III
BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE
Despite the gusty wind and squalls of icy rain which deluged Paris,despite the early morning hour, although it was one of those firstdark days of November which depress humanity, Jerome Fandor, thejournalist, editorial contributor to the popular evening paper _LaCapitale_, was in a gay mood, and showed it by singing at the top ofhis voice, at the risk of rousing the neighbourhood.
In his very comfortable little flat, rue Richer, where he had livedfor a number of years, the young journalist was coming and goingbusily: cupboards, drawers, wardrobes, were opened wide, garments,piles of linen, were spread about in all the rooms. On the dining-roomtable a large travelling bag lay open: into this, with the aid of hishousekeeper, Jerome Fandor was feverishly packing the spare things herequired, and was talking in joking fashion with his old servant,Angelique.
Presently she asked, rather anxiously:
"Are you likely to be away a long time, sir?"
The journalist shook his head and murmured:
"I should like to be, but you don't suppose we journalists getholidays of that sort!"
Still anxious, Angelique went on:
"Perhaps you intend to change your housekeeper when you return,Monsieur Fandor? Nevertheless----"
"You are really mad, Angelique! Have I not told you twenty times thatI am going away for a fortnight's holiday? Never for a moment have Ithought of getting rid of you--quite the contrary! I am delighted withthe way you do your work. There now! I shall go by way of Monaco--Ipromise to put five francs on the red for you!"
"On the red?" questioned old Angelique.
"Yes. It's a game. If red's the winner there will be a present foryou! Hurry off now and bring up my trousers!"
Whilst his housekeeper hastened downstairs, Fandor went to the windowand, with a questioning glance, considered the dull grey sky.
"Disgusting weather!" he murmured. "But what do I care for that? I amgoing to the sun of the South--ah, to the sun!" He laughed a greatlaugh of satisfaction. How he had looked forward to this holiday, howhe had longed for it!--this holiday he was going to take now, aftertwo-and-twenty months of uninterrupted work! During those months, inhis capacity of chief reporter to _La Capitale_, scarcely a day hadpassed without his having some move to make, some strange happening toclear up, even some criminal to pursue; for Jerome Fandor belonged tothat species of active and restless beings who are ceaselessly atwork, ready for action, bent on doing things: an activity due partlyto temperament, partly to conscience. Added to this, his professioninterested him enormously.
At the commencement of his career--and that of journalism is a ticklishone--he had been greatly helped by Juve, whose knowledge and advice hadbeen invaluable to him. Fandor had been involved--particularly duringthe last few years--in the most sensational crimes, in the mostmysterious affairs, and, whether by chance or voluntarily, he had playeda real part in them. He had not been content to take up the position ofonlooker and historian only.
Fandor had made his post an important one: he had to be seriouslyreckoned with. He had enemies, adversaries far from contemptible, andtime and again the journalist who, with his friend Juve, had takenpart in terrible man-hunts, had attracted towards himself venomoushatreds, all the more disquieting in that his adversaries were ofthose who keep in the shade and never come into the open for aface-to-face tussle.
Finally, and above all, Fandor, coupled with his friend, detectiveJuve, had either distinguished himself gloriously or covered himselfwith ridicule, but in either case he had attracted public attention byhis epic combats with the most deadly personality of the age--theelusive Fantomas.
But our holiday-making journalist, whistling the latest air, all therage, gave no thought to all that. He was reveling in the idea that afew hours hence he would be installed in a comfortable sleepingcompartment, to awake next morning on the wonderful Cote d'Azur,inundated with light, drenched in the perfume of tropical flowers,bathed in the radiance of eternal summer.
Ah, then, eight hundred miles and more would separate him from theoffices of _La Capitale_, of the police stations, of wretched dens andhovels with their pestilential smells, would separate him from thiseverlasting bad weather, from the cold, the wet, which were theordinary concomitants of his daily existence. To the devil with allthat! No more copy to feed printer and paper with! No more people tobe interviewed! Hurrah! Here were the holidays! It was leave ofabsence, and liberty.
The telephone bell rang.
Fandor hesitated a moment. Should he answer it?
According to custom, the journalist "had left" the evening before: hecould plead his leave, which was in order, and say, like Louis XIV,"After me the deluge!"
This famous saying would have suited the moment, for it was at thatinstant precisely that an inky cloud burst over Paris and emptiedtorrents of water over the darkened city.
Perhaps a friend had rung him up--or it was a mistake! So arguing,Fandor unhooked the receiver.
Having listened a moment, he instinctively adopted a more respectfulattitude, as if his interlocutor at the other end of the line couldsee him.
Fandor replied in quick monosyllables, closing the conversation withthese words:
"Agreed. Presently, then chief."
As the journalist hung up the receiver his expression changed: hefrowned, and pulling at his moustache with a nervous hand, frettingand fuming.
