The man got to his feet again, and, a coward like all of his kidney, while Tom Bob lay helpless and incapable of offering the smallest resistance, he kicked him in the face again and again. Presently, tiring of the exercise, he broke off to add:
“There, I don’t want to spoil your phiz. What’d be the good of that? But what to do with the beast? we never looked to see him here. Bah! let’s just tie him up with the beak, it’ll be company for him!”
But there was no time to waste. It was a good twenty minutes since the brigands had invaded Fuselier’s privacy. True, at this time of day there was small likelihood of anybody coming to disturb the Juge d’Instruction; still it was best not to delay—a surprise was after all a possibility to be feared; a night watchman, a court official, an usher might arrive at any moment. Like a general inspecting the dispositions made by his subordinates in command, the “Beadle” proceeded to make a rapid examination of the fastenings securing Fuselier and Tom Bob.
“Righto!” he declared, “they’re hard and fast for the night, never fear!”
With a grin, he gripped Tom Bob by the shoulders and dragged him into a dark corner of the room; after which he seized M. Fuselier and turned him round with his face to the wall:
“They’ll be bored worse than ever if they can’t see one another! A pleasant time to you, gentlemen!... And the other, ready is he? you’ve got the sack?”
Yes, the other was ready. The chief might gibe and jest and enliven the proceedings with satirical remarks, but his men were not wasting their time. While he was speaking, they had executed the order previously given. The enterprise, not a doubt of it, had been planned beforehand, and long beforehand. One of the apaches now unfolded a voluminous receptacle he had brought with him, a sort of extra big sack; into this they bundled Juve, still bound, still incapable of the slightest movement. Two of the ruffians then picked up the sack, and carrying it to the window, dumped it on the hanging stage.
Finally, after turning the key in the lock to make security doubly secure, the chief addressed his men:
“Off we go! let’s hook it, mates, all that’s left to do is to slip down by the scaffold ropes. Underneath we’ll come on the masons’ workshops. There’s a watchman, of course, on guard there, but he’s full up at this time of night; no fear of his waking up. To get the gentleman away, we’ve the motor-car. Ah! by God! but it’s a fine bit of work we’ve done this journey!”
It was three hours or more since the daring ruffians who had found a way into the Palais de Justice had tried and accomplished their capture of Juve, whom they took for Fantômas. M. Fuselier was almost despairing. It was all too abominable; just as he was liberating Juve, Juve had fallen into the brigands’ power. The man was done for for certain—and so keen was the sympathy the magistrate felt for the gallant officer, he almost forgot the grotesque horror of his own position in fear for Juve’s fate. He was the more alarmed, inasmuch as, being reduced to helplessness, M. Fuselier realized quite clearly it would be long ere he was set free, that there was practically no chance of his being restored to liberty before the next morning at seven or eight o’clock, the hour when the cleaners of the Palais would want to come in to put his room to rights, and surprised to find the door locked, would make enquiries and no doubt find means to enter the room by way of the window.