Must it not be seen, then?"