"Hang it! It only wanted this," he grumbled.
Fandor had been called up by M. Dupont, of _L'Aube_, the well-knownopportunist deputy, who was the manager of _La Capitale_ as well. M.Dupont was only a nominal manager, and generally contented himselfwith writing up his editorial without even taking it to the office. Heleft the real management to his son-in-law, whose function was that ofeditor-in-chief. Thus Fandor had been extremely astonished when his"Head," as he was called in the editorial department, had rung him up.
M. Dupont had summoned him to the Chamber of Deputies, for threeo'clock in the afternoon: his chief wished to give him someinformation for an article on a matter which interested himparticularly. Fandor was puzzled, anxious.
What could it be? The chief could not know that he was taking hisholiday.
"Bah!" said he, "Dupont evidently does not know. I will go to ourmeeting-place and will explain my approaching departure to him, andthe devil's in it if he does not pass on this bit of reporting to oneof my colleagues!"
"Madame Angelique," continued Fandor in a joyous voice, turning to thebreathless old housekeeper who had just come back laden with parcels,"Get me lunch quickly. Then you must strap up my portmanteau. Thisevening I am going to make off, whatever happens!"
* * * * *
For two hours, interminable hours they seemed, Fandor had waited forM. Dupont in the Hall des Perdus[1] of the Palais-Bourbon. The deputywas at a sitting of the Chamber. If the ushers were to be believed,the discussion was likely to go on interminably. Several times ouryoung journalist had thought he would simply make off without wordsaid, excusing himself on the score of a misunderstanding when eighthundred odd miles lay between him and the directorial thunders. But hewas too scrupulous a journalist, too professionally honest to followthe prompting of his desires.
[Footnote 1: Hall of the Wandering Footsteps.]
So, champing his bit, Fandor had stood his ground.
As he was looking at his watch for the hundred and fiftieth time, hequickly rose and hastened towards two men who came out of a corridor:they were M. Dupont and a personage whom Fandor recognised at once.He bowed respectfully to them, shaking hands with the cordial M.Dupont, who said to his companion:
"My dear Minister, let me present to you my young collaborator, JeromeFandor."
"It is a name not unknown to me," replied the minister; then, havinginnumerable calls on his time, he quickly disappeared.
A few minutes after, in one of the little sitting-rooms reserved forParliamentary Commissions, the manager of _La Capitale_ was conversingwi
th his chief reporter.
"It was not to present me to the minister that you sent for me, mydear Chief--unless you intend to get me an appointment as sub-prefect,in which case."...
"In which case?" questioned M. Dupont gently.
Fandor's reply was frank.
"In which case, even before being nominated, I should tender you myresignation: it is not a profession which tempts me much!"
"Reassure yourself, Fandor, I have no intention whatever of sendingyou to live in the provinces: but if I asked you to see me here, itwas with reference to a very delicate affair about which I mean togive you _instructions_--I insist on this word."
"Good," thought Fandor. "It's all up with my holiday!"
He tried to ask this question before his chief went into details, butM. Dupont interrupted him with a movement of his hand.
"You will leave for your holiday a few hours later, my dear fellow,and you can take eight days in addition."
Fandor bowed. He could not dispute his chief's decision--and he hadgained by this arrangement.
"My dear Fandor," said his chief, coming to the main point, "wepublished yesterday evening, as you, of course, know, a shortparagraph on the death of an artillery officer, Captain Brocq....There is something mysterious about his death. Captain Brocq who,owing to his functions, was attached to the Second Bureau of the StaffHeadquarters, that is to say, the Intelligence Department, was intouch with different sets of people: it would be interesting to getsome information about them. I mentioned this just now to the Ministerof War, and to the Minister for Home Affairs: both are agreed, that,without making too much noise about this incident, we should instituteenquiries, discreet, of course, but also pretty exhaustive. You arethe only man on the paper possessed of the necessary tact and abilityto carry the thing through successfully."
* * * * *
An hour later, under the pouring rain, Fandor, with turned-uptrousers, his greatcoat collar raised, was walking stoically along theEsplanade des Invalides, which was feebly lighted by a few scarcelyvisible gas-jets. He reached the other side of the Place a la rueFabert; looked at the number of the first house in front of him,followed the pavement a moment, turning his back on the Seine, thenreached the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg by way of the rue del'Universite.
Fandor repeated to himself the final words of his chief'sinstructions.
"Interview Baron de Naarboveck; get into touch with a young personcalled Bobinette; find out who and what are the frequenters of thehouse where this well-known diplomat lives."
Our journalist was not anxious as to the result of his interview; itwas not his first experience of the kind, and this time his task wasrendered especially easy, owing to the letter of introduction which M.Dupont had given him, in order that he might have a talk with M. deNaarboveck, who lived in a sumptuous mansion in the rue Fabert.
