The red-haired beauty cried impatiently:

"It's you ask me that?... Why ... I go to the frontier."

"Correct," said Juve. He would have welcomed further details. "Well, then, when can we meet?" pressed this determined accordion player.

"How about next Wednesday?" suggested Bobinette.

"That will do. We will go to the theatre--a moving picture show!"

"Always to places in the dark, eh!" observed Bobinette maliciously.

Wilhelmine and Henri were coming nearer.

Juve-Vagualame turned as he was making off.

"Nine o'clock, before the moving picture place, rue des Poissonniers."

With that, Juve-Vagualame disappeared into a smoky wine shop.

De Loubersac, very pale, and Wilhelmine, whose eyes were red, rejoined Bobinette, whose face became expressionless.

They went slowly off together.

When the coast was clear, Juve-Vagualame left the wine shop and proceeded towards the cemetery. Amid the cypresses and tombs of the necropolis, looming sad and shadowy in the fading light, he made his way slowly along the princ.i.p.al path, questing for traces of the lovers' footsteps in the sand. He was fortunate enough to come on them at once; the soil being moist, the lovers' footmarks could be clearly distinguished in the sand of the alleys. Guided by them, Juve turned into a little pathway on the right, pa.s.sing the mausoleums, and pausing before a new-made grave, that of Captain Brocq, a humble tomb.

A few fresh violets were scattered around it, from Wilhelmine's bunch, no doubt. The lovers had but tarried there. Juve continued to follow their footmarks, by many twists and turns, almost to the end of the cemetery. As he advanced he felt more and more certain that he had come this way some years ago, when his detective work had led him into a mysterious network of robberies and murders, the moving spirit of them all being Fantomas--the enigmatic Fantomas.

Juve was going over in memory those past days of mysterious doings and strange adventures, when he found himself facing a vault richly decorated with unusually beautiful sculpture. A bronze plaque was affixed to this tomb, and on it, engraved in letters of gold, was a name Juve had had occasion to utter many a time and oft:

_Lady Beltham_

Lady Beltham!

Lady Beltham?

A name Juve a.s.sociated with strange and terrible events.[3] Lady Beltham had been a sensational creature.

[Footnote 3: See _The Exploits of Juve,_ vol. ii of the Fantomas Series.]

After adventures, one more extraordinary than another, Juve had succeeded in identifying this English great lady as the mistress of a formidable criminal, relentlessly hunted down, for ever escaping--the elusive Fantomas!

Juve had lost track of both, when the discovery of an extraordinary crime had led to the identification of the victim, a woman: she was declared to be--Lady Beltham. The corpse had been buried in this very cemetery; distant relatives in England had guaranteed all expenses connected with the burial and erection of this costly tomb.

The public had believed this to be the end of Lady Beltham. Juve presently discovered that Lady Beltham was not dead: another woman had been buried in her place. He preserved absolute silence convinced that sooner or later this criminal great lady--for, in conjunction with Fantomas, she had committed abominable crimes--would reappear, and he could then arrest her. Time had pa.s.sed, but for all his efforts Juve could not discover the hiding-place of this strangely guilty woman.

When he saw a large bunch of violets lying before the door of Lady Beltham's vault, he divined them to be the offering of Wilhelmine.

Juve now asked himself if he had not come across this Wilhelmine in the past, this girl with pale gold hair, and clear deep eyes; if he had not, in the long ago, met under painful circ.u.mstances a little child who was now this pretty girl, beloved of Henri de Loubersac.

Juve did not dwell on these vague, floating impressions. He turned his attention to more definite points.

There were people who believed in the death of Lady Beltham; they were in the majority: among these was Wilhelmine de Naarboveck. Why did she come to pray at Lady Beltham's tomb and bring offerings of fragrant flowers?

A mere handful of people knew Lady Beltham was not dead; knew that another woman had been interred in her stead. Lady Beltham herself knew it; her accomplice and lover--Fantomas--must know it. Besides, these two there was Jerome Fandor who knew of the subst.i.tution, and there was Juve himself. What others could there be?

Twilight was deepening into darkness. The cemetery guardians were clearing it of visitors. Juve became once more the old accordion player.

As he made his way home on foot, he asked himself:

"What are they looking for?"

The military authorities, represented by the Second Bureau, want to recover a stolen doc.u.ment.... The civil authority, represented by Police Headquarters, wish to discover a murderer guilty of two crimes: the murder of Brocq--the murder of Nichoune.

The murderer of Brocq is a.s.suredly Vagualame: as to the murderer of Nichoune: I do not yet know under what guise he committed his crime, but of one thing I am certain--the author of this double crime is none other than--Fantomas!

XV

THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP

Although for the past four days Fandor had shown himself the most punctual, the most correct, the most brilliant of French corporals, although he had replaced the unfortunate Vinson with striking ability, it was never without a feeling of bewildered terror that he awoke each morning in the vast barrack-room at Saint-Benoit, Verdun.

No sooner was he dressed than he found himself in the thick of a life made up of fears, of ever-recurring alarms, a nightmare life, the strain of which was concealed by an alert confident manner, a gallant bearing. Never having done his military service, since legally he did not exist--it was the cruelest mystery in our journalist's life--Fandor had played his corporal's role by intuition, combined with a trained power of observation, Vinson's manual, and Vinson's verbal instructions. Vinson, for his own sake most of all, had utilised every minute, and had put the eager Fandor through several turns of the military mill.

Nevertheless, whenever he gave an order to the men of his squad, he asked himself with terror, whether he had not inadvertently committed some gross blunder, whether some inferior might not call out ironically:

"I say, Corporal Vinson, where the devil have you come from to be carrying on like that?"

"Suppose I were found out," he thought, "I wonder if they would shoot me forthwith, to teach me not to run such mad risks in search of information for police reports?"

On this particular morning, Fandor awoke with a stronger feeling of uneasiness than ever. The previous evening, the adjutant for the week had drawn him apart at roll-call, and had handed him a slip of paper.

"You have a day's leave! You have joined only four days, yet you have managed to obtain your evening! Smart work! Congratulations! By jove, you must have some powerful backing!"

Fandor had smiled, saluted, marched off to bed--but not to sleep.

"A day's leave! The devil's in it! Who signed for me? What is the next move to be?" he thought.

This very morning, at ten o'clock delivery, the post sergeant had handed him a card. It bore the Paris postmark: on it was drawn the route from Verdun to the frontier. That was all.

He remembered what Vinson had said to him in the flat:

"What is so terrifying about this spying business is that one never knows whom one is obeying, whose orders one ought to follow, who is your friend, who is your chief: one fine day you learn that you have had leave granted you: you then receive, in some way or another, directions to go to some place or another.... You go there ... you meet people you do not know, who ask you questions, sometimes seemingly trivial, sometimes obviously of the gravest importance....

It is up to you to find out whether you are face to face with your spy chiefs, or if, on the contrary, you have not fallen into a trap set by the police to catch spies.... You cannot go to a rendezvous with a quiet mind: how do you know that you will not be returned between two gendarmes!... It is impossible to ask for information: equally impossible to ask for help, should you be in imminent danger.... Spies do not know one another: they are disowned by whoever employs them: they are humble wheels hidden in an immense mechanism.... It matters little if they are broken to pieces, they can so easily be replaced!"

Fandor's recollection of these statements did not tend to make him cheerful. He summed up the situation, and came to a decision.