“Don’t you see,” the detective concluded, “it’s all as plain as daylight. Here’s how Fantômas set to work. He hired this room, up to seven or eight o’clock this morning, I imagine. Seeing it was taken for to-night by me, it was evident no one would occupy it between us two. On top of the wardrobe he lashed an extraordinary contrivance loaded up with grape-shot, which swept the whole place with a hurricane of lead; to touch off the charge, he laid down a slow-match of tinder.”
Fandor shook his head: “No,” he objected, so enthralled in spite of himself by the interest of the investigation as to have completely recovered his clearness of mind; “you seem to forget one detail; if he lit the slow-match before leaving, it’s ten to one the smoke would have been noticed by the hotel waiter. Then besides, it would have needed a great length of slow-match, and that meant risking a conflagration ...”
But Tom Bob indulged in another meaning smile, as he said:
“Fantômas left, I suppose, about eight in the morning, quite early anyway; but his match was not lit till two or three o’clock in the afternoon. You needn’t be surprised, Fandor, the trick is quite elementary! Look there, on the carpet, near the wardrobe; you see those little shards of glass? the fragments of a burning-glass! The tinder was set alight by means of that lens, scientifically adjusted for the precise moment when the sun had reached the altitude chosen by Fantômas. It’s really very ingenious, after all!”
And as Fandor remained silent, struck dumb with admiration for the coolness displayed by the American, who had thus escaped by a hair’s breadth the terrible machinations of a murderer, and at the same time saved his companion from a hideous death, Tom Bob resumed:
“The present business being now cleared up, and Fantômas responsible for yet another attempted murder, let us pass on to serious matters. This is not really important, as it only concerns two of his individual enemies, you and me ... You were telling me just now, that M. Moche was guilty of the bank messenger’s murder?... h’m, that’s not so sure. Come, Monsieur Fandor, just give me a little information about the man’s associates.”
At the detective’s invitation Fandor had at last installed himself comfortably in a big armchair.
“Moche’s associates,” he said, “are a deplorably bad lot; to begin with, amongst other notorious ruffians, I can give you the names, or rather the nicknames, of several, ‘Beardy,’ ‘the Beadle,’ ‘the Cellarman,’—women too, ‘Big Ernestine,’ little Nini, who, I told you before, has for her fancy man, the bully Paulet—calls himself a stone-mason, even works at his trade in his spare moments, for I know Moche has lately given him several jobs to do; then there is ‘Beauty Boy,’ another choice blackguard, and ...”
But Tom Bob suddenly interrupted his informant.
“I am dog tired,” he declared, “and half dropping asleep. Listen here, Monsieur Fandor, my own opinion is, an investigation is advisable before deciding on anything. I give you my word I will investigate ...”