This master of medicine with a sure hand had undone the collar, the cravat of the mysterious sufferer, half opened his overcoat, put his ear to the patient's heart, then, straightening himself, considered the face attentively, not without a certain amount of stupefaction.
The constable made a suggestion: "Had we not better take this individual to a chemist's?"
Professor Barrell replied in a low voice: "To a chemist's? Do so if you wish … but it is useless … you would do better to go to the police-station: this unfortunate man is dead—it is a case of sudden death." The medical man added some technical words which this guardian of the peace did not understand.
II
DOCUMENT NUMBER SIX
"Hullo! … Am I speaking to Headquarters of Police?"
"Yes?"
"To the sergeant? … Good! … It is the superintendent of the Wagram Quarter who is telephoning. … They have just brought here the body of an officer who has died suddenly, Place de l'Étoile, and I want you to send me one of your inspectors. … This officer was the bearer of important documents. … I must send them direct to the military authorities. … Hullo! … Good. … You will send me someone immediately? … An inspector will be here in ten minutes? … Splendid! … Very good!"
The superintendent hung up the telephone receiver and turned to the policeman, who stood motionless awaiting orders. He was visibly embarrassed.
The police superintendent of the Wagram Quarter was a man of decisive action. He possessed in the highest degree the quality, the most precious of all for those of the police force, whose functions call them to intervene continually in the most surprising adventures—presence of mind.
A few minutes before this the taxi with its tragic burden had stopped at his police-station, and the men on duty had carried in the body of the unfortunate captain.
Called in all haste, the sergeant had immediately made a rapid investigation. He examined the documents in the victim's portfolio.
"Here's a go!" he muttered—"'State of munition supplies!' 'Orders for the eastern fortresses!' I do not want to keep such important documents longer than I can help."
He had immediately telephoned to Headquarters. Reassured by the sergeant's reply, the superintendent turned to the policeman.
"You have made out your report?" he asked curtly.
The honest guardian of the peace touched his cap, looked perplexed, and scratched his head.
"Not yet, Monsieur. No time, Monsieur. But I will write it out at once."
The superintendent smiled at his embarrassed subordinate. "Suppose we do it together!"
"Let us see now! The deceased was a captain—isn't that so? The papers found in his portfolio and the name written on it let us know that he was called Brocq, and that he was attached to the Ministry. So much for his identity. We will not trouble about his domicile, the Place will tell us that! Now let us go into the details of the accident—tell me, my man, exactly how his death occurred!"
Again the worthy guardian of the peace scratched his head with an anxious look.
"I saw nothing of it, Monsieur," he replied.
"And the taxi-driver? You have his deposition?"
"He did not see anything either, Monsieur."
"Call this chauffeur."
A few minutes after, the superintendent dismissed the chauffeur. A short interrogation revealed that the taxi-driver had not only seen nothing, but that he could do nothing to help the enquiry.
The superintendent recalled the honest policeman.
"Come now! You are certain that the victim died immediately?"
"Well, you see, Monsieur, while I was dispersing the crowd, a doctor came up, and it was he who told me how the dead man died!"
"This doctor did not point out to you the cause of death?"
"No, Monsieur. But he gave me his card."
The policeman drew from the pocket of his tunic a dirty note-book. He took a card from it and handed it to his chief. "There, Monsieur!"
The magistrate looked at the name. Professor Barrell, of the School of Medicine. Turning the card, he read aloud a few words in pencil:
"Sudden death, which seems due to a phenomenon of inhibition." …
"This professor did not explain what he meant by 'death due to inhibition'?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Annoying! … I do not know what that means."
The superintendent was about to continue his enquiry when there was a knock at his office door.
A policeman informed him respectfully: "There is an inspector, Monsieur, from Headquarters detective department who asks to see you on urgent business—he declares you have sent for him."
"Tell him to come in."
No sooner had this personage from "Headquarters detective department" appeared in the doorway, than the superintendent rose, and advanced with outstretched hands.
"You, Juve! I am delighted to see you! How are you?"
It was, in truth, the celebrated detective, Juve.
Juve had altered but little. He was always the same man; rather thick-set, vigorous, astonishingly alive, agile, as youthful as ever, in spite of his moustache turning grey, in spite of his rounded shoulders which, at moments, seemed to bend under the weight of the toils and fatigues of the past.
This magic name evoked memories of terrible stories, stories of dangers encountered, endured, overcome; of brave deeds; of desperate struggles with the worst criminals.
Juve! He was the man who, for ten years, had represented to all, ability, audacity, limitless daring! He was the man who best knew how to employ wiles and stratagems to secure the triumph of society in the incessant combat it had to sustain against the innumerable soldiers of the army of crime.
When the terrible Dollon affair had come to an end, Juve had been blamed officially, and the detective could not help feeling angry and exasperated, for, after all, if he had failed, he ought not to have been treated as a culprit. Not a soul had had the slightest suspicion of how the affair had ended. Not one of them knew the incredible truth—how the marvellous, the redoubtable, the incredible Fantômas had elected to make his escape at the very moment when Juve was preparing to put the handcuffs on him.
And the detective, disheartened, but determined not to give up the fight against this deep-dyed criminal whom he had been pursuing for years, had asked for a few weeks' holiday, had lain snug, then had returned to his post at Headquarters, had made a point of keeping in the background, only awaiting the moment when he could resume his hunt for the ruffian whom he looked on as a personal enemy.
Since then, nothing had happened to put him on the track of Fantômas. No crime had been committed in circumstances which could leave him to think that this elusive murderer was involved in it.
Our detective had begun to ask himself if, not having been fortunate enough to arrest this king of assassins, he had not at any rate succeeded in unmasking him, in compelling him to fly for his life, in putting him out of power to do harm.
Rapidly the superintendent