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Updated: June 23, 2025
Taking advantage of the fact that Fandor's concierge knew him well, and was aware of his standing as an officer of the detective force, Juve, after having explained in a few words to the honest creature the cause of the commotion mounted to Fandor's flat once more. "What the deuce is the meaning of all this?" he was asking himself.
The great exception was Juve, the celebrated detective. In fact, Fandor's complex and adventurous life was very much bound up with that of the police officer, for they had worked together in solving the mystery of many tragic crimes. On this particular evening, the reporter became gradually imbued with the general spirit of gaiety and abandon which surrounded him.
Fandor's grip and spring had been so sudden that Trokoff had not been able to defend himself. He and Fandor struggled, twisted, writhed, in a terrible embrace; panting, livid, with eyes of hate and horror! De Naarboveck had laid hold of Trokoff, shouting: "You shall die! You must die!" This frightful struggle lasted but a few moments. Trokoff managed to free himself from Fandor's grip.
"He is jolly amiable, that's sure!" was Fandor's comment.... "I wonder, if by chance."... Since Fandor had so rashly mixed himself up in this spy business, he was inclined to see everywhere traitors and accomplices; but he reminded himself that he must beware of preconceived ideas. It was on the stroke of seven when Fandor showed his permit to the sergeant at the gate of the barracks.
When the surgeon made his statement, Juve murmured in Fandor's ear: "Vinson shot through the heart by a bullet!... Like Captain Brocq!... Killed undoubtedly by a noiseless weapon ... when crossing the street!... Here, again, is Fantômas!" Things calmed down somewhat. Fandor addressed Dumoulin: "Excuse me, Commandant, for having troubled you.
The words were scarcely out of Fandor's mouth when the rapidly disappearing footsteps of the concièrge were heard clattering downstairs. Frederick-Christian, in a dazed condition, stood in the dining-room, mechanically drinking a liqueur. "Look here, what does this mean?" cried Fandor. The King looked at him with intense stupefaction, trying, it seemed, to co-ordinate his faculties.
"Two hours ago, Fandor telephones me that he must see me on a matter of the utmost urgency ... he telephones me that he cannot go out, that he is waiting for me.... And now, not only is he not here, but I stumble on an agent from the Second Bureau.... I encounter a Vagualame disguised, who runs as if all the devils of hell were after him ... who makes off with extraordinary agility, whose presence of mind in burking pursuit is marvellous!... Who is this fellow?... What was he up to in Fandor's flat?... Where is Fandor?"
The diplomat hastily withdrew his hands from Fandor's grasp, opened a heavy portfolio such as advocates carry, and drew from it a black gown like his own, an advocate's cap, and a pair of dark coloured trousers. "Put these on as quickly as possible," said de Naarboveck, "and we will leave here together." Fandor hesitated: de Naarboveck insisted. "It is of the first importance that you leave here!
"Yes," replied de Naarboveck with his ironic smile: "and it was you, Monsieur Juve, who got yourself arrested in that disguise!" "That is a fact." Juve's admission was matter-of-fact. "Do you recall a certain conversation, Monsieur de Naarboveck, between detective Juve and the real Vagualame at Jérôme Fandor's flat?"
He could not help laughing when he read the list of his facial characteristics: chin, round; nose, medium; face, oval; eyes, grey. Vague enough this to be safe! Fandor's hair was dark chestnut: Vinson's was brown. Vinson and Fandor were sufficiently alike as to height and figure: besides, soldiers' uniforms were not an exact fit. "Here you are, Corporal!" announced the orderly.
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