Fantomas

THE GENIUS OF CRIME

Fantômas.

What did you say?

I said: Fantômas.

And what does that mean?

Nothing. . . . Everything!

But what is it?

Nobody. . . . And yet, yes, it is somebody!

And what does the somebody do?

Spreads terror!

Dinner was just over, and the company was moving into the drawing room.

Hurrying to the fireplace, the Marquise de Langrune took a large log from a basket and flung it onto the glowing embers on the hearth; the log crackled and shed a brilliant light over the whole room; the guests of the marquise instinctively drew near to the fire.

During the ten consecutive months she spent every year at her château of Beaulieu, on the outskirts of Corrèze, that picturesque district bounded by the Dordogne, it had been the immemorial custom of the Marquise de Langrune to have a few of her personal friends in the neighborhood to dinner every Wednesday, thereby obtaining a pleasant respite from her loneliness and keeping up some contact with the outside world.

On this particular winter evening the good lady’s guests included a few regulars: President Bonnet, a magistrate who had retired to his small property at Saint-Jaury, in the suburbs of Brives, and the Abbé Sicot, who was the parish priest. A more occasional guest was also there, the Baronne de Vibray, a young and wealthy widow, a typical woman of the world who spent the greater part of her life either in motoring, or in the most exclusive drawing rooms of Paris, or at the most fashionable watering places. But when the Baronne de Vibray put herself out to pasture, as she racily phrased it, and spent a few weeks at Querelles, her estate close to the château of Beaulieu, nothing pleased her more than to take her place again in the delightful company of the Marquise de Langrune and her friends.

Finally, the younger generation was represented by Charles Rambert, who had arrived at the château a couple of days before. A charming lad of about eighteen, he was treated with warm affection by the marquise and by Thérèse Auvernois, the marquise’s granddaughter, who, since her parents’ death, had lived at Beaulieu.

The strange and even mysterious words spoken by President Bonnet as they were leaving the table, and the personality of this Fantômas about which he had been rather vague in spite of all the questions put to him, had excited the curiosity of the company, and while Thérèse Auvernois was gracefully dispensing the coffee to her grandmother’s guests, the questions were renewed with greater insistence. Crowding round the fire, for the evening was very cold, Mme. de Langrune’s friends showered fresh questions upon the old magistrate, who secretly enjoyed the interest he had inspired. He cast a solemn eye upon the circle of his listeners and prolonged his silence, the more to capture their attention. At length he began to speak.

Statistics tell us, ladies, that of all the deaths that are registered every day, fully a third are due to crime. You are no doubt aware that the police discover about half of the crimes that are committed, and that barely half of those result in convictions. This explains how it is that so many mysteries are never cleared up, and why there are so many mistakes and inconsistencies in judicial investigations.

What is the conclusion you wish to draw? the Marquise de Langrune inquired with interest.

This. The magistrate proceeded: Although many crimes pass unsuspected, it is nonetheless obvious that they have been committed; now while some of them are due to ordinary criminals, others are the work of enigmatical beings who are difficult to trace and too clever or intelligent to let themselves be caught. History is full of stories of such mysterious characters; the Iron Mask, for instance, and Cagliostro. In every age there have been bands of dangerous creatures, led by such men as Cartouche and Vidocq and Rocambole. Now why should we suppose that in our time no one exists who emulates the deeds of those mighty criminals?

The Abbé Sicot raised a gentle voice from the depths of a comfortable armchair, where he was peacefully digesting his dinner.

The police do their work better in our time than ever before.

That is perfectly true, the president admitted, but their work is also more difficult than ever before. Criminals who operate in the grand manner have all sorts of things at their disposal nowadays. Science has done much for modern progress, but unfortunately it can be of invaluable assistance to criminals as well; the hosts of evil have the telegraph and the motorcar at their disposal just as authority has, and some day they will make use of the airplane.

Young Charles Rambert had been listening to the president’s dissertation with the utmost interest and now broke in, with a voice that quivered slightly.

