As to the King, while his identity had been proved, he was none the less a murderer.
The question was whether to prevent the visit he wished to pay to the President of the Republic or to bring it about.
M. Annion took the Rue des Saussaies at 7.30 and having reached home, dined quickly while he read the evening paper. The news was startling.
An article reserved in tone, but giving sufficient details, announced the arrest of Fantômas, the mysterious criminal of the Palace Royal of Glotzbourg, while attempting to steal the diamond which constituted the private fortune of Prince Frederick-Christian II.
"Good God!" cried M. Annion, "Fantômas arrested, the diamond stolen, and Juve doesn't return or send any word!"
The director of the Secret Service felt himself entangled in a network of intrigues which seemed impossible to unravel. He seemed to be surrounded by an impenetrable mystery.
Fantômas! And now the name of Fantômas was associated with the scandal brought about by Frederick-Christian!
M. Annion slept badly, haunted by a nightmare in which he was constantly pursuing an extraordinary Fantômas, whom he would seize and bind and who would then suddenly vanish into thin air. At eight o'clock in the morning he appeared at his office. There a surprise awaited him. Upon his desk lay a telegram. Rapidly tearing it open, he glanced at the text.
"Ah!… Good God! Can it be true! Fantômas dead! Fantômas dead in prison! I must be dreaming!"
While he was rereading the astonishing news, the door of his office opened and Juve walked in.
"Juve!"
"Myself, Chief."
"Well!"
"Well," replied Juve, calmly, "I've had a pretty good trip."
Brandishing the telegram, M. Annion cried:
"Fantômas is dead!"
"Yes … Fantômas is dead."
"What have you found out?"
"Oh, a thing or two … rather interesting."
"And the diamond?"
"Stolen, Chief, disappeared."
"Stolen by Fantômas?"
"Yes, by Fantômas."
"It was you who arrested him?"
"Hum!—yes and no… . I was the cause of his arrest."
"And the murder of Susy d'Orsel?"
"It was committed by Fantômas."
"You are sure of that?"
"Certain, Chief."
M. Annion rose and paced up and down in great excitement.
"Now then, let's get the facts in the case, tell me in detail what occurred at Hesse-Weimar."
Juve had had the foresight to prepare a report which would tell enough to prove that the murderer of Susy d'Orsel was really Fantômas, and thus clear the name of the King. He gave no hint, however, that Fandor was still, as Juve thought, impersonating Frederick-Christian, and made no mention of his own adventures. He concluded by saying:
"In a word, we have now only to establish the guilt of Fantômas and publish the story of his crime, to absolve the King in the eyes of all … and that will mean the end of your troubles."
"That is true!" replied the director joyfully, "and I may add it is entirely due to you, my dear Juve. Why, the other day, I was actually on the point of arresting Frederick-Christian, which would have been an unpardonable blunder."
"Really?"
"Yes. For since your departure, the identity of the King has been established beyond dispute. Yesterday I learned that the director of the bank had had an interview with him, and he also received a visit from an intimate friend, an attaché of the Embassy."
Juve heard these words with growing uneasiness. The King was Fandor. How had Fandor managed the affair?
M. Annion continued:
"And what do you think happened yesterday afternoon? I received a visit from a little idiot called Marie Pascal, who still insisted on the imposture. She asserted that the King was no longer the same."
Juve felt his head swimming.
Marie Pascal had paid one visit to Fandor, and now declared he was no longer the same! So Fandor was not at the Royal Palace. Who had taken his place?
The real King?
Was Fandor himself a victim?
"By the way," pursued M. Annion, oblivious of Juve's trouble, "you didn't happen to learn any details concerning the King's toilette at Glotzbourg?"
"No, why?"
"Oh, nothing of importance. I should like to have known whether it was a fact that Frederick-Christian wore an 18-inch collar. It would merely have been another proof."
The words literally stupefied the detective. If the man at the Royal Palace wore 18-inch collars, he was certainly not Fandor, whose neck was very slender. The journalist wore size 14-1/2.
One hour later—it was then half-past ten in the morning—Juve arrived at the Royal Palace. He did not attempt to send up his card to the King, but contented himself with gathering what information he could from among his colleagues who were stationed about the hotel.
"The deuce!" he cried, twenty minutes later. "It's true that Frederick-Christian is really here. What has become of Fandor? Well, I shall probably be able to get news of him at his own apartment. What I have to do now is to recover the diamond and catch Fantômas … if that is possible."
Chapter 25 "I WANT TO LIVE!"
During two days which passed like two centuries, Fandor had been held prisoner in his dungeon where death awaited him.
"I am condemned to death," he exclaimed, "very good, then I will wait for death."
But Fandor was of those who do not give up until the struggle is over. Besides, he had his faithful revolver. He could end his life at any moment and shorten the torture. He had found sufficient ham to last for two meals, and when that had been eaten and the last drop of water drunk he began to suffer the tortures of hunger and thirst. And now, like a caged beast, he paced up and down his prison. His mind went back to stories he had read, stories of entombed miners, of explorers hemmed in by ice, of hunters caught in traps, but in all these cases deliverance in one form or another had come at last—the adventures ended happily.
"I want to live," he cried aloud, "I want to live!"
Suddenly a great calm descended upon him. His coolness and clear judgment returned.
"To struggle! Yes—but how?"
At this moment the roar of the Nord-Sud shook his prison walls. An idea took root in his mind.
Might it not be possible to burrow his way through the soil directly to the tunnel! Examining the ground, he decided that it would be simpler to tunnel his way like a mole, skirting the concrete base of the statue and reaching the pavement beyond. It would not be hard work to dislodge one of the paving stones and reach the open air. No sooner was the plan conceived than he broke several of the bottles until he obtained a piece of the thick glass sufficiently jagged to form a trowel.
With this rough implement he then set to work, scooping up the earth and piling it on one side of his cell. Patiently and ceaselessly he continued, hour after hour, until suddenly the hiss of escaping gas could be faintly heard.
"I'm done for this time," he cried in despair.