"These letters had no envelopes with them?" questioned Juve.

"No, there were none, but what matters that?" cried the colonel.

"Very queer," said Juve, in a meditative tone. Then raising his voice:

"I suppose, Colonel, that your ... collaborator, before taking possession of these letters, had a talk with the person who had received them. Did he manage to extract any information?"

Hofferman interrupted Juve with a gesture.

"Monsieur Juve," said he, crossing his arms, "I am going to give you another surprise: my collaborator could not get the person in question to talk, and for a very good reason: he found her dead!"

"Dead?" echoed Juve.

"That is as I say."

The detective, though he strove to hide it, was more and more taken aback. What could this mean? No doubt he would soon secure additional information; but what was the connecting link? where, and who was the mysterious person who was really pulling the strings? The sarcastic voice of the colonel tore Juve from his reflections and questionings.

"Monsieur Juve, I think it is high time we had some lunch ... but before we separate allow me to give you a word of advice.

"When, in the course of your career, you have occasion to deal with matters relating to spies and spying, leave us to deal with them, that is what we are here for!... As for you, content yourself with ordinary police work, that is your business, and, if it gives you pleasure, continue your hunt for Fantomas, that will give you all the occupation you require!... Yes," continued the colonel, while Juve was clenching his fists with exasperation at this irony which was like so many flicks of a whip on his face, "Yes, leave these serious affairs to us--and occupy yourself with Fantomas!"

XI

THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANToMAS

Leaning on his window-sill, Jerome Fandor was apparently keeping a strict watch on the comings and goings of the pa.s.sers-by, who, having finished their Sunday walk, were bending their steps towards dinner, a quiet evening, and a reposeful night. Seven o'clock sounded from a neighbouring clock, its strokes borne through the misty atmosphere, darkened by fog: it was a peaceful moment, made for pleasurable relaxation ofter the activities of the day. Jerome Fandor, however, was not enjoying the charm of the hour. Although his att.i.tude was apparently tranquil, listless even, inwardly he was in a state of fury, a condition of feverish enervation.

"To be so near success," he thought; "to be on the point of bringing in a magnificent haul, and then to get myself locked up, like a fool!

No! Not if I can help it! Why it would be enough to make me strangle myself with my handkerchief as they believed that wretched Dollon, of sinister memory, did in the past!"

He smoked cigarette after cigarette, raving to himself, yet never taking his eyes off the pavements, where tirelessly, ceaselessly, a stream of pedestrians pa.s.sed up and down the street.

"Was I mistaken, I wonder!" he went on. "Still, I cannot help fancying that youth--he was fifteen at the most--that sickly young blackguard of the Paris pavements who followed me into the tube, then took the same train as I did, who was behind me as I crossed the Place de la Concorde, who was continually and persistently on my tracks--I cannot think he was there by chance!... Well, it is no use worrying myself into a fever over it!"

Fandor found it almost impossible to recover his tranquillity of mind.

Again and again, in the course of the day, he had come across the same individuals during his peregrinations, which took him from one end of Paris to the other: was it accident, coincidence, fatality, or was a very strict watch being kept over his movements? Thus Fandor had asked himself whether the Second Bureau had been warned of the part he had played with regard to Vinson? Was he not being watched and shadowed in the hope of running the treacherous corporal to earth? If the Second Bureau had decided to arrest Fandor, he certainly would not escape. "I shall be jailed within twenty-four hours," thought our journalist.

"This branch of the detective service is so marvellously organised, that should the heads of it look upon me as Vinson's accomplice they will arrest me before I have time to parry the blow. In that case, the band of traitors I pursue, and am on the point of unearthing, will gain enough time to take their bearings, make all their arrangements, and disappear, without counting that this miserable Vinson, who relies on my help, will be caught at once."

Suddenly Fandor left his post of observation, shut his window, and went to the telephone.

"I must put Juve in possession of all the facts up to now, then, if I am caught, Juve will see to it that I am set free--he will put his heart into it, I know."

Unfortunately, it was not Juve who was at the other end of the line.

He had gone out; his old servant took Fandor's message.

"Tell Monsieur Juve directly he comes in that I cannot go out, but that I absolutely must see him. Tell him the matter is most urgent."

It was ten o'clock at night. Corporal Vinson was dressing in haste.

"Plague take it!" he cried. "I mustn't lose a moment if I don't want to miss my train."

Vinson was dressing in Fandor's bedroom. There must have been a time when Corporal Vinson was very proud of putting on the uniform of a French soldier; but at this particular moment his feelings were the very opposite. However, he clad himself in this same uniform with lightning rapidity. Careful of his smart appearance, the corporal examined himself in the gla.s.s: the reflection was so satisfactory that he broke into smiles--undoubtedly his uniform suited him.

There was a violent ring at the door-bell. Vinson jumped: he began to tremble.

"Who can it be at this hour?" he asked himself. "I was sure something would happen! I was bound to catch it somehow!"

Vinson dared not risk a movement: he stood rigid, motionless. Whoever was at the door must be led to think that there was not a living soul in Fandor's flat.

Again the bell rang, a violent ring: it was the ring of someone who does not mean to go away, who knows that the delay in opening the door is deliberate.

"Plague take that porter!" murmured the corporal. "I'll wager."...

Again the bell rang violently.

Something had to be done. Drops of sweat rolled down the corporal's face.

"By jingo, this business is going to end very badly!"

The young soldier rapidly drew off his shoes and tiptoed to the vestibule. Through the keyhole he looked to see who was ringing for the fourth time, and more violently than ever.

No sooner had Vinson looked than he swore softly.

"Good Heavens! What I feared! It's an agent from the Second Bureau!...

I recognise him!... I am sold--there's not a doubt of it!"

Ghastly from terror, Vinson watched the visitor put his hand in his pocket, then choose a key from his bunch.

"Ah! This individual has a master-key! And I--I have an idea!"

Vinson leaped backwards, just as the agent was putting his key in the lock, and rushed towards Fandor's study. He locked the door at the precise moment the agent entered the flat.

"Halt!" cried he: Vinson's movements had been heard.

The corporal's answer was to double-lock the door. "What you are doing there is childish!" cried the agent. "I have master-keys! Give yourself up!" Taking a fresh key, he unlocked the door Vinson had just closed. The corporal was not in the room. The agent rushed to another door which led from the study to the dining-room. He opened that door, entered the dining-room; it was empty also: Vinson had fled to the room adjoining.

"You cannot keep at it!" cried the agent. "You see the doors cannot offer a moment's resistance! I shall corner you!"

But Vinson, retreating from room to room, aimed at drawing on his pursuer to the last room of the flat. Directly the agent entered the dining-room, Vinson, quick as lightning, leapt into the corridor, crossed the vestibule at a bound, opened the door leading to the staircase, slamming it behind him.

On the landing he hesitated a second.

"Must he go down the stairs?"