A Nest of Spies: Fantômas Saga. Marcel Allain

the matter with you, Fandor?" he said at last.

      "Why are you carrying on like this? Why are you not on your travels?... Without being inquisitive, I suppose you have your head full of other things than the state of the weather?"

      "And you, Juve?"

      "How? I?"

      "Juve, I ask you why you are so upset?"

      The detective folded his arms.

      "My word, Fandor, but you are losing your head. You think, then, that I am thoroughly upset?"

      "Juve, you look like a death's-head!"

      "Really?"

      "Juve, you have not been to bed!"

      "I have not been to bed, have I not? How do you know that?"

      Fandor approached the writing-table and pointed to the corner, where a series of half-smoked cigarettes were ranged side by side.

      "Ah, I do not doubt, Juve, but that they tidy up your study every morning; but, here are twenty-five cigarette ends, lying side by side: you certainly have not smoked all those in one morning, consequently you have lighted them during the night, and consequently you have not gone to bed."

      Juve's tone was bantering.

      "Continue, little one, you interest me."

      "And, to cap it all, the ends of your cigarettes have been chewed, bitten, mangled, — an indisputable sign of high nervous tension — therefore."...

      "Therefore, Fandor?"

      "Therefore, Juve, I ask what is wrong with you — that's all!"

      The detective fixed the journalist with a piercing look, trying to guess what he was aiming at. But Fandor was too good a pupil of Juve to let him have the slightest inkling of his feelings. There was an enigmatic smile on his lips whilst he awaited Juve's reply.

      The detective quickly decided to speak out.

      "I am looking into a very serious affair which interests me greatly."

      "Grave?"

      "Possibly."

      This did not satisfy Fandor. He seated himself on the corner of the writing-table and considered his friend.

      "See now, Juve, answer me if you can see your way to it.... Your attitude makes me sure that important things are in the air: you are in a very emotional condition, and that for some reason I have not fathomed. Can I be useful to you? Will you not let me share this secret?"

      "Will you tell me yours?"

      "In three minutes."

      Juve sat for a few minutes deep in thought. Then in a changed voice, a solemn voice with a sharp note in it, he said:

      "You know about Captain Brocq's sudden death, of course?... Let me tell you that I have discovered it was an assassination. It's this affair I am giving all my attention to."

      When there was mention of the Brocq affair, Fandor started. Here was a strange coincidence. Since last night had not his own mind been distressed by the mysteries he divined in this strange death? And now here was Juve also upset by his examination of this same affair.

      Fandor drew up a chair, placed himself astride it, facing Juve, putting his elbows on the back and holding his head between his hands.

      "You are looking into this Brocq affair, Juve?... Very well! So am I!... You have read my articles?"

      "They are very interesting."

      "They lack conclusiveness, however!... But, as things are, I could not do better, not having any precise information and facts to go upon. Are you quite certain about the facts yourself? Do you know who has struck the blow?"

      "Don't you suspect, Fandor?"

      Juve did not give him time to reply. He half rose from his seat, and, bending close to Fandor, looked him straight in the eyes.

      "Tell me, my boy! Suppose that after six months of truce, six months of tranquillity, your whole existence is again violently upset? If you understood that the efforts and dangers and struggles and tenacity of six long years were entirely wasted, and that the results you thought you had achieved did not exist — that you had to begin all over again — that once more you had to play a match with not only your life for stakes, but your honour as well — tell me, Fandor, would you not be stirred to your depths?"

      Our journalist feigned indifference: it was the best way to draw Juve on, he well knew.

      "What do you mean, Juve?"

      "What do I mean, my boy? You shall hear! Do you know who killed Captain Brocq?"

      "No! Who?"

      "Fantômas!"

      At this sinister name Fandor jumped up as though thunderstruck.

      "Fantômas?... You accuse Fantômas of having killed Captain Brocq?"

      Juve nodded assent.

      The two men stared at each other in horror-struck silence.

      Fantômas!

What a flood of memories, horrid, menacing, that name evoked! There flashed through Fandor's mind all that he knew of the atrocities which could be imputed to Fantômas. He seemed to live over again the recent years of continual struggle, of almost daily contest with the mysterious criminal — Fantômas!... But had not Juve declared — and not so long ago — after the drama of rue Norvins,2 when the elusive monster had been driven to flight — had not Juve declared that Fantômas had vanished for good and all! Now, at this precise moment, he was accusing this criminal of a fresh crime!... Fandor thought, too, of the conclusions he had himself arrived at, whilst studying the Brocq affair from his own point of view: that it was a drama of spies and spying.... Surely either he was mistaken — or Juve was!... Was it a murder, or a political assassination?... No longer pretending indifference, he questioned Juve anxiously:

      "You accuse Fantômas? In the name of death and destruction, why?"

      Juve had regained his self-possession. By pronouncing the word "Fantômas," by giving utterance to his secret fears, he had relieved his feelings.

      "Fandor!" said he, in a quiet voice: "Consider carefully all the details and circumstances of this drama! In open day, on one of the most frequented promenades of Paris, an officer falls mortally wounded when passing in a taxicab, going possibly to some appointed meeting-place in one of the restaurants of the Bois. His taxi is surrounded by a crowd of vehicles, and without having time even to see his attacker, without anyone having seen him, Brocq collapses, mortally wounded, killed as though in battle, by a shot, a mysterious shot, fired from a weapon of the most perfect kind.... Come now, Fandor! Is that not a crime worthy of Fantômas?"

      But the journalist was not convinced.

      "True, this crime is worthy of Fantômas, but I do not think Fantômas has committed it.... You go too far, Juve! You are the victim of your hobby. Believe me, you exaggerate — you cannot trace every strange and subtle crime to this criminal!"

      "If you do not attribute this crime to Fantômas, then at whose door do you lay it?" demanded the detective, who was well aware that he must guard against being the victim of a Fantômas obsession.

      "Juve," replied Fandor, "I have been charged by Dupont to look into the Brocq affair, and have had to postpone my holiday to do it — that is how you see me this morning.... Well, I have begun my enquiry, and am trying to find out the exact truth regarding this unfortunate officer's death.... I have visited certain of his relations, interviewed the people who have known him, I have been able to get into touch with this Bobinette, who seems to be the last person who approached him a little before his assassination, and I have also arrived at a conclusion."

      "And that is — Fandor?"

      "A conclusion, Juve, which does not involve Fantômas in the slightest