II
ON THE TRACK
The daily paper, _The Capital_, was about to go to press. The editorshad handed over the last slips of copy with the latest news.
"Well, Fandor," asked the Secretary, "nothing more for me?"
"No, nothing."
"You won't spring a 'latest' on me?"
"Not unless the President of the Republic should be assassinated."
"Right enough. But don't joke. Lord, there's something else to be donejust now."
The "setter up" appeared in the editor's rooms:
"I want sharp type for 'one,' and eight lines for 'two.'"
Discreetly, as a man accustomed to the business, Fandor withdrew onhearing the request of the "setter up," avoiding the searching glance ofthe sub-editor, who forthwith to meet the demands of the paging, calledat random one of the reporters and passed on the order to him.
"Some lines of special type; eight lines. Take up the Cretan question onthe Havas telegrams. Be quick!"
Fandor picked up his hat and stick and left the office. His berth aspolice-reporter meant a constantly active and unsettled existence. Hewas never his own master, never knew ten minutes beforehand what he wasgoing to do, whether he might go home, start on a journey, interview aminister or risk his life by an investigation in the world of thugs andcut-throats.
"Deuce take it!" he cried as he passed the office door and saw what thetime was. "I simply must go to the courts, and it's already verylate...." He ran forward a few paces, then stopped short. "And thatporter murdered at Belleville!... If I don't cover that affair I shallhave nothing interesting to turn in...."
He retraced his steps, looking for a cab and swearing at the narrownessof the Rue Montmartre, where the inadequate pavements forced the footpassengers to overflow on to the roadway, which was choked withcostermongers' carts, heavy motor-buses, and all that swarm of vehicleswhich gives a Paris street an air of bustle unequalled in any othercapital in the world. As he was about to pass the corner of the RueBergere, a porter laden down with sample boxes, strung on a hook, raninto him, almost knocking him down.
"Look where you're going!" cried the journalist.
"Look out yourself," replied the man insolently.
Fandor, with an angry shrug of his shoulders, was about to pursue hisway, when the man stopped him.
"Sir, can you direct me to the Rue du Croissant?"
"Follow the Rue Montmartre and take the second turning to the right."
"Thank you, sir; could you give me a light?"
Fandor could not repress a smile. He held out his cigarette. "Here; isthat all you want to-day?"
"Well, you might offer me a drink."
Fandor was about to answer sharply when something in the man's faceseemed vaguely familiar. He was about sixty. His clothes were threadbareand green with age, his shoes down at the heels, his moustache andshaggy beard a dirty yellow.
"Why the devil should I stand you a drink?"
"A good impulse, M. Fandor."
In a moment the man's features seemed to change. He appeared quite adifferent person and Fandor recognised who was speaking to him.Accustomed by long habit to conceal his impressions, the journalistspoke nonchalantly:
"All right; let's go to the 'Grand Charlemagne.'"
They started off together, reached the Faubourg Montmartre and entered asmall wine-shop. Having taken their seats and ordered drinks, Fandorturned to the porter.
"What's up?" he asked.
"It takes you a long time to recognise your friends."
Fandor scrutinised his companion.
"You are wonderfully made up, Juve."
On hearing his name mentioned, the man gave a start. "Don't utter myname! They know me here as old Paul."
"But why the disguise? Who are you after? Is it anything to do withFantomas?"
Juve shrugged his shoulders. "Let's leave Fantomas out of it," he said."At least for the moment. No, my lad, it's a very commonplace affairto-day, and I wouldn't have bumped into you except that I have an hourto while away and wanted your company."
"This disguise for a commonplace affair?" cried Fandor. "Come, Juve,don't keep me in the dark."
Juve laughed at his friend's eagerness.
"You'll always be the same. When it's a matter of detective work,there's no keeping you out of it. Well, here's the information you'reafter. Read that."
He passed Fandor a greasy, ill-written letter. Fandor took it in at aglance.
"This refers to Loupart, alias the Square?"
"Yes."
"And you call it a commonplace affair? But, look here, can you trustinformation given by a loose woman?"
"My dear Fandor, the police largely depend upon such tips, given throughrevenge by women of that class."
"Well, I'm going with you."
"No, I won't have you mixed up in this business; it's too dangerous."
"All the more reason for my being in it! What is really known about thisLoupart?"
"Very little, unfortunately," rejoined Juve. "And it's the mysterysurrounding him which makes us uneasy. Although he has been involved insome of the worst crimes, he has always managed to escape arrest. He issupposed to be one of an organised gang. In any case, he's a resolutescoundrel who wouldn't hesitate to draw his gun in case of need."
Fandor nodded.
"His arrest will make bully copy."
"And for the pleasure of writing a sensational story you want to putyour life in peril again!" Juve smiled sympathetically as he spoke. Hehad known the young journalist, when, scarcely grown up, he had beeninvolved in the weird affairs of "Fantomas."
Fandor was an assumed name. Juve recalled the young Charles Rambert,victim of the mysterious Fantomas, the most redoubtable ruffian ofmodern times, whom Juve declared to be Gurn and still alive, althoughGurn had supposedly died on the scaffold. He recalled the sensationaltrial and the terrible revelations that had appalled society. Gurn hehad then affirmed to be the lover of the Englishwoman, Lady Beltham.Gurn it was who had killed her husband, and Gurn was no other thanFantomas.
He recalled the tragical morning when Gurn, in the very shadow of thescaffold, had found means to send in his stead an innocent victim,Valgrand, the actor.
"When will you begin to draw in your net?" inquired Fandor.
Juve motioned to his companion to be silent and listen.
"Fandor, you hear what that man's singing; the one drinking at thebar?"
"Yes, 'The Blue Danube.'"
"Well, that gives me the answer. We shall soon be on Loupart's tracks.By the way, are you armed?"
"If you won't run me in for carrying concealed weapons I'll confess thatBaby Browning is in my pocket."
"Good. Now, then, listen to my directions. Loupart was seen at themarkets this morning by two of my watchers, and you may be sure hehasn't been lost sight of since. Reports I have received indicate thathe will presumably go to the Chateaudun cross-roads and from there tothe Place Pigalle, in the direction of Doctor Chaleck's house. We shallnab him at the cross-roads. Needless to say we are not going to keeptogether. As soon as our man comes in sight you will pass on ahead,walking at his pace on the same pavement and without turning round."
"And if Loupart doesn't appear?"
"Why then--" began Juve. "The deuce! There's another customer whistling'The Blue Danube.' It's time to be off."
"Are those your agents whistling?" asked Fandor, as they left the shop.
"No."
"What! Isn't it a signal?"
"It is, and you'll be able to find your trail by the passers-by whowhistle that air."
While talking, the journalist and the detective arrived at theChateaudun cross-roads. Juve cast an eye over the ground.
"It's six o'clock. Be off and prowl around Notre Dame de Lorette.Loupart will probably come out of that wine-shop you see to the right.You can easily recognise him by his height and a scar on his leftcheek."
"Look here, Juve, why should these people whistle 'The Blue Danube' ifthey are
not detectives?"
Juve smiled. "It's quite simple. If you whistle a popular tune in acrowd, some one is bound to take it up. Well, the two men I put towatching Loupart this morning were whistling this same tune, and now weare meeting persons who caught the air."
Fandor crossed the road and proceeded toward Notre Dame de Lorette tothe post the detective had allotted to him. The man hunt was about tobegin.