You were talking about Fantômas just now, sir—

The president cast a cryptic look at the lad and did not reply directly to him.

That is what I am coming to, for, of course, you have understood me, ladies. In these days we have been distressed by a steady increase in crime, and among the causes we shall henceforth have to count a mysterious and most dangerous creature, to whom the baffled authorities and general rumor have for some time now given the name of Fantômas. It is impossible to say exactly what or to know precisely who Fantômas is. He often assumes the form and personality of some particular and even well-known individual; sometimes he assumes the forms of two human beings at the same time. Sometimes he works alone, sometimes with accomplices; sometimes he can be identified as such and such a person, but no one has ever yet gotten to know Fantômas himself. That he is a living person is certain and cannot be denied, yet he is impossible to catch or to identify. He is nowhere and everywhere at once, his shadow hovers above the strangest mysteries, and his traces are found near the most inexplicable crimes and yet—

You are frightening us! exclaimed the Baronne de Vibray with a little forced laugh, and the Marquise de Langrune, who for the past few minutes had been uneasy at the idea of the children listening to the conversation, cast about in her mind for an occupation more suited to their age. The interruption gave her an opportunity, and she turned to Charles Rambert and Thérèse.

You must find it very dull here with all of us grown-up people, my dears, so run away now. Thérèse, she added with a smile to her granddaughter who had risen obediently, there is a splendid new puzzle in the library; you ought to try it with Charles.

The young fellow realized that he must comply with the desire of the marquise, although the conversation interested him intensely; but he was too well bred to betray his thoughts, and the next moment he was in the adjoining room, sitting opposite the girl and deep in the intricacies of the latest fashionable game.

The Baronne de Vibray brought the conversation back to the subject of Fantômas.

What connection is there, President, between this uncanny creature and the disappearance of Lord Beltham, of which we were talking at dinner?

I should certainly have agreed with you and thought there was none, the old magistrate replied, "if Lord Beltham’s disappearance had not been accompanied by any mysterious circumstance. But there is one point that deserves your attention: the newspaper from which I read an extract just now, La Capitale , points it out as important. It is said that when Lady Beltham began to be uneasy about her husband’s absence, on the morning of the day following his disappearance, she remembered noticing just as he was going out that he was reading a particular letter, the peculiar, square shape of which surprised her. She had also noticed that the handwriting of the letter was very heavy and black. Now, she found the letter in question upon her husband’s desk, but all of the writing had disappeared, and only the most minute examination resulted in the discovery of a few almost imperceptible stains which proved that it really was the identical document that had been in her husband’s hands. Lady Beltham would not have thought very much about it if it had not occurred to the editor of La Capitale to interview detective Juve, the famous inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, you know, who has brought so many notorious criminals to justice. Now, Juve became extremely excited over the discovery and description of this document; and he did not attempt to hide from the interviewer his belief that the strange nature of this unusual epistle was proof of the intervention of Fantômas. You probably know that Juve has made it his special business to pursue Fantômas; he has sworn that he will take him, and he is after him body and soul. Let us hope he will succeed! But it is no good pretending that a more difficult task can possibly be imagined.

"However, it is fair to infer that when Juve spoke as he did to the representative of La Capitale, he did not think he was going too far when he declared that the disappearance of Lord Beltham was no accident, and that perhaps the blame should be laid at Fantômas’s door; and we can only hope that at some not distant date, justice will not only throw full light upon this mysterious affair but also rid us forever of this terrifying criminal!"

President Bonnet had convinced his audience completely, and his closing words cast a chill upon them all.

The Marquise de Langrune thought it time to change the subject.

Who are these people, Lord and Lady Beltham? she inquired.

