“I’ll punt him back into the water!”
But mother Chiquard stayed him, just as he was putting his idea into execution.
“You mustn’t: suppose somebody has seen us already? It would land us in no end of trouble!”
Half an hour later, convinced that it was his melancholy duty, Bouzille left two-thirds of his train in mother Chiquard’s custody, got astride his prehistoric tricycle and slowly pedalled off towards Saint-Jaury.
New Year’s Day is a melancholy and a tedious one for everybody whose public or private relations do not make it an exceptionally interesting one. There is the alteration in the date, for one thing, which is provocative of thought, and there is the enforced idleness for another, coming upon energetic folk like a temporary paralysis and leaving them nothing but meditation wherewith to employ themselves.
Juve, comfortably installed in his own private study, was realising this just as evening was falling on this first of January. He was a confirmed bachelor, and for several years had lived in a little flat on the fifth floor of an old house in the rue Bonaparte. He had not gone out today, but though he was resting he was not idle. For a whole month past he had been wholly engrossed in his attempt to solve the mystery surrounding the two cases on which he was engaged, the Beltham case, and the Langrune case, and his mind was leisurely revolving round them now as he sat in his warm room before a blazing wood fire, and watched the blue smoke curl up in rings towards the ceiling. The two cases were very dissimilar, and yet his detective instinct persuaded him that although they differed in details their conception and execution emanated not only from one single brain but also from one hand. He was convinced that he was dealing with a mysterious and dangerous individual, and that while he himself was out in the open he was fighting a concealed and invisible adversary; he strove to give form and substance to the adversary, and the name of Fantômas came into his mind. Fantômas! What might Fantômas be doing now, and, if he had a real existence, as the detective most firmly believed, how was he spending New Year’s Day?
A sharp ring at the bell startled him from his chair, and not giving his manservant time to answer it, he went himself to the door and took from a messenger a telegram which he hastily tore open and read:
Have found in the Dordogne drowned body of young man, face unrecognisable, from description possibly Charles Rambert. Please consider situation and wire course you will take.
The telegram had been handed in at Brives and was signed by M. de Presles.
“Something fresh at last,” the detective muttered. “Drowned in the Dordogne, and face unrecognisable! I wonder if it really is Charles Rambert?”
Since M. Etienne Rambert and his son had disappeared so unaccountably, the detective naturally had formulated mentally several hypotheses, but he had arrived at no conclusion which really satisfied his judgment. But though their flight had not surprised him greatly, he had been rather surprised that the police had not been able to find any trace of them, for rightly or wrongly Juve credited them with a good deal of cleverness and power. So it was by no means unreasonable to accept the death of the fugitives as explanation of the failure of the police to find them. However, this was a fresh development of the case, and he was about to draft a reply to M. de Presles when once more the bell rang sharply.
This time Juve did not move, but listened while his man spoke to the visitor. It was an absolute rule of Juve’s never to receive visitors at his flat. If anyone wanted to see him on business, he was to be found almost every day in his office at headquarters about eleven in the morning; to a few people he was willing to give appointments at a quiet and discreet little café in the boulevard Saint-Michel; but he invited no one to his own rooms except one or two of his own relations from the country, and even they had to be provided with a password before they could obtain admission. So now, to all the entreaties of the caller, Juve’s servant stolidly replied with the assurance that his master would see no one; yet the visitor’s insistence was so great that at last the servant was prevailed upon to bring in his card, albeit with some fear as to the consequences for himself. But to his extreme relief and surprise, Juve, when he had read the name engraved upon the card, said sharply:
“Bring him in here at once!”
And in another couple of seconds M. Etienne Rambert was in the room!
The old gentleman who had fled so mysteriously a few days before, taking with him the son over whom so dread a charge was hanging, bowed deferentially to the detective, with the pitiful mien of one who is crushed beneath the burden of misfortune. His features were drawn, his face bore the stamp of deepest grief, and in his hand he held an evening paper, which in his agitation he had crumpled almost into a ball.
“Tell me, sir, if it is true,” he said in low trembling tones. “I have just read that.”
Juve pointed to a chair, took the paper mechanically, and smoothing it out, read, below a large headline, “Is this a sequel
