Messengers of Evil Part 64

"But that is frightfully dangerous, surely?" objected Nanteuil.

"Rea.s.sure yourself, monsieur, I do not run any great risk. They won't know I am watching them; but I shall have this advantage over them--I am on the lookout for the rascally a.s.sa.s.sins and robbers, and I do not fear them in the slightest."

Fandor was not going to own that he knew there was danger; but he was keenly set on running this particular risk, for, by so doing, might he not discover the truth?

When the bankers left him for the night, Fandor again examined every corner of the room, and all it contained. He tested the electric light switch; he took a mental photograph of the situation of the pieces of furniture. He got into bed, half dressed, and lay quietly, grasping his revolver, fully loaded.

He switched off the light, and in that large room, veiled in darkness, he awaited the events of the night. Noises from the street reached him indistinctly. The silence about him was menacing: something was going to happen here, something sudden, unforeseen, perhaps irremediable.

Minute by minute, time went by, interminable, monotonous, casting a soft veil of sleep over the eyes of Fandor. But thoughts were rising within him: more and more keenly he was realising the horrible danger he was exposing himself to. Beneath closed eyes his brain was active, his imagination afire.

"Elizabeth Dollon must be avenged," was his persistent thought.

"Consequently, I must run some risks to achieve that!"

A definite fear tormented him. He thought of the curious sleep Elizabeth had fallen victim to in the boarding-house.

"Provided I have not taken some narcotic without knowing it!... Suppose the villains are going to inject into the room some gas which would suffocate me, and I should not know I was breathing it in? Suppose I lose consciousness and slip into death?"

But Fandor drew himself together; he stiffened his will.

Do they know I am in this room waiting to entrap them? Do they think they will find Nanteuil here defenceless? Who was that workman?... I ought to be able to put a name to that familiar face?

How slow, how deadly slow, the tic-tac, tic-tac, of the timepiece?

Centuries pa.s.sed between the striking of the hours!... Would it be to-night?... To-morrow night?... Or ...

On the corridor carpet outside the room, a slight rustling sound, continuous, barely perceptible, caught Fandor's listening ear.... Who was it?... Was it anyone at all?... Was it imagination? He listened intently ... not a sound now.... But, yes ... the same rustling sound ... it was nearer--moving along the wall. Fandor closed his eyes an instant, so vividly did he feel that someone was looking at him through the wall!

Seconds beat by--seconds that might culminate in a moment of horror--seconds pa.s.sing steadily by in regular succession, sinking into nothingness....

Had someone moved? Were there steps by the door?...

Fandor thought he heard strange sounds all around him, in the room itself! His nerves were tensely strung: he was overwrought. Someone was certainly walking in the corridor!... He had felt a movement along the wall against which his bed stood!

Impossible to hesitate longer! The door k.n.o.b, which he could not see in the darkness, must have moved.... Fandor sensed this movement as surely as though he himself had placed his hand on the k.n.o.b....

Yes, the door was going to open!...

It was ajar ... it was turning on its hinges--it was open.... Someone was coming in.... Who?...

Fandor lay still--he dared not move an eyelid; but in his mind he said:

"Come in, then! Take the trouble to come in!"

Thus Fandor, who believed Death was entering the room, dared to welcome the grim visitor--with a smile!

Nothing was happening.... Fandor's feverish excitement sank down to depression.... He must have deceived himself--no one was entering the room--nothing untoward was happening! He had simply imagined the noises outside in the corridor, for nothing happened--nothing ... and once more he was following the eternal tic-tac, tic-tac of the timepiece!

The head of Fandor's bed was near the door. He could not, in the dense darkness, fix the point where he supposed the enemy would find him, and he had the agonising conviction that they were very much at their ease--that they knew exactly where he was, and were quietly preparing their attack.

But had these unknown a.s.sa.s.sins entered the room?... Yes, it was certain--there were men behind him--bending over him with outstretched hands to strangle him!... He could hear the sound their fingers made in pa.s.sing through the air to grip his throat, to squeeze his life out!...

Though he lived a hundred years, never could Fandor forget the agonising thrill when he sensed that hidden danger! He held his revolver ready to fire. He thought:

"In whatever way I am attacked, I must not let slip this unique chance to learn the truth! I must seize the attacker at all costs, and leap to the electric switch, turn on the light--and I shall be saved! Saved!..."

Without a cry, without a warning sound, without a moment's time to cope with the violence of the attack, Fandor felt a cloth over his face, strong hands on his throat, a heavy weight crushing his chest.

"I am lost!" flashed through his mind.

"I mean to find out the truth!" his will declared.

With all the force of resistant muscle and will he disengaged himself from the power crushing him to death; seized an arm by chance, hung on to it, gripped it, threw off the man, ran to the switch, shouting:

"Help!"

Again, Fandor thought he was done for: the switch acted, but no light flashed forth!

They had cut the wire!

Men were holding on to him: their grip was tightening!

A voice gave a strangled cry.

"Help!"

A strange voice! Whose?

Fandor was weakening. His right hand seemed to be caught in a vise which would break and crush it: it was growing tighter and tighter: it was wrenching his arm, was dragging him backwards: it would fracture his shoulder blade! Who?... Who?...

By a miraculous effort he freed himself. He leaped away; sprang to the mantelpiece; seized a pocket electric torch he had placed there--clac--a light flashed out!... Fandor saw, recognised his attacker!...

Ah! The form he had seen before--a slim figure, clothed in black!... Ah, this murderer, whose face was concealed by a hooded mask!

Fandor shouted at him.

"Fantomas! It's you and I, Fantomas!"

But, already, this mysterious bandit, unmasked by the unexpected light, had rushed on our journalist.

The electric torch was extinguished.

The struggle recommenced, fierce, formidable, desperate! Fandor was seized by the throat in a strangling grip: he was choking!

His right arm, so twisted, so bruised, was powerless--and in that hand, now so deadened and helpless that it seemed detached from his body, was his revolver. He must shoot, though almost powerless in the formidable grip of the bandit. He must shoot if he was to be saved. He managed to pull the trigger.

There was a loud report.