A Royal Prisoner: Fantômas Saga. Marcel Allain

might be better if Monsieur would tell us exactly what happened. On account of possible annoyances ... besides, the business is too important ... and then the Government ..."

      Fandor explained briefly all he knew. He was careful not to mention the King by name, leaving it to his Majesty to disclose his own identity when the time came.

      "Then Monsieur means to say that a third person was present?" one of the officers asked.

      "Of course!" replied Fandor.

      "And where is this third person?"

      The officer looked decidedly skeptical and the journalist began to grow uneasy.

      "He was here with me just now; probably he's in one of the other rooms. Why don't you search?"

      But the search disclosed nobody.

      What on earth had become of the King? thought Fandor. He couldn't have jumped out of the window. The servant's staircase came into his mind, but the door to that he found locked.

      "It is useless for Monsieur to say more; kindly come with us to the police station."

      "After all, Monsieur was alone with the little lady," added the concièrge.

      Fandor went rapidly to the dining-room. He would show the three places at the table. But suddenly he remembered his refusal to take a plate. There were only two places laid.

      The two officers now held him gently by each arm and began to walk away with him.

      "Don't make any noise, please," they urged, "we must avoid all scandal."

      Without quite understanding what was happening, Fandor obeyed.

      CHAPTER IV

       WHO DO THEY THINK I AM?

       Table of Contents

      The first faint light of dawn was filtering through the dusty windows of the police station.

      Sergeant Masson, pushing aside the game of dominoes he had been playing with his subordinate, declared:

      "I must go and see the chief."

      "At his house?" demanded the other in a tone of alarm.

      "Yes; after all, if I catch it for waking him that won't be so bad as having him come here at ten."

      The sergeant rose and stretched himself. He had entire charge of the Station and was responsible for all arrests. As a rule he felt himself equal to the task, but this time the tragedy of the Rue Monceau and the peculiar circumstances surrounding it seemed too much of a burden to bear alone.

      Ought he to have arrested the individual now at the Station? Had he been sufficiently tactful? What was to be done now?

      "Yes, I'm going to see the chief," he repeated, "besides, I shan't be gone long. Anything that 'he' asks for let him have, you understand?"

      It was about five-thirty, and the sky threatened snow. The air was fresh and not too cold. A few milk carts were the only vehicles in the streets. Porters were busy brushing off the sidewalks. Paris was making her toilette. Sergeant Masson stopped at a small house in a quiet street and mounted to the third floor. There he hesitated. The wife of the chief was known for her sharp temper. However, there was nothing to be done but ring, and this he did in a timid manner.

      In a few moments he heard the door-chain withdrawn, and a woman's voice cried:

      "Who is there?"

      "It is I, Madame, Sergeant Masson."

      "Well, what do you want?"

      "The chief is wanted at the Station right away."

      At these words the door opened wide and the woman stood revealed. She was about forty, dressed in her wrapper and with her hair still in curl papers.

      "Louis must go to the Station?" she demanded.

      "Yes, Madame, an arrest has been made ..."

      "He must go to the Station?" she repeated in a menacing tone.

      Sergeant Masson retreated to the landing. He simply nodded his head.

      "But he is there! He told me he was! Ah, I see how it is!... He's been lying again. He's been running after women ... all right, he'll pay for it when he gets home!"

      The door shut with a bang and the lady disappeared.

      "What an idiot I've been," muttered the discomfited sergeant. "I ought to have known better. Of course he's not with his wife, he's with his mistress!"

      Several minutes later he reached another apartment in a neighboring street.

      This time he had no misgivings and congratulated himself upon his professional cleverness in tracking his man down.

      The same performance was gone through. A ring at the bell brought an answer to the door.

      "Who is there?" said a man's voice.

      "It is I ... Sergeant Masson."

      The door was opened and a young man stood in the hall. He was about thirty and wore an undershirt and drawers.

      "Well, Sergeant!"

      The sergeant shrank back; he would have been glad if he could have disappeared in the walls. The chief's secretary stood before him.

      "I was ... was looking ..." he stammered.

      The secretary interrupted with a smile.

      "No, he's not here. In fact, we are rarely found together."

      Then putting a hand on the sergeant's shoulder:

      "As gentleman to gentleman, I count on your discretion."

      The door shut softly and the sergeant turned sadly and went back to the Station, pondering over the personal annoyance this general post at night occasioned him.

      He was greeted on his return by a few sharp words.

      "Ah, there you are, Masson!... At last!... An event of the first importance occurs, an amazing scandal breaks out and you desert your post.... It's always the way if I'm not here to look after things. I shall have to report you, you know. Where have you been?"

      The speaker was a man still quite young, who wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honor. It was the chief himself. On the way home from some late party he had dropped into the Station out of simple curiosity.

      Was he awake or was he dreaming?

      Fandor felt stiff all over, his head was heavy and his mind a blank.... And then came a thirst, a devouring, insatiable thirst.

      Where he was and how he had arrived there were things past his comprehension.

      So far as the feeble light permitted, he made out the room to contain the furnishings of an office, and by degrees, as his mind cleared, he recalled with a start his arrest.

      He was at the police station.

      But why in this particular room? The walls were hung with sporting prints. Bookshelves, a comfortable sofa, upon which he had spent the night, all these indicated nothing less than the private office of the chief.

      And then he recalled with what consideration he had been conducted hither. Evidently they took him for an intimate friend of the King. Nevertheless, he was under arrest for murder, or at least as an accomplice to a murder.

      "After all," he thought, "the truth will come to light, they'll capture the murderer and my innocence will be established.

      "Besides, didn't the King promise to see me through. Probably before this he has already taken steps for my release."

      He then decided to call out:

      "Is there anyone here?"

      Scarcely had Fandor spoken when a man entered, who,