“Tell me then!”
“This ...” and the mysterious workman with a quick movement, stripped off his blouse, and, beneath his working garment, he appeared elegantly attired in a dark blue suit; he wore a silk neckerchief of a quiet, gentlemanly cut and colour, a collar of immaculate whiteness. Removing his cap, which till then had been pulled well down over his ears, he displayed a broad, intellectual forehead; his hair was of a light blonde, sprinkled with silvery threads at the temples.
Without giving a thought to the intense surprise he had created, the soi-disant workman looked the Commissary hard in the eyes, as he declared gravely:
“I am Tom Bob, American detective; a week ago I arrived in Paris, having crossed the Atlantic with the express purpose of tracking down Fantômas and effecting his arrest!”—adding courteously: “Monsieur le Commissaire, I am grateful to circumstances that have afforded me the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
So saying, the detective—for it was no other—made slowly for the door and was about to leave the room, when the Commissary called him back:
“Sir, what is this you tell me? You are Tom Bob?”
“Do you require proofs of the fact, sir?”
The magistrate begged pardon: “No, no, certainly not! I have no doubt whatever of your identity; indeed I have seen portraits of you, I recognise you perfectly well. But I wanted to ask you one thing—you think this is a crime of Fantômas?”
Tom Bob threw out his arms in a wide gesture: “With Fantômas, can one ever tell? but to be quite frank with you, I do not think so; and you may rest assured I have my reasons for holding that opinion ... Monsieur le Commissaire, your servant!”
“Monsieur Bob!”