Oh, my dear! the Baronne de Vibray answered, it is perfectly obvious that you lead the life of a hermit in this remote country home of yours, and that news from the world of Paris does not reach you often! Lord and Lady Beltham are among the best known and most popular people in society. He was formerly attached to the British Embassy, but left Paris to fight in the Transvaal. His wife went with him and showed magnificent courage and compassion there in charge of the ambulance and hospital work. They then went back to London, and a couple of years ago they settled once more in Paris. They lived, and still live, in the boulevard Inkermann at Neuilly-sur-Seine, in a delightful house where they entertain a great deal. I have often been one of Lady Beltham’s guests; she is a most fascinating woman, distinguished, tall, fair, and endowed with the charm that is peculiar to the women of the North. I am very distressed at the trouble that is hanging over her.

Well, said the Marquise de Langrune conclusively, I believe that the gloomy prognostications of our friend the president will not be justified in the end.

Amen! murmured the abbé mechanically, roused from his gentle slumber by the closing words of the marquise.

The clock chimes ten, and the marquise’s duties as hostess did not make her forget her duties as a grandmother.

Thérèse, she called, it is your bedtime. It is very late, darling.

The child obediently left her game, said good night to the Baronne de Vibray and President Bonnet, and last of all to the old priest, who gave her a paternal embrace.

Shall I see you at the seven o’clock mass, Thérèse? he asked.

The child turned to the marquise.

Will you let me accompany Charles to the station tomorrow morning? I will go to the eight o’clock mass on my way back.

The marquise looked at Charles Rambert.

Your father really is coming by the train that reaches Verrières at six fifty-five? And when Charles assented she hesitated a moment before replying to Thérèse. I think, dear, it would be better to let our young friend go alone to meet his father.

But Charles Rambert put in his plea.

Oh, I am sure my father would be delighted to see Thérèse with me when he gets out of the train.

Very well, then, the kind old lady said; arrange it as you please. But, Thérèse, before you go upstairs, tell our good steward, Dollon, to give orders for the carriage to be ready by six o’clock. It is a long way to the station.

Thérèse promised, and the two young people left the drawing room.

A pretty couple, remarked the Baronne de Vibray, adding with a characteristic touch of mischief, You mean to make a match between them someday, Marquise?

The old lady threw up her hands protesting.

What an idea! Why, Thérèse is not fifteen yet.

Who is this Charles Rambert? the abbé asked. I just caught a glimpse of him the day before yesterday with Dollon, and I racked my brains wondering who he could be.

I am not surprised, the marquise laughed, that you did not figure it out, for you do not know him. But you may perhaps have heard me mention a certain M. Etienne Rambert, an old friend of mine, with whom I shared many a dance long ago. I lost touch with him completely until about two years ago, when I met him at a charity function in Paris. The poor man has had a rather checkered life; twenty years ago he married a woman who was perfectly charming, but who is, I believe, very ill with a distressing malady: I am not certain, but I think she even may be insane. Quite lately Etienne Rambert has been compelled to send her to an asylum.

That does not tell us how his son comes to be your guest, President Bonnet urged.

"It is very simple: Etienne Rambert is an energetic man who is always on the move. Although he is at least sixty he still occupies himself with some rubber plantations he owns in Colombia, and he often goes to America: he thinks no more of the voyage than we do of a trip to Paris. Well, just recently young Charles Rambert was leaving the pension in Hamburg where he had been living in order to perfect his German; I knew from his father’s letters that Mme. Rambert was about to be put away, and that Etienne Rambert was obliged to be absent, so I offered to let Charles stay here until his father should return to Paris. Charles came the day before yesterday, and that is the whole story."

And M. Etienne Rambert joins him here tomorrow? said the abbé.

That is so—

The Marquise de Langrune would have offered more information about her young friend had he not come into the room just then. He was an attractive lad with refined and distinguished features, clear, intelligent eyes, and a graceful figure. The other guests were silent, and Charles Rambert approached them with the slight awkwardness of youth. He went up to President Bonnet and mustered sudden courage.

And what then, sir? he asked in a low tone.

I don’t understand, my boy, said the magistrate.

Oh! said Charles Rambert, have you finished talking about Fantômas? It was so amusing!

For my part, the president answered dryly, I do not find stories about criminals ‘amusing.’

But the lad did not detect the shade of reproach in the words.

But still it is very odd, very extraordinary that such mysterious characters as Fantômas can exist nowadays. Is it really possible that one man can commit so many crimes, and that any human being could escape discovery, as they say Fantômas can, and be able to foil the cleverest devices of the police? I think it is—

The president’s manner grew steadily more chilly as the boy’s curiosity waxed more enthusiastic, and he interrupted curtly.

I fail to understand your attitude, young man. You appear to be hypnotized, fascinated. You speak of Fantômas as if he were something alluring. It is out of place, to put it mildly, and he turned to the Abbé Sicot. There, sir, that is the result of a modern education and the state of mind produced in the younger generation by the newspapers and even by literature. Criminals are given halos and proclaimed from the housetops. It is astounding!

But Charles Rambert was not the least impressed.

But it is life, sir; it is history, it is the real thing! he insisted. Why, you yourself, in just a few words, have romanticized this Fantômas to an extent that makes him absolutely fascinating! I would give anything to have known Vidocq and Cartouche and Rocambole, and to have seen them closeup. Those were men!

President Bonnet contemplated the young man in astonishment; his eyes flashed lightning at him and he burst out:

You are mad, boy, absolutely mad! Vidocq—Rocambole! You mix up legend and history, lump together murderers with detectives, and make no distinction between right and wrong! You would not hesitate to put the heroes of crime and the heroes of law and order on one and the same pedestal!

You have said the word, sir, Charles Rambert exclaimed; they all are heroes. But, better still Fantômas—

The lad’s outburst was so vehement and spontaneous and sincere that it provoked unanimous indignation among his listeners. Even the indulgent Marquise de Langrune ceased to smile. Charles Rambert perceived that he had gone too far, and stopped abruptly.

I beg your pardon, sir, he murmured. I spoke without thinking; please forgive me.

He raised his eyes and looked at President Bonnet, blushing to the tips of his ears and looking so abashed that the magistrate, who was basically a kind-hearted man, tried to reassure him.

Your imagination is much too vivid, young man, much too vivid. But you will grow out of that. Come, come: that’s all right; boys of your age do talk without knowledge.

It was very late now, and a few minutes after this incident the guests of the Marquise de Langrune took their leave.

Charles Rambert accompanied the marquise to the door of her own private rooms, and was about to bid her a respectful good night before going on to his own bedroom, which adjoined hers, when she asked him to follow her.

Come in and get the book I promised you, Charles. It should be on my writing table. She glanced in that direction as she entered the room and went on, Or in it, perhaps; I may have locked it away.

I don’t want to trouble you, he protested, but the marquise insisted.

Put your light down on that table, she said. Besides, I have got to open my desk, for I must look at the lottery tickets I gave to Thérèse a few weeks ago. She pushed back the roll top of her Empire desk and looked up at the young fellow. It would be a piece of good luck if my little Thérèse won the first prize, eh, Charles? A million francs! Wouldn’t that be worth winning?

I’ll say! said Charles Rambert with a smile.

The marquise found the book she was searching for and gave it to the lad with one hand while with the other she smoothed out various papers.

These are my tickets, she said, and then broke off. "How stupid of me! I have not kept the number of the winning ticket announced in La Capitale."

Charles immediately offered to go downstairs again to fetch the newspaper, but the marquise would not let him.

It is no good, my dear boy; it is not there now. You know—or rather you don’t know—that the abbé takes away the week’s newspapers every Wednesday night in order to read all the political articles. The old lady turned away from her writing table, which she left wide open, conducted the young man to the door, and held out a friendly hand. It is tomorrow morning already! she said. So now good night, dear Charles!

In his own room, with the lights out and the curtains closed, Charles lay wide awake, a victim of nervous excitement. He turned and tossed in his bed. In vain did he try to banish from his mind the words spoken during the evening by President Bonnet. In his imagination Charles saw all sorts of sinister and dramatic scenes, crimes and murders. Hugely interested, intensely curious, craving for knowledge, he generally was given to concocting plots and trying to unravel mysteries. If for an instant he dozed off, the image of Fantômas took shape in his mind, but never twice the same way. Sometimes he saw a colossal figure with bestial face and muscular shoulders; sometimes a wan, thin creature, with strange and piercing eyes; sometimes a vague form, a phantom—Fantômas!

Charles slept, and woke, and dozed again. In the silence of the night he thought he heard creakings and heavy sounds. Suddenly he felt a breath over his face—and then nothing! And suddenly again strange sounds were buzzing in his ears.

Bathed in cold sweat Charles started and sat upright in bed, every muscle tense, listening with all his concentration. Was he dreaming, or had he really awakened? He did not know. And still, still he was conscious of Fantômas—of mystery—of Fantômas!

Charles Rambert heard the clock strike four.

A TRAGIC DAWN

As his cab turned by the end of the Pont Royal toward the Gare d’Orsay, M. Etienne Rambert looked at his watch and found, as he had anticipated, that he had a good quarter of an hour before his train was due to leave. He called a porter, and gave him the heavy valise and the bundle of rugs that formed the whole of his hand luggage.

Where is the baggage office, my man? he inquired.

The porter led him through the famous paneled hall of the Gare d’Orsay, and M. Etienne Rambert made certain that his trunks had been properly registered for Verrières, the station at which he had to get off for the château of Beaulieu.

Still accompanied by the porter, who had conceived a respectful admiration for him because of the authoritative tone in which he demanded information from the various railway employees, and who scented the probability of a big tip, M. Etienne Rambert proceeded to the ticket office and booked a first-class seat. He spent a few minutes more at the book stall where he selected an imposing collection of illustrated magazines and then, his final preparations completed, he turned once more to the porter.

The Luchon train, he said; where is it? and as the man only made a vague gesture and growled something wholly incomprehensible, he added: Lead the way, and I will follow.

It was now just half past eight, and the station showed all the bustle inseparable from the departure of main-line trains. M. Etienne Rambert hurried onward, and reaching the platform from which all the lines begin, was stayed by the porter who was laden with his baggage.

You want the express, sir?

No, the slow train, my man.

The porter showed some surprise but made no remark.

Do you like the front or the back of the train?

The back, if I have a choice.

First class, isn’t it?

Yes, first class.

The porter, who had stopped a moment, picked up the heavy valise again.

Then there isn’t any choice. There are only two first-class carriages on the slow train, and they are both in the middle.

They are corridor carriages, I suppose? said Etienne Rambert.

Yes, sir; there are hardly any others on the main-line trains, especially first class.

In the growing crowd Etienne Rambert had some difficulty following the porter. The Gare d’Orsay has little or none of the attractiveness of the other stations, which cannot fail to hold a certain fascination for any imaginative person who thinks of the mystery attaching to all those iron rails reaching out into the distance of unknown countries. It is less noisy than the others also, for between Austerlitz and Orsay the traction is entirely electric. And further, there is no clearly defined separation between the main and the suburban lines.

On the right of the platform was the train that was to take Etienne Rambert beyond Brives to Verrières, the slow train to Luchon; and on the left of the same platform was another train for Juvisy and all the small stations in the suburbs of Paris.

Very few people were heading for the train to Luchon; but a large crowd was pressing into the suburban train.

The porter who was piloting M. Etienne Rambert, set the baggage down on the footboard of a first-class carriage.

There is no one for the slow train yet, sir; if you get in first you can choose your own compartment.

M. Etienne Rambert acted on the suggestion, but he had hardly set foot in the corridor when the guard, also scenting a generous tip, came to offer his services.

It really is the eight-fifty you want, sir? was his first inquiry. You are sure you are not making a mistake?

No, Etienne Rambert replied. Why?

A great many first-class passengers do make a mistake, the man explained, and confuse the eight-fifty with the eight-forty-five express.

As he spoke the guard took the baggage from the porter, who had remained on the platform, and the porter, after being generously remunerated for his trouble by M. Rambert, hurried away to look for other travelers.

The eight-forty-five is the express, isn’t it? M. Rambert inquired.

Yes, the guard answered; it runs right through without stopping at all the small stations, which this train does. It goes in front of this one and gets to Luchon three hours earlier. There it is on the side there, and he pointed through the window in the door on the far side to another train on the next rails, in which a number of travelers were already taking their seats. If you prefer to go by that one, sir, he went on, there is still time for you to change; you are entitled to take your choice since you have a first-class ticket.

But after a moment’s consideration, Etienne Rambert declined the suggestion.

No, I would rather go by the slow train. If I take the express I would have to get out at Brives, and then I should be twelve or thirteen miles from Saint-Jaury, which is my destination; whereas the slow train stops at Verrières, where I’ve already telegraphed to say I will arrive tomorrow morning.

He walked a little way along the corridor, assuring himself that the various compartments were still empty, and then turned to the guard:

Look here, he said, I am awfully tired, and I mean to get some sleep tonight; consequently I should like to be alone. Where shall I most likely be undisturbed? The inquiry carried an implicit promise of a handsome tip if nobody did disturb him.

If you’d like to settle down here, sir, the man answered, you can draw down the blinds at once, and I’ll most likely be able to find room for any other passengers elsewhere.

Good, said M. Rambert, moving toward the compartment indicated. I will smoke a cigar until the train starts, and immediately afterward I will try to get some sleep. By the way, sir, since you seem so obliging, I wish you would call me tomorrow morning in time for me to get out at Verrières. I am desperately tired and quite capable of not waking up.

The guard touched his cap.

You can rest assured, sir, and sleep without the least anxiety. I won’t fail.

Thank you.

When his baggage had been stowed away, and his rugs spread out to make the seat more comfortable still, M. Etienne Rambert repeated his appeal, for he was an old traveler and knew that it does not do to rely too much upon the promises of chance attendants.

I can rely upon you, can’t I? I may sleep as soundly as I like, and you will wake me at Verrières? And the more to assure himself, he slipped a franc into the guard’s hand.

Left alone, M. Rambert continued his preparations for the night. He carefully drew down the blinds over the door and over the windows of the compartment that gave onto the corridor, and also lowered the shade over the electric light, and then, in order to enjoy the last few puffs of his cigar in peace, he opened the window over the other door and leaned his elbows on it, watching the final preparations being made by the travelers in the express on the other line.

The departure of a train is always a picturesque sight, and M. Rambert leaned forward inquisitively to note how the passengers had installed themselves in the two compartments that he could see from his place of vantage.

There were not many people in the train. As a matter of fact, the Brives and Luchon line is not much used at this time of year. If the number of passengers in the express was any criterion, Etienne Rambert might reasonably expect that he would be the only one on the slow train. But there was not much time for observations and reflections of this kind. On the platform for the express, which he could glimpse through the compartments, people were rushing to make their farewells. The passengers had gotten into their carriages, and the friends who had come to see them off were standing alone upon the platform. There was the sound of safety locks being fastened by porters, and the noise of pushcarts being wheeled along bearing articles for sale.

Pillows! Rugs! Sweets! Papers!

Then came the whistle of the guard, the shriller scream from the electric engine, and, slowly at first but steadily, more rapidly as the engine got up speed, the express moved along the platform and plunged into the tunnel on its way to Austerlitz.

Meanwhile, the guard on the slow train was doing wonders. Shamelessly resolved to assure perfect quiet to his passenger, he managed, without unduly compromising himself but yet without leaving any doubt about it in any mind, to insinuate discreetly that M. Rambert’s carriage was reserved, so that that gentleman might count upon an entirely undisturbed night.

A few minutes after the express had gone, the slow train drew out in its turn and disappeared into the darkness of the underground tunnel.

At the château of Beaulieu young Charles Rambert was just finishing dressing when a gentle tap sounded on the door of his room.

It is a quarter to five, Charles. Get up at once!

I am awake already, Thérèse, Charles answered with some pride.