But M. Havard now broke in again:
“A struggle, however, that was suddenly interrupted when the Minister, who was barefooted, stopped all of a sudden and fell to the floor. Evidently the aggressor, in order to handle his man more easily, and taking advantage of a favourable opportunity, emptied a bagful of nails over the carpet, the nails we have been picking up all this time.”
“You are quite right,” agreed the professor, “the little superficial punctures we noticed scarring the dead man’s limbs were no doubt caused by the nails scattered about the floor.”
“The scoundrel! he provided for everything, it appears—left nothing to chance.”
M. Havard was profoundly agitated and perplexed. Striding up and down the room like a caged lion, casting furtive glances at the Minister’s body, he pondered the tragic origins of the crime and strove to fathom the mystery of who the criminal was.
At seven in the morning he had been awakened by the telephone ringing him up from the Ministry of Justice. Summoned in all haste to the Place Vendôme, in a quarter of an hour he was at the scene of action, questioning the staff, examining the Minister’s bedroom, the adjoining apartments and the precincts generally of the mansion, but entirely, absolutely without result.
Subsequently, however, when he came to search among the papers littering the Minister’s desk, he had been astonished, as had Ferrand himself, by the great number of holograph memoranda, all relating to Fantômas’ million francs and no doubt intentionally intermingled with the “urgent” correspondence. It was deliberately done, it was evidently the sign manual once more of the criminal, it was Fantômas, who, in ironic mood, anxious to rouse public opinion afresh, thus affirmed his presence and confirmed his impunity.
Fantômas?—no, it could not be Fantômas! For six months past, M. Havard had cherished the absolute conviction that the notorious criminal had been personated by his subordinate, Inspector Juve, of the Criminal Investigation Department, who under pretence of relentlessly tracking down the elusive ruffian, had carried out a whole series of thefts and other crimes under this sinister disguise. But Juve was in prison, there was no shadow of doubt about that. Then what was one to think?
As time went on and the day lengthened, corridors and antechambers grew more and more crowded, hummed louder and louder with excited talk—magistrates having appointments to confer with the Chief, electors from Ferrand’s constituency come to see their member, officials and employés coming and going unceasingly; outside the very door of the death chamber eager voices were raised in discussion and dispute, regrets for the past mingled with hopes for the future.
So far, however, the tidings of Désiré Ferrand’s death had hardly spread beyond official circles. The Elysée, the Ministries, were aware of the tragedy, the public knew little or nothing. But this was not to last long. Suddenly a swarm of newsboys, crying special editions, burst with strident shouts into the Place Vendôme, debouching from the Rue de la Paix, deploying under the windows of the Ministry, then tearing off like a whirlwind towards the Tuileries, red and breathless, their papers selling like hot cakes at a premium. The special edition of La Capitale penetrated to the private apartments of the Ministry, and M. Havard, impatient to know in what terms the tragic story was told and to read the criticisms on the police with which the Press was evidently supplementing the narrative of the murder, secured a copy of the paper. Looking over his shoulder, M. Casamajols read in huge capitals, immediately below the name of the journal: