A Nest of Spies Part 37

It was striking seven when Fandor presented himself at the Noret printing works.

He rang: he was admitted, and shown into a waiting-room. There was a touch of the convent parlour about it. The man who had opened to him asked:

"What name shall I give to the gentlemen, Monsieur?"

"Tell them it is Corporal Vinson."

Fandor's heart was beating like a sledge hammer as the minutes dragged by: it was an eternity of waiting! A flock of suspicions crowded his mind: might he not have fallen into a trap?

At last a tall, thin, red-bearded young man walked into the room: he greeted Fandor-Vinson with:

"Good evening, Corporal. Our mutual friends have informed us that we might expect you. They have not arrived yet; but there is no need to wait for a regular introduction--what do you think?"

"You are too kind, Monsieur. A simple corporal like myself is very fortunate to find friends in a garrison town."

"To pa.s.s the time till our friends arrive, what do you say to visiting the workshops?... You will find it interesting ... and useful."

"That word 'useful' again!" thought Fandor. "Decidedly there is business afoot to-night!"

His guide expanded.

"In Paris they despise provincial industries! They pretend to believe that no good work is done--can be done--in country districts.... It is a mistaken notion! Examine our machines!"

The red-bearded young man ushered Fandor into the workshops. They were extensive, s.p.a.cious.

"Here is the machine which prints off _The Beacon of Verdun_!" he explained. "You can see for yourself that it is the latest model! Do you know anything about the working of these machines?"

Fandor could hardly restrain his laughter.

"What would this guide of mine think if he knew that for a good many years I have had to cross the machine-room of _La Capitale_ every evening, and consequently have been able to see and admire printing machines of a very different quality of perfection to this one he has praised so emphatically?"

Fandor-Vinson played up.

"It seems to me a marvellous machine! I should like to see it working!"

The red-bearded young man smiled.

"Come here some afternoon, and I will show you the machine in full work!... Come soon!"

He led Fandor to another part of the printing-room.

"Do you know anything about linotypes?"

Again Fandor-Vinson played the admirer's part, though he knew these machines were out-of-date.

"What is his game?" was our journalist's mental query.

The answer soon came. His guide led him to a strange-looking object concealed by some grey material. It might well be a cabinet for storing odds and ends, but Fandor felt sure the grey stuff covered something metallic.

"See, Corporal, this will please you!" said the red-bearded young man.

He uncovered the object.

"You know what it is, do you, Corporal?"

"Not in the least!"

"A machine for making bank-notes!"

"Really! You manufacture bank-notes, do you?" remarked Fandor. His tone was non-committal.

"You shall see for yourself, Corporal! Of course they are only made for the fun of the thing--still, they might happen to prove useful--one never knows!"

Again the marked accent on "useful."

Again Fandor-Vinson played up.

"I should like to have a squint at those holy-joke notes!"

"I was going to suggest it!"

Turning a handle, the red-bearded young man put the machine in motion.

"Place yourself there, Corporal! Put your hands to it! You shall see what will happen!"

Fandor did as directed.

"Hold out your hands!"

Fandor-Vinson held out his hands.

A new fifty-franc note fell into them.

"What do you say to that? Is it not a good--a perfect imitation?" The red-bearded young man's tone was triumphant.

Fandor-Vinson examined it.

"That it certainly is," he acquiesced.

"Here are more!... Look!... Take them!"

Nine notes fell into the outstretched hands of Corporal Fandor-Vinson of the 257th of the line, stationed at Verdun.

Our journalist had sharp eyes. He was no longer puzzling over this performance.

"Look here, Corporal! Keep these notes if they amuse you!" said the red-bearded young man, smiling.