A Nest of Spies: Fantômas Saga. Marcel Allain

both up to time," she murmured, recognising a figure still some distance away.

      Bobinette drew from her muff a small roll of papers.

      The advancing person was a seedy-looking individual, stooping, seemingly bent under the weight of a bulky accordion. He looked about sixty; his long white beard, untrimmed and badly neglected, disguised the lower half of his face, while his luxuriant moustache, and his long hair, arranged artist fashion, largely hid the upper part of his countenance.

      A beggar? Not at all! This personage would most certainly have spurned such an epithet with a gesture of offended disdain. Live by charity? Not he! Was not his accordion there to show that he possessed a regular means of livelihood? He claimed to be a musician.

      He was well known throughout one quarter of Paris, was this poor old man who chanced to be passing along that path in the Bois de Boulogne. He was a perfect specimen of the unsettled type of human being, savagely enamoured of liberty, going from court to court playing with wearied arms the ballads of the moment, indifferent to their melodies, to their rhythms, to their beauties, to their ugliness.... No one knew his real name. They called him Vagualame; for his plaintive notes inspired sad thoughts and an indefinable trouble of the nerves in those unlucky enough to listen to him for a time. This nickname stuck to him.

      He was quite a Parisian type, this Vagualame: one of those faces at once odd and classic, such as one comes across in numbers on the pavements, known to all the world, without anyone knowing exactly who they are, how they live, where they go, or whence they come....

      The old man had, on his side, caught sight of Bobinette. He hastened towards her as fast as his legs permitted; and as soon as he was near enough to speak to her without raising his voice, he questioned her:

      "Well?" It was the interrogation of a master to a subordinate.

      "Well?" he repeated. His tone was anxious.

      Bobinette calmed the old man's apprehensions with a nod. "It's done," said she.

      Holding out to him the roll of paper, she added: "I could only get them at the last minute; but I've got them, and I don't fancy he suspects anything."

      As Bobinette uttered these last words, the old accordion player chuckled sneeringly:

      "So that's what you think? As a matter of fact, it is evident that he suspects nothing now!"

      The way in which the old man pronounced the word "now" puzzled the girl.

      "What do you mean?"

      "Captain Brocq is dead."

      "Dead!"

      Although she did not love her lover much, at this startling piece of news Bobinette had jumped up, wringing her hands in horror. She grew strangely pale.

      "Yes, dead!" replied Vagualame coldly. "Kindly sit down please! See to it that you play your part! You are a young woman speaking to an old beggar, and you are not to forget it."

      Bobinette sat down mechanically. She questioned him, and her voice was trembling.

      "Dead? What has happened, then?"

      "What has happened is that you have played the fool! Brocq saw clearly that you had stolen the document from him."

      "He saw?"...

      "Yes, he saw it! I had my suspicions, fortunately!... Then this cursed captain threw himself into a taxi and followed you.... At the moment when your own auto turned on the Place de l'Étoile, his was going to meet it! Brocq was already hailing you, and you would have been caught without a doubt had I not come to the rescue."

      "Great Heavens! What have you done?"

      "I have just told you. Clic-clac! A bullet in his heart, and he remains on the spot."...

      Bobinette was dumbfounded. She did not speak for a minute or two. Then she asked anxiously:

      "But where were you?"

      "That does not concern you!"

      "What must I say, then, if, by chance, I am questioned?"

      "What must you say! The truth."...

      "I am to confess that I knew him?"

      Vagualame tapped his foot impatiently.

      "How stupid you are! There is one thing you must understand. At the present moment it is almost certain that this good fellow's identity has been established. The devil's in it if some policeman is not at his domicile already and if enquiry is not being made into the life of Captain Brocq. To learn that he is on terms of acquaintanceship with your patron, de Naarboveck, is child's play! To prove that he has received a visit from you to-day, to prove that you were his mistress — or, at the very least that you had come on an errand from Naarboveck's daughter, Wilhelmine, why anybody can discover that! To-morrow you will read the details in all the papers, for the reporters are going to get hold of this affair: it is inevitable! Consequently, do you not deny anything: it would only compromise you to no good purpose. You will say."...

      Vagualame stopped short. He raised the accordion which he carried slung over his shoulder, saying in a whisper:

      "People are coming. I leave you. I will see you again, if necessary. Do not be anxious. I take all on my own shoulders. Attention!" And suddenly changing his tone, he began to speak in a voice calculated to excite pity:

      "Grateful thanks, kind lady! The good God will rain blessings on you for it.... I thank you, kind lady!"

      Vagualame moved off.

      III

       BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE

       Table of Contents

      Despite the gusty wind and squalls of icy rain which deluged Paris, despite the early morning hour, although it was one of those first dark days of November which depress humanity, Jérôme Fandor, the journalist, editorial contributor to the popular evening paper La Capitale, was in a gay mood, and showed it by singing at the top of his voice, at the risk of rousing the neighbourhood.

      In his very comfortable little flat, rue Richer, where he had lived for a number of years, the young journalist was coming and going busily: cupboards, drawers, wardrobes, were opened wide, garments, piles of linen, were spread about in all the rooms. On the dining-room table a large travelling bag lay open: into this, with the aid of his housekeeper, Jérôme Fandor was feverishly packing the spare things he required, and was talking in joking fashion with his old servant, Angélique.

      Presently she asked, rather anxiously:

      "Are you likely to be away a long time, sir?"

      The journalist shook his head and murmured:

      "I should like to be, but you don't suppose we journalists get holidays of that sort!"

      Still anxious, Angélique went on:

      "Perhaps you intend to change your housekeeper when you return, Monsieur Fandor? Nevertheless —— "

      "You are really mad, Angélique! Have I not told you twenty times that I am going away for a fortnight's holiday? Never for a moment have I thought of getting rid of you — quite the contrary! I am delighted with the way you do your work. There now! I shall go by way of Monaco — I promise to put five francs on the red for you!"

      "On the red?" questioned old Angélique.

      "Yes. It's a game. If red's the winner there will be a present for you! Hurry off now and bring up my trousers!"

      Whilst his housekeeper hastened downstairs, Fandor went to the window and, with a questioning glance, considered the dull grey sky.

      "Disgusting weather!" he murmured. "But what do I care for that? I am going to the sun of the South — ah, to the sun!" He laughed a great laugh of satisfaction. How he had looked forward to this holiday, how he had longed for it! — this holiday