"Oh, come, come!" he cried. "People are not killed like that in the open street!... It is unheard of! Unbelievable!... A bullet presupposes a revolver—a weapon of percussion of some description—a detonation!... There is a noise, a sound!"
Dumoulin went up to the young surgeon. There was a note of suspicious contempt in his question:
"Are you quite sure of what you say?"
"I am quite sure, Commandant."
During this discussion Juve had approached Fandor. 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. I should be most grateful if you would set me at liberty. One tragedy follows hard on another! It is phenomenal!... I shall have to."...
Commandant Dumoulin burst out:
"By Heaven!" he shouted, thumping the table with his fist: "You are the limit!... The take-the-cake limit!... You flout me! You practise on my credulity!... Now you would steal a march on me! Try it on—will you?... Ah! You are not Corporal Vinson!... No?... You are a journalist!... You have got to prove that!... Even if you do prove it, you have got yourself into a pretty pickle by your fooling, by making a laughing-stock of the entire army in your own preposterous person—by assuming that uniform!...