"Why?"
"Because."... The commandant hesitated, then continued:
"You are not ignorant of the fact that an important doc.u.ment was stolen from the domicile of this mysteriously murdered man?"
"I know it," admitted Fandor.
"That is not all," continued Dumoulin: "A certain amount of money was also stolen from this unfortunate officer. Now, Brocq was in the habit of putting down in his pocket-book the exact sums he possessed and--mark this well--also entering the numbers of his bank-notes!...
Now, bank-notes have disappeared from his cash drawer. The missing notes bear the numbers: A 4998; O 4350; U 5108; the very notes found in your pocket-book!"
There ensued a dreadful silence. Fandor was thunderstruck....
Everything seemed in league against him.... Oh, he was caught like a mouse in a trap!... These must be the notes that the red-bearded man--probably one of the Noret brothers--had slipped into his hand!...
Evidently, from the time of his leaving Paris in Corporal Vinson"s uniform, the traitorous gang he meant to expose had known him for what he was! Without suspecting it, he had been the hunted instead of the hunter: and this chaser of damaged goods and trumpery wares had been caught in his trap like a fool!... These unscrupulous wretches had hatched an abominable plot against him!... Fandor felt that each instant saw him deeper in the toils! His whole being was invaded by a terrible anxiety, an immense fear. Who could be so powerful, so subtle, so formidable as to have made a fool of him in such a fashion, to have led him into such traps that even Juve himself could do nothing to save him?
One being, and one only, was capable of such a diabolically clever performance; and Fandor, who would not believe it some weeks before, when discussing the question with Juve, had now to accept his hypothesis as a certainty: his acts caused his unseen personality to hit you in the eyes! Only one person could pull the strings with such a demon hand!... Yes, Fandor could no longer doubt that his desperate plight was due to the terrific, odious, elusive Fantomas!
Our journalist was now in the lowest depths. He attempted to keep calm and cool, but he had lost grip of himself.... He stammered, he mumbled confusedly, justifications, excuses, charging the Noret brothers with having given him those terrible bank-notes.
Dumoulin, on his side, was convinced that his examination had made an immense step in the right direction. He considered that the interrogation might well end with a last word, a last sentence. He turned to the wretched, over-strained Fandor, and in tones of the utmost solemnity administered his finishing stroke.
"Jerome Fandor, not only are you accused of the crimes of treason and spying, but, taking into account the formal avowals you have just made, I, here and now, declare you guilty of the a.s.sa.s.sination of Captain Brocq, of the theft of his doc.u.ments, and of his money!"
x.x.xI
A CARAVAN DRAMA
The night was dark and stormy. On the Sceaux road a gipsy was braving the tempest, making difficult headway in the teeth of a gale which flapped her long cloak with impeding force, soaked her to the skin, dashed ma.s.ses of water in her face, plastered streaming locks to her forehead, taking her breath with its suffocating rush. Shielding her mouth with her hand, the gipsy pressed steadily forward.
A church struck eleven slow strokes, borne on the wind. Lashed by the tempest, the gipsy pressed on, muttering as she moved:
"Vagualame told me that he would be at the first milestone beyond the aviation sheds.... I must get there! I will get there!"
It was Bobinette, struggling on in blind obedience to him whom she considered her master, towards the strange meeting-place fixed by the bandit five days ago.
Under her looks of Parisian delicacy, Bobinette had a valiant spirit, a high-strung temperament and a will of steel.... Bobinette wished to reach the appointed trysting-place: she would reach it.
But gipsy Bobinette had her fears. She was painfully impressed by the obscurity of the night--sinister, menacing. From the marshy fields flanking her to right and left unaccustomed sounds, weird noises reached her straining ears through the gusty darkness.
Then what did her master want with her here, and at such an hour?
Never had Bobinette confessed to herself that Vagualame"s real ident.i.ty was unknown to her. What dark personality was hid behind that familiar figure? She asked herself that now, with shuddering apprehension. She had remarked certain coincidences, noted certain details: she divined that this enigmatic accordion player might well be none other than--Fantomas.
Fantomas! That name was it not a frightful symbol of all the crimes, all the atrocities, the monstrous synthesis of unpunished evil?
In her tormented brain those three syllables of sinister intent were sounding like a funeral knell.... At thought of Fantomas and Vagualame co-mingled, Bobinette"s terror-filled heart fainted within her. Yet, prey to haunting terrors as she was, Bobinette pressed unfalteringly forward towards what Fate held for her.
One rea.s.suring thought came to hearten her. At every step she took the sequins of her gipsy circlet moved and shook and tinkled on her forehead. They reminded her of the words chanted by the old second-hand dealer when he sold her the string of sequins, words from the celebrated song of the Andalusian gipsies.:
_"The coral shines on my skin so brown-- The pin of gold in my chignon: I go in search of my fortune."..._
Was she truly hastening towards good fortune through this night of wind and rain?... Why not? Bobinette felt comforted. She said to herself that since Vagualame had summoned her to meet him in gipsy costume, it must be because he intended to help her to escape: otherwise why had he foreseen the necessity for such a disguise?
To make sure of finding the rendezvous, she had taken a reconnoitering journey along the Sceaux road the night before.... She knew now she was close to the famous milestone.
Bobinette jumped as though she would leap out of her skin!
On the left side of the road tall trees, stripped of their leaves, stood swaying like skeletons in the wind. Just there her eyes had seen something dark, a black patch, blacker than the surrounding night.
What was it?
A strange sound issued from the darkness, a low, dull, deep, complaining sound breathed from some infernal throat! Was it a cry, a growl, a snarl?... She halted, shivering with fright, her ears humming, her heart contracted in the grip of an indescribable terror, doubting her senses, doubting the reality of the sound she had heard.
Bobinette stood motionless.
The wind whistling through the branches conveyed another sound to her senses. She heard a mocking voice, harsh, imperious, a menacing voice, a voice whose orders she had obeyed many a time and oft, a voice she had never heard without secret terror, the voice of her master--Vagualame!
"Go forward, you fool! Why do you halt?"
As though galvanised, Bobinette with a supreme effort of will obeyed.
A few seconds and she was by the side of Vagualame, who had come to meet her.
"Did you hear?" she gasped.
"I heard the bellowing of the wind," laughed Vagualame: "I heard the sound of sleety rain, I heard the noise of trees writhing and creaking in the wind--nothing more!"
"Someone or something cried out!"
"Who could?... We are alone here!... Bobinette you are alone here with me!"
There was a pause. Vagualame"s voice was once more mocking.
"Am I to think you are afraid?"
"No, Vagualame, I am not afraid; but."...
"But you are trembling like a leaf!" cried Vagualame, with a burst of laughter which sounded strangely false. He seized Bobinette in an iron grip and forced her forward.
"Come! Come under shelter!" They moved towards the black blot Bobinette had not yet identified. Almost directly they were leaning against a gipsy van drawn up at the side of the road.
"Your future domicile," said Vagualame, showing the van to the bewildered Bobinette. "But this is not the time to install yourself--there are things to be said first--between you and me, Bobinette!"
The bandit was enveloped from head to foot in a dark cloak. All Bobinette could see of him was his profile: his features were concealed by a soft felt hat with turned-down brim, which showed at intervals against the sky when the lightning flashed and flickered.
The girl shivered: her master"s last words were full of some dark menace.