Fandor did not go straight ahead to this interview: his method was notso simple. After identifying the front of the house, wishing to knowthe immediate neighbourhood thoroughly, he went all round the mass ofhouses which limited the rue de l'Universite; he went through theAvenue de la Tour-Maubourg, in order to discover whether the house wasdouble or single, if it had one or two exits. Fandor was too much adetective at heart to neglect the smallest detail.
His inspection was soon done. The house possessed two entrances; thatin the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg was for the use of the servants andcommon folk only. The front door opened on the rue Fabert. A courtyardat the back separated it from the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg.
The house consisted of three storeys, and a ground-floor approached bya few steps.
Fandor returned to the Esplanade des Invalides, and walked up and downunder the trees for some time, watching the comings and goings of theneighbourhood. At a quarter to seven he had looked at his watch, and,not seeing any light in the first-floor rooms, the shutters of whichwere not yet closed, he concluded that the inmates had probably notcome in.
Just then Fandor saw an automobile, a very elegant limousine, draw upbefore M. de Naarboveck's house. A man of a certain age descended fromit, and vanished in the shadow of a doorway: the door had opened asthe carriage stopped.
"That's de Naarboveck," thought Fandor.
Then he saw the carriage turn and move away.
"The carriage goes in: the master does not go out again," deducedFandor.
A short time after, the chauffeur, having taken off his livery, cameout of the house and went away.
"Good," remarked Fandor. "The man I am after will not budge from thehouse to-night."
The next to enter were two young women: then some twenty minutespassed. The rooms on the first floor were lit up, one after the other.The house was waking up. Fandor was making up his mind to ring when amotor-car brought a fourth person to the door. It was a young man,smart, distinguished-looking, very fair, wearing a long thin droopingmoustache: movements and appearance spoke his profession: an officerin mufti, beyond question.
Fandor once more encircled the house; he had reached the door openingon to the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg when he saw a confectioner's boyslip into the house.
"M. Dupont told me de Naarboveck lived alone with his daughter,therefore he has people dining with him this evening," reasoned thejournalist. He then decided to dine himself, and return an hour and ahalf later. Naarboveck well dined and wined could give him more time,and would be the easier to interview.
Three-quarters of an hour later Fandor left the humble eating-house,where he had dined badly in the company of coachmen andhouse-servants, but fully informed as to the private and publicexistence of the person he was going to interview. He had set his hostand his table neighbours gossiping to such purpose that he could tellat what time de Naarboveck rose in the morning, what his habits were,if he fasted on Fridays, and what he paid for his cigars.
* * * * *
"Monsieur de Naarboveck, if you please?"
Jerome Fandor had rung the bell of the front entrance in the rueFabert. It was just striking nine. A house-porter of the correct stampappeared.
"He lives here, Monsieur."
Fandor offered his card, and the letter of introduction from M.Dupont.
"Please see that these are handed to Monsieur de Naarboveck, and findout if he can receive me."
The porter, having decided that the visitor was too well dressed to beleft waiting on the steps, signed to the young man to follow him. Theporter rang, and a footman in undress livery immediately appeared, andtook card and letter from the porter.
The servant looked consideringly at Fandor's name engraved on thecard, stared at this unknown visitor, hoping he would definitely statethe purpose of his visit, but the journalist remained impassive, andas his profession was not indicated on his card the servant had to besatisfied with his own curiosity.
"Kindly wait here a moment," said the footman, in a fairly civil toneof voice. "I will see if my master is at home."
Fandor remained alone in a vast hall, furnished after the Renaissancemanner. Costly tapestries covered the walls with their imposingpictures, their sumptuously woven epics.
The footman quickly returned.
"Will Monsieur kindly follow me?"
Relieved of his overcoat, Fandor obeyed.
One side of the hall opened on a great double staircase, the whitestone of which, turned grey with the passing of time, softened by athick carpet and ornamented by a marvellous balustrade of delicatelywrought iron-work, a masterpiece of the XVIIth century.
The lackey opened a door which gave access to a magnificentreception-room, sparsely furnished with pieces of the best Louis XIVperiod. Mirrors reflected the canvases of famous painters, familypictures of immense artistic value, and still more valuable assouvenirs.
Traversing this fine apartment, they passed through other drawingrooms furnished in perfect taste. Fandor reached the smoking-room atlast, where Empire furniture was judiciously mingled with pieces madefor comfort after the En
glish fashion, the tawny leather of whichharmonised marvellously with the blood-red of the ancient mahogany andwith its ancient bronzes.
The lackey pointed to a chair and disappeared.
"By jove!" said Fandor, half aloud, "this fine fellow has done himselfwell in the way of a dwelling-place!"
The journalist's reflections were interrupted by the entrance of anexceedingly elegant young lady.
Fandor rose and saluted this charming apparition.