Fandor had been asking this question for years. He had, after a fashion, vowed his existence to the search for this mysterious individual. How often, and often, in the course of his investigation, in the midst of his struggles with criminals during his long talks and conferences with Juve, had he not thought that he had run the bandit to earth, identified him, was going to drag his personality out into the broad light of day — and then, suddenly, Fantômas had disappeared.
Fantômas had made a mock of him, of Juve, of the police, of everybody!
For weeks, for months, all trace of him was lost completely; then one fine day he would produce a drama, it might be a big drama, which took public opinion captive, it might be a drama in appearance insignificant, and then each one saw and followed traces which were more or less normal and ordinarily probable. Fandor and Juve, Fandor alone, or Juve isolated, following the indications which only their perspicacity enabled them to discover, still and always felt the presence, the trace of this monster, this being so enigmatical, so indefinable, who was terrorising humanity.
Then implacable and dangerous pursuits, redoubtable struggles, were the order of their days and nights.
Juve, Fandor, the representatives of justice, one and all, united to reduce the circle in which this ruffian revolved, and at the moment they were about to catch him, he would fade away, leaving them as their only spoil, the temporary personality with which he had clothed himself, and under which he had momentarily deigned to make himself known.
Now behold, here was this little red-haired creature, Bobinette, who asked for the solution of this formidable, incomprehensible, unprecedented thing, wanted it straight away.
"Who is Fantômas?"
Fandor's attitude, his expression showed how surprised he was at such a question.
M. de Naarboveck emphasised and justified the journalist's astonishment.
Then, in a rather dry, hard voice, Monsieur de Loubersac gave his opinion:
"My dear Baron, don't you think that for several years past we have been made sufficient fools of with all these Fantômas tales? For my part, I don't believe a word of them! Such a powerful criminal has no chance nowadays, that is to say, if he exists. One must see life in its true proportions and recognise that it is very commonplace."...
"But, Monsieur," interrupted Mademoiselle Berthe, who, covered with blushes, scarcely dared raise her eyes to the handsome lieutenant, "but, Monsieur, for all that, Fantômas has been much talked about!"
The young officer looked the red-haired beauty up and down, bestowing on her but a cursory glance. Fandor noticed that Bobinette was greatly troubled by it. Following this little by-play, he immediately got a very clear impression that if the lieutenant did not consider the pretty girl worthy of much consideration, she, on her side, seemed very much influenced by all that this elegant and handsome young officer said or did.
Fandor had noticed, too, while the talk went on, that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck was deeply moved, and looked sorrowful. She was a graceful girl, in all the freshness and brilliancy of her twenty years, with large eyes, soft and luminous. Her natural disposition was evidently a bright and gay one, but this evening sadness overshadowed her, and to such a point that, in spite of her efforts to be lively and pleasant, she could not hide her sad preoccupation.
M. de Naarboveck, who had been watching Fandor closely, said to him, in a low voice:
"Wilhelmine has been very much upset by this terrible accident which has overtaken our friend, Captain Brocq, and we."...
Just then, the harsh sarcastic tones of de Loubersac broke in afresh:
"In conclusion," exclaimed the lieutenant, "I maintain that Fantômas is an invention, a more or less original one, I am ready to admit, but an invention of not the least practical interest. Just an invention of the detectives, this Fantômas; or, it may be of the journalists only, who have made the gaping public swallow this hocus-pocus pill — this enormous pill!" The lieutenant stared at Fandor defiantly. "And let me add, I speak from knowledge, for, up to a certain point, I know all these individuals!"
Fandor was not in the least impressed by the lieutenant's aggressive declarations. He regarded him calmly — there was a touch of irony in his gaze: at the same time, he did not clearly understand de Loubersac's last phrase.
The excellent Monsieur de Naarboveck murmured in his ear:
"De Loubersac, you know, has to do with the Second Bureau at the Ministry of War: the statistics department."...
It was only at half past eleven that Fandor had been able to tear himself away from the de Naarboveck house.
Fandor wandered on the boulevards a long time before he returned to his flat.
On his table, near his portmanteau ready strapped for departure, he found the Railway Guide lying open at the page showing the lines from Paris to the Côte d'Azur! He would not look at the seductive time-table. He rushed to his portmanteau, undid the straps in furious haste, dragged out his clothes, which he flung to the four quarters of the room. For the moment he was in a towering rage.
"And now, confound it! That Brocq affair is not clear! It's no use my trying to persuade myself to the contrary! There is some mystery about it! Those officers! This diplomat! And then this questionable person, neither servant, nor lady accustomed to good society, who has to me all the appearance of playing not merely a double rôle, but at the least a triple, perhaps a quadruple!... Good old Fandor, there's nothing for it, if you want to go South, but to see friend Juve and get some light on it all."
Having come to this conclusion, Fandor went to bed. He could not sleep. There was one word which ceaselessly formed itself in luminous letters before his mind's eye — a word he dare not articulate. It was a synthetic word which brought into a collected whole facts and ideas; it was the summing up of his presentiments, of his conclusions, of his fears; the word which said all without defining anything, but permitted everything to be inferred: that word was — Spying!
V
THEY ARE NOT AGREED
As one who had the privilege of free entry to the house, Fandor opened the front door of Juve's flat with the latchkey he possessed as a special favour, traversed the semi-darkness of the corridor and went towards his friend's study.
He raised the curtain, opened the door half-way, and caught sight of Juve at his desk.
"Don't disturb yourself, it is only Fandor!"
The detective was absorbed in the letter he was writing to such a degree that he had never even heard the journalist enter. At the sound of his voice Juve started.
"What! You! I thought you had flown yesterday, flown South!"
Fandor smiled a woeful smile.
"I did expect to get away yesterday evening. Juve, in my calling, as in yours, it is the height of stupidity to make plans. You see! Here I am still — stuck here!"
Juve nodded assent.
"Well, what then?" he asked.
"Well, what do you think, Juve?"
The detective leaned back in his chair and considered his young friend.
"Well, my dear Fandor, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
Fandor did not seem much disposed to answer. He had taken off his hat and overcoat. Now he drew from his pocket a cigarette-case. He selected one and lighted it carefully, seeming to find a veritable delight in the first whiffs which he sent towards the ceiling.
"It's a fine day, Juve!"
The detective, more and more astonished, considered the journalist with the utmost attention.
"What's