A Royal Prisoner

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  THE FANTOMAS DETECTIVE NOVELS

  A ROYAL PRISONER

  BY

  PIERRE SOUVESTREANDMARCEL ALLAIN

  NEW YORKBRENTANO'S1918

  COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY BRENTANO'S

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. A ROYAL JAG 3

  II. MOTHER CITRON'S TENANTS 12

  III. THE TRAGEDY OF THE RUE DE MONCEAU 21

  IV. WHO DO THEY THINK I AM? 33

  V. BY THE SINGING FOUNTAINS 42

  VI. THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS 49

  VII. THE KING RECEIVES 63

  VIII. MARIE PASCAL 69

  IX. A PARTY OF THREE 76

  X. WULFENMIMENGLASCHK 86

  XI. ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN STATIONS 98

  XII. CAMOUFLAGE 110

  XIII. THE KINGDOM OF HESSE-WEIMAR 118

  XIV. QUEEN HEDWIGE RECEIVES 127

  XV. THE MYSTERIOUS PRISON 137

  XVI. THE THEFT OF THE DIAMOND 146

  XVII. ON THE RIGHT TRAIL 155

  XVIII. A SLEEPER 165

  XIX. FREE! 174

  XX. FREDERICK-CHRISTIAN 180

  XXI. HORRIBLE CERTAINTY 190

  XXII. BETWEEN US THREE--FANTOMAS! 195

  XXIII. OFFICIAL OPINIONS 210

  XXIV. JUVE'S LIES 218

  XXV. "I WANT TO LIVE!" 224

  XXVI. THE ACCUSING WAISTCOAT 227

  XXVII. THE EXPLOSION OF THE NORD-SUD 234

  XXVIII. INNOCENT OR GUILTY? 243

  XXIX. COMPROMISING DISCOVERIES 250

  XXX. SHADOWED 256

  XXXI. THE DEATH WATCH 264

  XXXII. THE ARREST OF FANTOMAS 270

  A ROYAL PRISONER

  CHAPTER I

  A ROYAL JAG

  "After all, why not celebrate? It's the last day of the year and itwon't come again for twelve months."

  It was close upon midnight.

  Jerome Fandor, reporter on the popular newspaper, _La Capitale_, wasstrolling along the boulevard; he had just come from a banquet, one ofthose official and deadly affairs at which the guests are obliged tolisten to interminable speeches. He had drowsed through the evening andat the first opportunity had managed to slip away quickly.

  The theatres were just out and the boulevard was crowded with peopleintent on making a night of it. Numberless automobiles containing thefashionable and rich of Paris blocked the streets. The restaurants werebrilliantly illuminated, and as carriages discharged their occupantsbefore the doors, one glimpsed the neat feet and ankles of daintily cladwomen as they crossed the sidewalk and disappeared inside, followingtheir silk-hatted escorts, conscious of their own importance.

  Many years of active service in Paris as chief reporter of _La Capitale_had brought Jerome Fandor in touch with a good third of those whoconstitute Parisian society, and rarely did he fail to exchange a nod, asmile, or half a dozen words of friendly greeting whenever he set footout of doors.

  But in spite of his popularity he led a lonely life--many acquaintances,but few close friends. The great exception was Juve, the celebrateddetective.

  In fact, Fandor's complex and adventurous life was very much bound upwith that of the police officer, for they had worked together in solvingthe mystery of many tragic crimes.

  On this particular evening, the reporter became gradually imbued withthe general spirit of gaiety and abandon which surrounded him.

  "Hang it," he muttered, "I might go and hunt up Juve and drag him off tosupper, but I'm afraid I should get a cool reception if I did. He isprobably sleeping the sleep of the just and would strongly object tobeing disturbed. Anyway, sooner or later, I'll probably run into someone I know."

  On reaching Drouet Square, he espied an inviting-looking restaurant,brilliantly lit. He was about to make his way to a table when the headwaiter stopped him.

  "Your name, please!"

  "What's that?" replied Fandor.

  The waiter answered with ironical politeness:

  "I take it for granted you have engaged a table. We haven't a singlevacant place left."

  Fandor had the same luck at several other restaurants and then began tosuffer the pangs of hunger, having, on principle, scarcely touched theheavy dishes served at the banquet.

  After wandering aimlessly about, he walked toward the Madeleine andturned off into the Rue Royale in the direction of the FaubourgSaint-Honore.

  As he was passing a discreet looking restaurant with many thick velvetcurtains and an imposing array of private automobiles before it, heheard his name called.

  He stopped short and turned to see a vision of feminine lovelinessstanding before him.

  "Isabelle de Guerray!" he cried.

  "And how are you, my dear boy? Come along in with me."

  Fandor had known Isabelle de Guerray when she was a young school teacherjust graduated from Sevres. Her career, beginning with a somewhatstrange and unorthodox affair with a young man of good family who hadkilled himself for her, had progressed by rapid strides and her name wasfrequently cited in the minor newspapers as giving elegant "society"suppers, the guests being usually designated by their initials!

  Fandor remarked that the fair Isabelle seemed to be putting on weight,especially round the shoulders and hips, but she still retained a greatdeal of dash and an ardent look in her eyes, very valuable assets in herprofession.

  "I have my table here, at Raxim's, you must come and join us," and sheadded with a sly smile, "Oh--quite platonically--I know you'reunapproachable."

