Juve smiled at M. de Presles’ sudden irritability, but quickly became grave again.
“I am anxious not to be led away by any preconceived opinion. I put the hypothesis that so-and-so is guilty, and examine all the arguments in support of that theory; then I submit that the crime was committed by somebody else, and proceed in the same way. My method certainly has the objection that it confronts every argument with a diametrically opposite one, but we are not concerned with establishing any one case in preference to another—it is the truth, and nothing else, that we have to discover.”
“And that is tantamount to saying that in spite of the overwhelming circumstantial evidence, and in spite of the fact that he has run away, Charles Rambert is innocent?”
“Charles Rambert is the culprit, sir,” Juve replied brightly. “If he were not, whom else could we possibly suspect?”
The detective’s placidity and his perpetual self-contradictions exasperated M. de Presles. He held his tongue, and was silently revolving the case in his mind when Juve made yet one more suggestion.
“There is one final hypothesis which I feel obliged to put before you. Do you realise, sir, that this is a typical Fantômas crime?”
M. de Presles shrugged his shoulders as the detective pronounced this half-mythical name.
“Upon my word, M. Juve, I should never have expected you to invoke Fantômas! Why, Fantômas is the too obvious subterfuge, the cheapest device for investing a case with mock honours. Between you and me, you know perfectly well that Fantômas is merely a legal fiction—a lawyers’ joke. Fantômas has no existence in fact!”
Juve stopped in his stride. He paused a moment before replying; then spoke in a restrained voice, but with an emphasis on his words that always marked him when he spoke in all seriousness.
“You are wrong to laugh, sir; very wrong. You are a magistrate and I am only a humble detective inspector, but you have three or four years’ experience, perhaps less, while I have fifteen years’ work behind me. I know that Fantômas does exist, and I do anything but laugh when I suspect his intervention in a case.”
M. de Presles could hardly conceal his surprise, and Juve went on:
“No one has ever said of me, sir, that I was a coward. I have looked death in the eyes; I have often hunted and arrested criminals who would not have had the least hesitation in doing away with me. There are whole gangs of rascals who have vowed my death. All manner of horrible revenges threaten me today. For all that I have the most complete indifference! But when people talk to me of Fantômas, when I fancy that I can detect the intervention of that genius of crime in any case, then, M. de Presles, I am in a funk! I tell you frankly I am in a funk. I am frightened, because Fantômas is a being against whom it is idle to use ordinary weapons; because he has been able to hide his identity and elude all pursuit for years; because his daring is boundless and his power unmeasurable; because he is everywhere and nowhere at once and, if he has had a hand in this affair, I am not even sure that he is not listening to me now! And finally, M. de Presles, because everyone whom I have known to attack Fantômas, my friends, my colleagues, my superior officers, have one and all, one and all, sir, been beaten in the fight! Fantômas does exist, I know, but who is he? A man can brave a danger he can measure, but he trembles when confronted with a peril he suspects but cannot see.”
“But this Fantômas is not a devil,” the magistrate broke in testily; “he is a man like you and me!”
“You are right, sir, in saying he is a man; but I repeat, the man is a genius! I don’t know whether he works alone or whether he is the head of a gang of criminals; I know nothing of his life; I know nothing of his object. In no single case yet has it been possible to determine the exact part he has taken. He seems to possess the extraordinary gift of being able to slay and leave no trace. You don’t see him; you divine his presence: you don’t hear him; you have a presentiment of him. If Fantômas is mixed up in this present affair, I don’t know if we ever shall succeed in clearing it up!”
M. de Presles was impressed in spite of himself by the detective’s earnestness.
“But I suppose you are not recommending me to drop the enquiry, are you, Juve?”
The detective forced a laugh that did not ring quite true.
“Come, come, sir,” he answered, “I told you just now that I was frightened, but I never said I was a coward. You may be quite sure I shall do my duty, to the very end. When I first began—and that was not yesterday, nor yet the day before—to realise the importance and the power of this Fantômas, I took an oath, sir, that some day I would discover his identity and effect his arrest! Fantômas is an enemy of society, you say? I prefer to regard him first and foremost as my own personal enemy! I have declared war on him, and I am ready to lose my skin in the war if necessary, but by God I’ll have his!”
Juve ceased. M. de Presles also was silent. But the magistrate was still sceptical, despite the detective’s strange utterance, and presently he could not refrain from making a gentle protest and appeal.
“Do please bring in a verdict against someone, M. Juve, for really I would rather believe that your Fantômas is—a creation of the imagination!”
Juve shrugged his shoulders, seemed to be arriving at a mighty decision, and began:
“You are
