Already on every lip the dread name was being repeated, the name of horror and of blood, the name that alone could make credible the incredible reality, that could make it seem possible, that could account for it.
“Fantômas! Fantômas! he and no other must have planned all this!”
And through the night, more grim than ever the three tragic syllables re-echoed, spreading consternation—Fantômas!
CHAPTER XV
IN A PRIVATE ROOM
M. Moche was in a generous mood that morning. He now beckoned to the waiter of the drinking shop where he sat with a companion, the apache known by the nickname of the “Gasman,” and ordered a bottle of wine and glasses to be set on the table. But the old man had certainly not summoned this “Gasman” to meet him merely for the pleasure of standing the young ruffian a drink. For a good quarter of an hour they had been hobnobbing together, and the old business agent had been engaged in explaining to his man the particular service he required of him. To start with, indeed, and by way of preliminary to insure the confidence and good will of his ally, Père Moche, as he shook hands on saying good-morning, had slipped between the “Gasman’s” gnarled fingers a nice little bank note for fifty francs, which the apache, nothing if not practical, had instantly pocketed, prepared to learn later on what he would have to do in return, or even to refuse to take on the job if he did not fancy it.
When the bottle was half empty, Moche came back to the business in hand.
“Then it’s settled,” he asked, “we may count on you?”
The apache pushed his chair back, leant his great body far across the table, rested his head between the palms of his hands and looking hard at the old business man:
“That depends,” he announced in a decided tone.
“What d’ye mean?” asked Moche in surprise.