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"Oh, a thing or two ... rather interesting." "And the diamond?" "Stolen, Chief, disappeared." "Stolen by Fantômas?" "Yes, by Fantômas." "It was you who arrested him?" "Hum! yes and no.... I was the cause of his arrest." "And the murder of Susy d'Orsel?" "It was committed by Fantômas." "You are sure of that?" "Certain, Chief." M. Annion rose and paced up and down in great excitement.
His companion had declared himself to be the journalist, Jerome Fandor, and had called him by name Frederick-Christian. Furthermore, he had cried: "It was you who killed Susy d'Orsel. It was you who threw her out of the window!" What had happened after that? His mind was a complete blank. Had these events occurred recently, or a long time ago?
"That's my opinion, Fandor, but I am wondering how." And then suddenly to each of them the same thought occurred. Fantômas! Was it not probable that the strange crime of which Susy d'Orsel was the victim, the mysterious disappearance of the King, might be attributed to this enigmatic and redoubtable bandit?
Susy d'Orsel has been the mistress of the King for about two years, and as you know constancy is unusual with men, it is quite possible that Frederick-Christian had had enough of his mistress and had become interested in another woman." "That doesn't explain anything." "Oh, yes, it does. It explains everything.
These traces proved to be those of a woman's shoes, small, elegant and well made. They could not possibly belong to Mother Citron nor to Susy d'Orsel, who, he recalled, had worn satin mules on the night of the murder. The person who immediately presented herself to Juve's mind was Marie Pascal. "The deuce!" he cried, "this becomes complicated.
Fandor, who was listening with the closest attention, now asked: "What do you deduce from that, Mademoiselle?" "Sire, simply that the person who threw Susy d'Orsel out of the window was wearing that chemise." "And," continued the journalist, "as this belonged to the Marquis de Sérac?" "But it is a woman's chemise." Fandor quickly realized the importance of this testimony.
But, Mademoiselle, you know Susy d'Orsel was alone with the King, so that man must be the King." Marie Pascal gave a dubious shrug. "You know the King?" Juve asked. "Yes, I sold him laces. I saw him through an open door." "And you are not sure that he is or is not the murderer?" "No, I don't know, that's why I've said nothing about it. I'm not sure of anything."
"Terribly jealous, for Susy d'Orsel was pretty. Besides, a liaison with her wasn't taken seriously by the King ... while with you it would have been quite different ... why, I believe you would have reached the point of wishing her death." "No! no!" protested Marie feebly, "the King would have made his choice ... frankly and loyally...." "And suppose he hadn't chosen?
"Pardon, Mademoiselle, but it seems to me you don't quite grasp the situation ... what is it you are not sure of?" "Whether it was the King who killed poor Mlle. Susy." "But you are sure it was a man who killed Mlle. d'Orsel?" "Yes, Monsieur ... and I am also sure it was a thin, tall man ... in fact, some one of the same build as the King."
It was this fact which had made him break his rule and indulge freely himself. With a serious air he explained: "Sum fides Achates!" "What's that?" cried the King. "Exactly." Susy d'Orsel now thought both men were equally drunk. She fancied they were having fun with her. "You know I don't want English spoken here," she said drily. The King took his mistress round the waist and drew her to him.
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