  A deafening racket was going on in the narrow, oblong room. The habituesof the place all knew each other and the conversation was general. Norestraint was observed, so that it was quite permissible to wanderabout, hat on head and cigar between lips, or take a lady upon one'sknees.

  Fandor followed Isabelle to a table overloaded with flowers and bottlesof champagne. Here and there he recognized old friends from the LatinQuarter or Montmartre, among them Conchita Conchas, a Spanish dancer invogue the previous winter. A tiny woman, who might have been a girl offifteen from her figure, but whose face was marked with the lines ofdissipation, ran into him and Fandor promptly put his arm round herwaist.

  "Hello, if it isn't little Souppe!"

  "Paws down or I'll scratch," was the sharp reply.

  The next moment he was shaking hands with Daisy Kissmi, an English girlwho had become quite a feature of Raxim's.

  Further on he noticed a pale, bald, and already pot-bellied young man,who was staring with lack-lustre eyes at his whiskey and soda. Thispremature ruin was listening distraitly to a waiter who murmuredmysteriously into his ear.

  At the end of the room, surrounded by pretty women, sat the old Duke dePietra, descendant of a fine old Italian family, and near him Arnold, anactor from the music halls.

  The patrons had no choice in regard to the supper, which was settled bythe head waiter. Each received a bottle of champagne, Ostend oysters,and, later, large slices of _pate de foie gras_, and as the bottles wereemp
tied, intoxication became general, while even the waiters seemed tocatch the spirit of abandon. When the Hungarian band had played theirmost seductive waltzes, the leader came forward to the middle of theroom and announced a new piece of his own composition, called "TheSinging Fountains." This met with instant applause and laughter.

  As the night wore on the noise became positively deafening. A young Jewnamed Weil invented a new game. He seized two plates and began scrapingthem together. Many of the diners followed his example.

  "Look here," exclaimed Conchita Conchas, leaning familiarly uponFandor's shoulder, "why don't you give us tickets for to-morrow to hearthese famous Fountains?"

  Fandor started to explain that the young woman would be in bed and soundasleep when that event took place, but the Spanish girl, without waitingfor the answer, had strolled away.

  The journalist rose with the intention of making his escape, when avoice directly behind him made him pause.

  "Excuse me, but you seem to know all about these 'Singing Fountains.'Will you kindly explain to me what they are? I am a stranger in thecity."

  Fandor turned and saw a man of about thirty, fair-haired, with a heavymoustache, seated alone at a small table. The stranger was well builtand of distinguished appearance. The journalist suppressed a start ofamazement.

  "Why, it's not surprising that you have not heard of them, they arequite unimportant. On the Place de la Concorde there are two bronzemonuments representing Naiads emerging from the fountains. You probablyhave seen them yourself?"

  The stranger nodded, and poured out another glass of champagne.

  "Well," continued Fandor, "recently passers-by have fancied they heardsounds coming from these figures. In fact, they declare that the Naiadshave been singing. A delightfully poetic and thoroughly Parisian idea,isn't it?"

  "Very Parisian indeed."

  "The papers have taken it up, and one you probably know by name, _LaCapitale_, has decided to investigate this strange phenomenon."

  "What was Conchita asking you just now?"

  "Oh, nothing, merely to give her a card for the ceremony."

  The conversation continued and turned to other subjects. The strangerordered more wine and insisted on Fandor joining him. He seemed to beparticularly interested in the subject of women and the night life ofParis.

  "If only I could persuade him to come with me," thought Fandor. "I'dshow him a stunt or two, and what a scoop it would make ... if it couldbe printed! He certainly is drunk, very drunk, and that may help me."

  * * * * *

  On the Place de la Concorde, deserted at this late hour, two men, arm inarm, were taking their devious way. They were Fandor and the stranger hehad met at Raxim's.

  The journalist, with the aid of an extra bottle, had persuaded his newfriend to finish the night among the cafes of Montmartre. The suddenchange from the overheated restaurant to the cold outside increased theeffects of the alcohol and Fandor realized that he himself was far fromsober. As his companion seemed to be obsessed with the idea of seeingthe Fountains, the journalist piloted him to the Place de la Concorde.

  "There you are," he exclaimed, "but you see they're closed. No moresinging to-night. Now come and have a drink."

  "Good idea, some more champagne."

  Fandor hailed a taxi, and ordered the chauffeur to drive to the PlacePigalle. As he was shutting the door, he observed an old beggar, whoevidently was afraid to ask for alms. Fandor threw him a coin as thetaxi started.

  It was three in the morning, and the Place Pigalle was crowded withcarriages, porters and a constant ebb and flow of all sorts of people.

  The journalist and his companion emerged some time later from one of thebest known restaurants, both drunk, especially the stranger, who couldscarcely keep his feet.

  "Look here, we must go ... go..."

  "Go to bed," interrupted Fandor.

  "No. I know where we can go...."

  "But we've been everywhere."

  "We'll go to my rooms ... to her rooms ... to Susy d'Orsel ... she's mygirl ... d'ye know, she's been expecting me for supper since midnight."

  "More supper?"

  "Of course ... there's plenty of room left."

  With some difficulty the stranger managed to give the address, 247 Ruede Monceau.

  "All right," said Fandor to himself, "we'll have some fun; after all,what do I risk?"

  While the taxi shook them violently from side to side, Fandor grewcomparatively sober. He examined his companion more closely and wassurprised to see how well he carried himself in spite of his condition.

  "Well," he summed up, "he certainly has a jag, but it's a royal jag!"