"Monsieur Fandor, you are being asked for at the telephone."
Like most journalists, Fandor was accustomed to reply in nine cases out of ten, in similar cases, that he was not to be found. On this occasion, however, some interior prompting made him say:
"I will come."
A few minutes later Fandor went up to the editorial secretary:
"Look here, old fellow, something unexpected has happened. … I must go to the Palais de Justice … you don't want me for anything else this morning, do you?"
"No, go along! But what's up?"
"Oh … this Jacques Dollon, you know, the assassin of the rue Norvins? Well, this imbecile has gone and hanged himself in his cell!"
At the exit door of La Capitale, in the noisy rue Montmartre, crowded with costermongers' barrows, Jérôme Fandor hailed a taxi.
"To the Palais!"
Some minutes later he was crossing the hall of the Wandering Footsteps (as it is called), giving rapid, cordial greetings to all the barristers of his acquaintance—one never knew when they might impart a special piece of information which let an enterprising journalist into the know, or put him early on to a good thing—and finally reached the lobbies of the Law Courts proper. He was saying to himself as he went along:
"He is a good fellow, Jouet! The news is not known yet! He telephoned me first!"
His friend Jouet met him, with a warm handshake:
"You did not seem to be in a good temper at the telephone just now, although I was giving you a nice bit of information!"
"Yes," retorted Fandor, "but information which simply proved how much the administrators of justice, to which you have the misfortune to belong, can make egregious mistakes! When, for once, you succeed in immediately arresting the assassin of someone well known, and are in a position to bring into play all the power and rigour of the law, you are clumsy enough to give the fellow a chance of punishing himself, you let him commit suicide on the very first night of his arrest!"
Fandor had been speaking in a fairly loud voice, as usual, but, at imperative signs made by his friend, he lowered his tones:
"What is it?" he murmured.
His friend rose:
"What we are going to do, old boy, is to take a turn in the galleries! I have something to say to you, and, joking apart, you are not to breathe a word of it to a soul—sh?"
"Count on me!"
Presently the two friends found themselves in one of the corridors of the Palais, known only to barristers and those accused of law-breaking.
"Come now!" cried Fandor, "your assassin has hanged himself, hasn't he?"
"My assassin!" expostulated the junior barrister: "My assassin! Allow me to inform you that Jacques Dollon is innocent!"
"Innocent?" Jérôme Fandor shrugged a disbelieving shoulder: "Innocent! It is the fashion of the day to transform all murderers into innocents! … What ground have you for making such a declaration of innocence?"
"Here is my ground! I have just copied it out for you! Read! … "
Fandor hastened to read the paper handed to him by his friend. It was headed thus:
"Copy of a letter brought by Maître Gérin to the Public Prosecutor, a letter addressed to Maître Gérin by the Baroness de Vibray."
"Oh, it's a plant!" cried Fandor.
"Go on reading, you will see. … "
Fandor continued:
"My dear Maître—
You will forgive me, I am certain of that, for all the inconvenience I am going to cause you; I turn to you because you are the only friend in whom I have confidence.
I have just received a letter from my bankers, Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil, of whom I have often spoken to you, who you know manage all my money affairs for me.
This letter informs me that I am ruined. You quite understand—absolutely, completely ruined.
The house I am living in, my carriage, the luxurious surroundings so necessary to me, I shall have to give it all up, so they tell me.
These people have dealt me a terrible blow, struck me brutally. …
My dear maître, I learned this only two hours ago, and I am still stunned by it. I do not wish to wait for the inevitable moment when I shall begin to console myself, because I shall begin to hope that the disaster is exaggerated. I have no family, I am already old; apart from the satisfaction it gives me to use my influence on behalf of youthful talent, and to help forward its development, my life has no sense in it, it is without aim or object. My dear maître, there are not two ways of announcing to one's friends resolutions analogous to that I now take: when you receive this letter I shall be dead.
I have in front of me, on my writing-table, a tiny phial of poison which I am going to drink to the last drop, without any weakening of will, almost without fear, as soon as I have posted this letter to you myself.
I must confess that I have an instinctive horror of being dragged to the Morgue, as happens whenever there is some doubt about a suicide. It is on account of this I now write to you, so that, thanks to your intervention, all the mistakes justice is liable to make may be avoided.
I kill myself, I only; that is certain.
No one must be incriminated in connection with my death, if it be not Fatality, which has caused my ruin. I once more apologise, my dear maître, for all the measures you will be forced to take owing to my death, and I beg you to believe that my friendship for you was very sincere:
Signed:
Baroness de Vibray."
"Good for you!" cried Fandor. "Here's a go! What a pretty petard in prospect! … Jacques Dollon was innocent; you arrest him; he is so terrified that he hangs himself! Well, old boy, I must say you make some fine blunders on Clock Quay!"
"It is nobody's fault!" protested the young barrister.
"That is to say," retorted Fandor, "it is everybody's fault! By Jove! If you let innocent prisoners hang themselves in their cells, I am no longer surprised that you leave the guilty at liberty to walk the streets at their sweet will!"
"Don't make a joke of it, old boy! … You understand, of course, that so far no one in the Palais has seen the letter! It has just been brought to the Public Prosecutor's office by Madame de Vibray's solicitor, Maître Gérin. You came on the scene only a few minutes after I had sent up the original to the examining magistrate. The case is in Fuselier's hands."
"Is he in his office?"
"Certainly! He should proceed with the examination relative to poor Dollon this morning."
"Very well then, I will go up. I shall jolly soon get out of this booby of a Fuselier the information I need to make one of the best reports I have ever written. And you know, I am ever so obliged to you for the matter you've given me! But, mind you, I am going to put together a bit of copy that will not deal tenderly with our gentlemen of the robe—the lot of you! No, it is a bad, unlucky business enough, but it is even more funny—it is tragi-comedy!"
"For my part … " began Fandor's barrister friend.
"Yes, yes! Good day, Pontius Pilate!" cried Fandor. "I am going up to Fuselier. … We must meet to-morrow!"
Hastening along the corridors, Fandor gained the office of the examining magistrate.
Fandor had known the magistrate a long while. Was not Fuselier the justice who, with Detective Juve,