A Royal Prisoner Part 38

"It was committed by Fantomas."

"You are sure of that?"

"Certain, Chief."

M. Annion rose and paced up and down in great excitement.

"Now then, let's get the facts in the case, tell me in detail what occurred at Hesse-Weimar."

Juve had had the foresight to prepare a report which would tell enough to prove that the murderer of Susy d'Orsel was really Fantomas, and thus clear the name of the King. He gave no hint, however, that Fandor was still, as Juve thought, impersonating Frederick-Christian, and made no mention of his own adventures. He concluded by saying:

"In a word, we have now only to establish the guilt of Fantomas and publish the story of his crime, to absolve the King in the eyes of all ... and that will mean the end of your troubles."

"That is true!" replied the director joyfully, "and I may add it is entirely due to you, my dear Juve. Why, the other day, I was actually on the point of arresting Frederick-Christian, which would have been an unpardonable blunder."

"Really?"

"Yes. For since your departure, the ident.i.ty of the King has been established beyond dispute. Yesterday I learned that the director of the bank had had an interview with him, and he also received a visit from an intimate friend, an attache of the Emba.s.sy."

Juve heard these words with growing uneasiness. The King was Fandor. How had Fandor managed the affair?

M. Annion continued:

"And what do you think happened yesterday afternoon? I received a visit from a little idiot called Marie Pascal, who still insisted on the imposture. She a.s.serted that the King was no longer the same."

Juve felt his head swimming.

Marie Pascal had paid one visit to Fandor, and now declared he was no longer the same! So Fandor was not at the Royal Palace. Who had taken his place?

The real King?

Was Fandor himself a victim?

"By the way," pursued M. Annion, oblivious of Juve's trouble, "you didn't happen to learn any details concerning the King's toilette at Glotzbourg?"

"No, why?"

"Oh, nothing of importance. I should like to have known whether it was a fact that Frederick-Christian wore an 18-inch collar. It would merely have been another proof."

The words literally stupefied the detective. If the man at the Royal Palace wore 18-inch collars, he was certainly not Fandor, whose neck was very slender. The journalist wore size 14-1/2.

One hour later--it was then half-past ten in the morning--Juve arrived at the Royal Palace. He did not attempt to send up his card to the King, but contented himself with gathering what information he could from among his colleagues who were stationed about the hotel.

"The deuce!" he cried, twenty minutes later. "It's true that Frederick-Christian is really here. What has become of Fandor? Well, I shall probably be able to get news of him at his own apartment. What I have to do now is to recover the diamond and catch Fantomas ... if that is possible."

CHAPTER XXV

"I WANT TO LIVE!"

During two days which pa.s.sed like two centuries, Fandor had been held prisoner in his dungeon where death awaited him.

"I am condemned to death," he exclaimed, "very good, then I will wait for death."

But Fandor was of those who do not give up until the struggle is over.

Besides, he had his faithful revolver. He could end his life at any moment and shorten the torture. He had found sufficient ham to last for two meals, and when that had been eaten and the last drop of water drunk he began to suffer the tortures of hunger and thirst. And now, like a caged beast, he paced up and down his prison. His mind went back to stories he had read, stories of entombed miners, of explorers hemmed in by ice, of hunters caught in traps, but in all these cases deliverance in one form or another had come at last--the adventures ended happily.

"I want to live," he cried aloud, "I want to live!"

Suddenly a great calm descended upon him. His coolness and clear judgment returned.

"To struggle! Yes--but how?"

At this moment the roar of the Nord-Sud shook his prison walls. An idea took root in his mind.

Might it not be possible to burrow his way through the soil directly to the tunnel! Examining the ground, he decided that it would be simpler to tunnel his way like a mole, skirting the concrete base of the statue and reaching the pavement beyond. It would not be hard work to dislodge one of the paving stones and reach the open air. No sooner was the plan conceived than he broke several of the bottles until he obtained a piece of the thick gla.s.s sufficiently jagged to form a trowel.

With this rough implement he then set to work, scooping up the earth and piling it on one side of his cell. Patiently and ceaselessly he continued, hour after hour, until suddenly the hiss of escaping gas could be faintly heard.

"I'm done for this time," he cried in despair. "I shall be asphyxiated!"

But a gleam of hope quickly set him to work again.

"Gas is lighter than air. It may percolate through the c.h.i.n.ks of the masonry. In any case I'd rather die that way than be starved to death."

It was a race between the escaping gas and the tunnel.

Very soon Fandor began to feel a dizziness in his head, and the air became more difficult to breathe; suddenly, he had the sensation of being enveloped in an extraordinary blue flame, and then a loud report deafened him.

Fandor's prison, saturated with gas, had suddenly blown up!

The ground gave way beneath him: he was lying in the ruins.

Destiny had made a plaything of his efforts.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE ACCUSING WAISTCOAT

"As a matter of fact, Monsieur Juve, did not the celebrated Vidocq before he was a detective begin life as a murderer?"