A Nest of Spies Part 3

"Here's a go!" he muttered--"'State of munition supplies!' 'Orders for the eastern fortresses!' I do not want to keep such important doc.u.ments longer than I can help."

He had immediately telephoned to Headquarters. Rea.s.sured by the sergeant's reply, the superintendent turned to the policeman.

"You have made out your report?" he asked curtly.

The honest guardian of the peace touched his cap, looked perplexed, and scratched his head.

"Not yet, Monsieur. No time, Monsieur. But I will write it out at once."

The superintendent smiled at his embarra.s.sed subordinate. "Suppose we do it together!"

"Let us see now! The deceased was a captain--isn't that so? The papers found in his portfolio and the name written on it let us know that he was called Brocq, and that he was attached to the Ministry. So much for his ident.i.ty. We will not trouble about his domicile, the Place will tell us that! Now let us go into the details of the accident--tell me, my man, exactly how his death occurred!"

Again the worthy guardian of the peace scratched his head with an anxious look.

"I saw nothing of it, Monsieur," he replied.

"And the taxi-driver? You have his deposition?"

"He did not see anything either, Monsieur."

"Call this chauffeur."

A few minutes after, the superintendent dismissed the chauffeur. A short interrogation revealed that the taxi-driver had not only seen nothing, but that he could do nothing to help the enquiry.

The superintendent recalled the honest policeman.

"Come now! You are certain that the victim died immediately?"

"Well, you see, Monsieur, while I was dispersing the crowd, a doctor came up, and it was he who told me how the dead man died!"

"This doctor did not point out to you the cause of death?"

"No, Monsieur. But he gave me his card."

The policeman drew from the pocket of his tunic a dirty note-book. He took a card from it and handed it to his chief. "There, Monsieur!"

The magistrate looked at the name. _Professor Barrell, of the School of Medicine_. Turning the card, he read aloud a few words in pencil:

"_Sudden death, which seems due to a phenomenon of inhibition._"...

"This professor did not explain what he meant by 'death due to inhibition'?"

"No, Monsieur."

"Annoying!... I do not know what that means."

The superintendent was about to continue his enquiry when there was a knock at his office door.

A policeman informed him respectfully: "There is an inspector, Monsieur, from Headquarters detective department who asks to see you on urgent business--he declares you have sent for him."

"Tell him to come in."

No sooner had this personage from "Headquarters detective department"

appeared in the doorway, than the superintendent rose, and advanced with outstretched hands.

"You, Juve! I am delighted to see you! How are you?"

It was, in truth, the celebrated detective, Juve.

Juve had altered but little. He was always the same man; rather thick-set, vigorous, astonishingly alive, agile, as youthful as ever, in spite of his moustache turning grey, in spite of his rounded shoulders which, at moments, seemed to bend under the weight of the toils and fatigues of the past.

This magic name evoked memories of terrible stories, stories of dangers encountered, endured, overcome; of brave deeds; of desperate struggles with the worst criminals.

Juve! He was the man who, for ten years, had represented to all, ability, audacity, limitless daring! He was the man who best knew how to employ wiles and stratagems to secure the triumph of society in the incessant combat it had to sustain against the innumerable soldiers of the army of crime.

When the terrible Dollon affair had come to an end, Juve had been blamed officially, and the detective could not help feeling angry and exasperated, for, after all, if he had failed, he ought not to have been treated as a culprit. Not a soul had had the slightest suspicion of how the affair had ended. Not one of them knew the incredible truth--how the marvellous, the redoubtable, the incredible Fantomas had elected to make his escape at the very moment when Juve was preparing to put the handcuffs on him.

And the detective, disheartened, but determined not to give up the fight against this deep-dyed criminal whom he had been pursuing for years, had asked for a few weeks' holiday, had lain snug, then had returned to his post at Headquarters, had made a point of keeping in the background, only awaiting the moment when he could resume his hunt for the ruffian whom he looked on as a personal enemy.

Since then, nothing had happened to put him on the track of Fantomas.

No crime had been committed in circ.u.mstances which could leave him to think that this elusive murderer was involved in it.

Our detective had begun to ask himself if, not having been fortunate enough to arrest this king of a.s.sa.s.sins, he had not at any rate succeeded in unmasking him, in compelling him to fly for his life, in putting him out of power to do harm.

Rapidly the superintendent put Juve in possession of the incidents which had led him to telephone to Headquarters.

"You have done well," said Juve. "Have you the portfolio of this dead man?"

"Here it is, my friend."

Juve opened it.

"If you will allow it, Monsieur, I am going to make a complete list of the contents. This list I shall leave with you. I shall take a copy: that I shall deposit at the office of the Chief of Staff, obtaining a receipt for it. This will relieve both you and myself of all further responsibility on this head."

For some moments Juve and the superintendent occupied themselves in going over the papers of the dead man. Suddenly the detective got up, and, holding a paper in his hand, began walking up and down the room.

"You have read that?" he asked, turning to the superintendent.

"What is it? No."

"Read it!"

The superintendent read: