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  THE FANTOMAS DETECTIVE NOVELS

  A NEST OF

  SPIES

  BY

  PIERRE SOUVESTRE

  AND

  MARCEL ALLAIN

  AUTHORS OF "FANTOMAS," "THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE," "MESSENGERS OF EVIL," ETC.

  NEW YORK

  BRENTANO'S

  1917

  Copyright, 1917, by Brentano's

  * * * * *

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. SUDDEN DEATH 1

  II. DOCUMENT NO. SIX 13

  III. BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE 26

  IV. A CORDIAL RECEPTION 35

  V. THEY ARE NOT AGREED 43

  VI. CORPORAL VINSON 51

  VII. THE SECOND BUREAU 65

  VIII. A SINGER OF THE HALLS 77

  IX. WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE 88

  X. AUNT PALMYRA 96

  XI. THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTOMAS 104

  XII. A TRICK ACCORDING TO FANDOR 115

  XIII. JUVE'S STRATAGEM 122

  XIV. BEFORE A TOMB 130

  XV. THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP 138

  XVI. AT THE ELYSEE BALL 149

  XVII. IN THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ENEMY 158

  XVIII. IN THE NAME OF THE LAW! 162

  XIX. THE MYSTERIOUS ABBE 171

  XX. MAN OR WOMAN 180

  XXI. A CORDIAL UNDERSTANDING 187

  XXII. HAVE THEY BOLTED? 195

  XXIII. LONDON AND PARIS 204

  XXIV. AN APPETISER AT ROBERT'S BAR 212

  XXV. THE ARREST 218

  XXVI. WILHELMINES'S SECRET 225

  XXVII. THE TWO VINSONS 232

  XXVIII. AT "THE CRYING CALF" 240

  XXIX. "I AM TROKOFF" 246

  XXX. APPALLING ACCUSATIONS 260

  XXXI. A CARAVAN DRAMA 271

  XXXII. FREE AND PRISONER 281

  XXXIII. RECONCILIATION 292

  XXXIV. A FANTOMAS TRICK 298

  XXXV. AT THE COUNCIL OF WAR 309

  XXXVI. AMBASSADOR! 320

  * * * * *

  A NEST OF SPIES

  I

  SUDDEN DEATH

  She sought in vain!

  The young woman, who was finishing her toilette, lost patience. With alook of annoyance she half turned round, crying, "Well, Captain, it iseasy to see that you are not accustomed to women's ways!"

  This pretty girl's lover, a man about forty, with an energeticcountenance, and a broad forehead adorned with sparse locks, wassmoking a Turkish cigarette, taking his ease on a divan at the far endof the room.

  He jumped up as if moved by a spring.

  For some time the captain had followed with his eyes the gestures ofhis graceful mistress; like a good and attentive lover he guessed whatshe required. He rushed into the adjoining dressing-room and returnedwith a little onyx cup in which was a complete assortment of pins.

  "There, my pretty Bobinette!" he cried, coming up to the young woman."This will put me into your good graces again."

  She thanked him with a smile; took the needed pins from the cup, andquietly finished dressing.

  Bobinette was a red-haired beauty.

  The thick braids of her abundant tresses, with their natural waves andcurls, fell to where the lines of neck and shoulders meet, their tawnyhues enhancing the milky whiteness of her plump flesh. This youngcreature was of the true Rubens type.

  It was half past three in the afternoon of a dull November day. A kindof twilight was darkening the ground floor flat in the quiet rue deLille, where the two lovers were together.

  For some months now Captain Brocq had been on intimate terms with thisintoxicating young person, who answered to the nickname "Bobinette."Her features, though irregular, were pleasing. Sprung from the people,Bobinette had tried to remedy this by becoming a past mistress ofpostures, of attitudes. Like others of her kind, from her verychildhood she had learned to adapt herself to whatever company she wasin, picking up almost intuitively those shades of taste, of tact,which can transform the most unconsidered daughter of the people intothe most fastidious of Parisiennes.

  It was the contrary as regards Captain Brocq, an artillerystaff-officer and attached to the Ministry of War. Notwithstanding hisintellectual capacities and his professional worth, so highly valuedby his chiefs, he always remained the man of humble origin, somewhatgauche, timid, who was evidently better fitted to be at the head of abattery on the bastions of a fortress than frequenting the gossipyclubs of officials or society drawing-rooms. Brocq, who had passed outof the Military Academy exceedingly well, had been given an importantpost recently: a confidential appointment at the Ministry of War.During the first years of his military life Brocq had been entirelypreoccupied by his profession. Of a truth, as pretty Bobinette hadjust told him, he was not at all "a man accustomed to women." This waswhy, when verging on forty, his heart, as young, as fresh as astudent's, had suddenly caught fire when he happened to meetBobinette.

  Who was this woman?

  Brocq could not place her with that mathematical exactitude dear tohis scientific mind. She puzzled this honest man, who fell deeper anddeeper in love with her. Whenever they met, and their first tendereffusions were over, the lovers exchanged ideas, and always on thesame subject.

  * * * * *

  Bobinette had completed her toilet. In leisurely fashion she came overto her lover and seated herself beside him. Brocq, who was thinkingdeeply, remained silent.

  "What are you thinking about?" Bobinette suddenly asked, in a chaffingtone. "Have you solved a new problem, or are you thinking of a darkwoman?"

  Brocq smiled. Amorously he put his arm round the girl's supplefigure; drawing her to him, and burying his lips in her abundant andperfumed hair, he murmured tenderly:

  "I am thinking of the future, of our future."

  "Good gracious me!" replied Bobinette, withdrawing herself from hisarms. "You are not going to bore me again with your ideas ofmarriage?"

  The captain made a movement of protestation; but Bobinette went on:

  "No, no, old dear, no chains for me! No gag, no muzzle for me! We areboth independent, let us remain so! Free! Long live liberty!"

  Brocq now got in a word: "In the first place," he said, "you knowquite well you would do a very stupid thing if you married me; I havenot the usual dowry, far from it! Then I am not of your world. Can yousee me in a drawing-room, playing my tricks with the colonel's wife,the general's wife, with the whole blessed lot of them? Zut! I am justwhat I am, just Bobinette."...

  Brocq now got in a word: "In the first plac
e," he observed, "asregards the dowry, you know very well, my pretty Bobinette, that Ihave already taken steps about it, on your behalf--now don't protest!It gives me pleasure to make your future safe, as far as I can: amodest competence. On the other hand, I am not a society man, and ifyou wish it."...

  The captain drew nearer his mistress and brushed her lips with hismoustache.

  Bobinette drew back, got up from the divan, stood in front of herlover, erect, arms crossed, her look sullen: "No, I tell you, I wishto be free, my own mistress."...

  Brocq grew impatient: "But in spite of your ideas of independence, mypoor darling, you are always in a state of servitude! Why, only togive one example, for the last two years you have been content tooccupy an inferior position in the house of this Bavarian diplomat--orAustrian--I don't know what he is?"

  "Naarboveck?" asked Bobinette, surprised. "But don't imagine that I amthe Baron de Naarboveck's servant: still, if it were otherwise, Ican't play proud. I can't bring out the title-deeds and pedigree ofmy ancestors for inspection!"

  "It's not a question of that," observed Brocq.

  Bobinette had launched forth. She continued:

  "But that is the question. You are always imagining that I have thingsgiven me to do which lower me. I have told you a hundred times how itwas I went to the Naarboveck's. One day the poor man came to thehospital: he was almost beside himself. His daughter Wilhelmine, whois barely nineteen, had just been taken ill--it was typhoid fever--hewas obliged to go away and leave her--not a soul in whose care hecould leave the child with confidence. I was recommended toNaarboveck. I came, I nursed Wilhelmine. This went on for a month,then for two, then three--now we are the best friends in the world.Wilhelmine is a girl whom I love with all my heart; the baron is anamiable man, all kindness and attention.... It is true that I am now akind of companion, in an 'inferior' position, as you choose to put itin your absurdly vain and jealous way of looking at things; but, mydear man, there are ways and ways, and I assure you I am treated asone of the family. And, besides, you ought to consider that it wasprecisely at the Naarboveck receptions we met."

  With the utterance of these last words Bobinette glanced at CaptainBrocq as if she would annihilate him: the remembrance of their firstmeeting seemed more odious to her than pleasing.

  Brocq, whose eyes were obstinately lowered, saw nothing of this. Hesuggested: "I am not the only one you have met at M. de Naarboveck's.There is that handsome cuirassier, Henri de Loubersac."...

  Bobinette crimsoned. She shrugged her shoulders. "How stupid you are!Lieutenant Henri does not give me a thought, if he comes to thehouse."...

  Brocq interrupted: "Yes, I know he comes on account of the fairWilhelmine." His tone was conciliatory. Once more he drew Bobinette tohim; but she seemed to object more and more strongly to the captain'scaresses. Glancing at a clock on the mantelpiece she cried: "Why, itis four o'clock! High time I should leave."

  Brocq, who had followed her glance, added, suddenly serious: "Myfaith! I must call at the Ministry!"

  Both rose. Bobinette took up her hat and went to the looking-glass.Brocq exchanged his jacket for a black coat. He went into his study,separated from the other room by a heavy curtain.

  "Bobinette!" he called.

  That young person responded to his call, but with no show of haste.She found the captain seated before his bureau rummaging in an immensedrawer crammed full of papers.

  "You know, my little Bobinette, that I have made you my sole legatee,"cried the captain, with an adoring look at the pretty girl whosuddenly appeared in the doorway. He continued his search among hispapers: they were in great disorder.

  "I wished to show you--it's a question of spelling your namecorrectly. You are called Berthe, are you not?"

  The girl had come forward. She quickly caught sight of a mauve sheetof paper on the blotting-pad. A few lines were traced on it.

  "Ah! you wretch!" she cried, while she glanced through the words. Shepretended to be angry. "I've caught you! You were writing to a woman!Ho, it starts well:

  "'_My own darling adored one, how long the hours seem when Iawait._'"...

  Captain Brocq shouted with laughter.

  "Ah, here's a joke! Why, it is you who are jealous now!"

  Bobinette questioned him with a look. He explained:

  "But, you great idiot, don't you understand that I was writing to you,and that only a couple of hours ago! You know I am always afraid youwill not come to our meeting-place, and you are always late!"

  Bobinette, reassured, now helped Brocq to go through his drawermethodically.

  There could be no doubt of it--the captain was a most untidy man.Family letters, papers covered with figures, handwritten militarydocuments, even some bank-notes, were jumbled together in greatdisorder.

  Bobinette noticed her own handwriting on some sheets of paper. Howwell she knew them!

  She feigned anger. "It is abominable to compromise me like this!" shecried. "See! My letters! Love letters! Intimate letters lying aboutlike this! No, decidedly!"...

  Brocq put her right. "No, no, my pet! Your precious letters are mostcarefully preserved by me--put together--see--there they are--thereare not many of them--but not one is missing!"

  "You are sure of that?"

  "I swear it."

  Bobinette reflected. The captain, however, returned to the adjoiningroom, hoping to come across the deed of gift he had set his mind onfinding. "Come with me, Bobe!" he called. He opened a little writingdesk. He thought his mistress had followed him, but she had remainedin the study.

  "Bobinette!" he called again, astonished to find himself alone.

  She lingered.

  Brocq went back.

  He collided with the girl who, with a furtive gesture, slippedsomething into her muff.

  "Well," said he.

  "Well, what now?" she retorted.

  They gazed at each other for a moment in silence.

  "What were you doing?" questioned Brocq suspiciously.

  "Nothing," answered Bobinette coldly.

  But the captain caught hold of her hands. He was uneasy, almost angry:"Tell me!"

  The red-haired beauty jumped back with a defiant air: "Very well,then! I have taken my letters, they belong to me! I wish to have them!It disgusts me to think that they are left lying about your rooms. Doyou think it funny that your orderly should read them to hiscountry-woman? That your concierge should know all about them? Ideclare men like you have not a scrap of tact, of nice feeling!"

  "Bobinette!" the captain implored her.

  "No, no; and again, no!" cried the girl more and more angrily. "I havethem. I keep them!"

  The captain grew pale. She added, a little more gently:

  "But, you great stupid, they are of no importance! I'll give them backto you later--when you are good. You are behaving like a schoolboy!Come, kiss me! Tell your little Bobe that you are not angry with her!If you don't I shall cry!"

  Already she was beginning to sob, and great tears were dropping.Captain Brocq, struck dumb, gazed at her sorrowfully. And whilst heclasped her in his arms, anxiety strained at his heart, anguishconvulsed his soul. Did she really love him, this woman with herwhimsical ways, her independent attitude, this elusive woman who nevergave herself entirely? Was he the dupe of a comedy? Did she consent tothese meetings three times a week through pity, through sympathy only,or through habit, or, worse still, for some mercenary reason? And thiswhen he himself would have given up everything so that he might notmiss them! Ah, if that were the truth! The captain felt an immensevoid opening in the depths of his lonely soul. He apologised in a lowvoice, hurriedly, with bent head, humbly, and Bobinette listened withcurled lip and haughty air: She bore no malice, she declared. Then, afew moments later, for she was really much upset and did not wish toshow it, she hurried away, dropping a hasty kiss on her lover'sforehead as a token of peace. How ardently he wished that this peacemight last.

  "I am very much behind time," she had murmured by way of farewell.

 
Directly his mistress had gone, Brocq went to the window, watched herturn the corner of the rue de Lille, enter the rue des Saints-Peres,and go towards the quays. While he watched her he was trembling. Aroll of paper was sticking out of Bobinette's muff. Brocq knew thispaper: its appearance and colour were familiar to him. Nevertheless,his mind was so full of his love affair that he immediately forgotthis detail. But, in a minute, the turn of events forced him to recallit.

  "In Heaven's Name!" shouted Captain Brocq, as a violent blow from hisclenched fist made the scattered papers on his bureau tremble. "ByHeaven! It is impossible!"

  When he found himself alone, sadly alone in his little flat, Brocq sawit was five o'clock, and more than time to start for the Ministry ofWar. Hastily putting on overcoat and hat, he had hurried into hisstudy to look for the big leather portfolio he always carried whentaking his work from the office to his own home.

  Owing to his special knowledge of fortress artillery Brocq had beenrequested to put the finishing touches to a confidential report on thedefences of the eastern forts of Paris and the distribution of theeffective forces of the companies of mechanics in time ofmobilisation. He had searched feverishly in his drawers for thisreport, which was of no great bulk. For the last ten minutes he hadanxiously searched, but in vain: he could not find a trace of it!

  "It is impossible!" he cried. He swore aloud as if the better toconvince himself. "The title is in big letters, '_Confidential_,' inred, and twice underlined. Oh, it is quite impossible that it shouldpass under my eyes unperceived!"

  Again the distracted man ransacked his papers and shook his portfolio.Almost beside himself with exasperation, he cried: "My excellentBobinette, by her rummaging, has put the finishing touch to thisconfusion. Heaven knows, it was bad enough before!"

  He paused. Anguish seized him. He fell into an arm-chair, while dropsof sweat broke out on his forehead. Suddenly he had remembered theroll of papers sticking out of Bobinette's muff. He uttered a cry: "MyGod! But supposing!"... He did not put the rest of his thought intowords. For an instant he had the idea that through thoughtlessness, bymistake, an involuntary one assuredly, his mistress had taken thisdocument to wrap up her letters ... without suspecting. That was it!No doubt she had carried off with her this secret plan ofmobilisation--but if the plan got lost? If it were dropped in thestreet!

  Brocq cursed his untidy ways once more. He would never forgive himselffor having allowed that girl to ransack his drawers--but he must act,and at once! He must, without fail, find that mislaid document. Of onething he was sure--the document was not on the premises. Brocq jumpedup. "Good-day, Captain!"

  * * * * *

  "Good-day, Captain!"

  The man in charge at the cabstand, on the quay des Saints-Peres, atthe corner of the bridge, saluted Brocq cordially.

  Brocq, ghastly pale, his face showing signs of intense anxiety,gasping for breath, asked: "Tell me! Just now, ten, five minutesago--did you not see a lady--young--she had red hair--did she not passthis way? Come now!"

  The cabstand than winked. "My faith, Captain, you are just in time.Only a moment ago a lady, such as you describe, but prettier thanthat, got into a taxi; she."...

  "Ah!" interrupted the captain, "do you know what address she gave?"

  "Why, yes I do. I was almost touching her when she spoke to thedriver."...

  "Well?"

  "Faith, what she said was 'Take me to the Bois,' and the cab turned bythe Saints-Peres bridge. Probably it went by the Tuileries quayafter."

  "The number? The number of this taxi?"

  "Why, we will ask the policeman at the kiosque: he has certainlyentered it, as usual."

  Stamping with impatience inside a landaulet whose hood he had hadlowered that he might more easily see around him, Brocq had rushed offin pursuit of Bobinette's taxi, 249--B.Z.

  Shaking from head to foot, Brocq held in a tight grip his leatherportfolio, which contained all the documents he wished to lay before theMinistry of War, less, alas! the mislaid plan of the eastern forts. Hescrutinised the Place de la Concorde, the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. Hewas asking himself why Bobinette, after telling him she must hurryaway, had driven to the Bois as if she were one of the leisured crowd?This troubled the lover in him as well as the soldier. Why had he rushedafter his mistress in this fashion? What definite reason had he? Afterall, it was exceedingly improbable, surely, that she had carried awaythis document without noticing it, for it was composed of three or fourlarge sheets of paper!... In that case, she must have lost it beforegetting into the taxi. As to supposing for an instant that she had takenit away intentionally--Brocq would not suppose it. Why should he? Therewas nothing to lead him to think.

  But, all the same!...

  All the same, the captain had a presentiment, a conviction, aninstinctive certainty that, at all costs he must overtakeBobinette--he absolutely must.

  Why?

  Brocq could not have said why. He did not reason about it. He felt: afeeling as indefinable as it was irresistible drove him to pursue, tocontinue the chase at top speed.

  Again and again he had shouted to the astonished chauffeur, who wasdriving his taxi as fast as the crowded street permitted: "Get on! Inthe devil's name, go faster--faster!"

  Night was falling. The close of this November day was particularlybeautiful. Behind the Arc de Triomphe a broad band of red on thehorizon reflected the setting sun in its winter glory. The breeze waswafting the last red-brown leaves from the trees, turning them overand over before they fell on the autumnal greensward and the blackearth of the empty flower-beds.

  Rows of carriages were moving towards the Etoile. As they had clearedthe Rond-Point of the Champs-Elysees Brocq uttered a cry of joy. Somefifty yards away his keen eye had caught sight of Bobinette's taxi: hehad identified the number.

  "There it is!"

  He urged the chauffeur to follow it up closely, regardless ofconsequences.

  "A moment more and we shall have caught up the 249," said Brocq tohimself. His landaulet was gaining ground.

  The crowd of vehicles, the police holding them up where the roadsintersected, impeded the advance. Brocq, wild with impatience, couldnot keep still. At last they reached the Place de l'Etoile. Thecarriages, conforming to rule, rounded the monument on the right,going more and more slowly owing to the increased crush. But thecaptain felt relieved; only one cab, drawn by a horse, now separatedhim from Bobinette's taxi, and assuredly her vehicle and his would beabreast, side by side at the entry to the avenue of the Bois deBoulogne.

  Brocq loved Bobinette dearly, but frankly, if for a joke orinadvertently she had carried off the document, he would give her apiece of his mind. He would let her know that it would not do to playtricks with things of that sort. Nevertheless, his heart was wrungwith anxiety.

  Supposing Bobinette had noticed nothing--if the document had fallen inthe street?

  Suddenly the poor fellow saw Bobinette's taxi cut across the line ofcarriages to the right and turn into the Avenue de la Grand-Armee.

  Brocq's chauffeur did not seem to have noticed this: he continued inthe direction of the Bois de Boulogne.

  "Oh, you idiot!" shouted the captain. And, in order to give hisinstructions as rapidly as possible, he leaned almost entirely out ofthe vehicle.

  * * * * *

  But a second or two had passed when the chauffeur stopped dead, thathe might see what had happened to his fare. Something must havehappened, for Brocq had abruptly stopped short in the midst of hisdirections. He had collapsed on the cushions of the taxi, and remainedmotionless.

  Other vehicles surrounded the automobile. Some ladies passing in avictoria noticed the captain.

  "Look, my dear," exclaimed one of them, "do you see how pale that manis? He seems to be ill!"...

  At the same moment, the pedestrians were struck by the officer'sstrange attitude. Brocq had suddenly subsided in a heap on thecushion, his head had fallen to one side, his mouth was open, his eyeswere cl
osed: he seemed to have fainted.

  A crowd gathered at once.

  The chauffeur got down, shook his fare by the arm, and the arm wasinert.

  The crowd increased.

  "A doctor!" cried a voice. "It is plain that this man is ill!"

  A man stepped out from the crowd. His hair was white, he wore adecoration ribbon, and he had descended from a private brougham. Withan air of authority he made his way through the curious onlookers, andwhen a constable came forward he said: "Kindly make these people standaway. I am Professor Barrell of the School of Medicine."

  There was a murmur of respectful sympathy among the onlookers, for theprofessor was famous.

  This master of medicine with a sure hand had undone the collar, thecravat of the mysterious sufferer, half opened his overcoat, put hisear to the patient's heart, then, straightening himself, consideredthe face attentively, not without a certain amount of stupefaction.

  The constable made a suggestion: "Had we not better take thisindividual to a chemist's?"

  Professor Barrell replied in a low voice: "To a chemist's? Do so ifyou wish ... but it is useless ... you would do better to go to thepolice-station: this unfortunate man is dead--it is a case of suddendeath." The medical man added some technical words which this guardianof the peace did not understand.