



Produced by Suzanne Shell, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)







THE FANTOMAS DETECTIVE NOVELS


A ROYAL PRISONER

BY

PIERRE SOUVESTRE
AND
MARCEL ALLAIN


NEW YORK
BRENTANO'S
1918

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY BRENTANO'S




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                     PAGE

I. A ROYAL JAG                                 3

II. MOTHER CITRON'S TENANTS                   12

III. THE TRAGEDY OF THE RUE DE MONCEAU        21

IV. WHO DO THEY THINK I AM?                   33

V. BY THE SINGING FOUNTAINS                   42

VI. THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS                  49

VII. THE KING RECEIVES                        63

VIII. MARIE PASCAL                            69

IX. A PARTY OF THREE                          76

X. WULFENMIMENGLASCHK                         86

XI. ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN STATIONS     98

XII. CAMOUFLAGE                              110

XIII. THE KINGDOM OF HESSE-WEIMAR            118

XIV. QUEEN HEDWIGE RECEIVES                  127

XV. THE MYSTERIOUS PRISON                    137

XVI. THE THEFT OF THE DIAMOND                146

XVII. ON THE RIGHT TRAIL                     155

XVIII. A SLEEPER                             165

XIX. FREE!                                   174

XX. FREDERICK-CHRISTIAN                      180

XXI. HORRIBLE CERTAINTY                      190

XXII. BETWEEN US THREE--FANTOMAS!            195

XXIII. OFFICIAL OPINIONS                     210

XXIV. JUVE'S LIES                            218

XXV. "I WANT TO LIVE!"                       224

XXVI. THE ACCUSING WAISTCOAT                 227

XXVII. THE EXPLOSION OF THE NORD-SUD         234

XXVIII. INNOCENT OR GUILTY?                  243

XXIX. COMPROMISING DISCOVERIES               250

XXX. SHADOWED                                256

XXXI. THE DEATH WATCH                        264

XXXII. THE ARREST OF FANTOMAS                270




A ROYAL PRISONER




CHAPTER I

A ROYAL JAG


"After all, why not celebrate? It's the last day of the year and it
won't come again for twelve months."

It was close upon midnight.

Jerome Fandor, reporter on the popular newspaper, _La Capitale_, was
strolling along the boulevard; he had just come from a banquet, one of
those official and deadly affairs at which the guests are obliged to
listen to interminable speeches. He had drowsed through the evening and
at the first opportunity had managed to slip away quickly.

The theatres were just out and the boulevard was crowded with people
intent on making a night of it. Numberless automobiles containing the
fashionable and rich of Paris blocked the streets. The restaurants were
brilliantly illuminated, and as carriages discharged their occupants
before the doors, one glimpsed the neat feet and ankles of daintily clad
women as they crossed the sidewalk and disappeared inside, following
their silk-hatted escorts, conscious of their own importance.

Many years of active service in Paris as chief reporter of _La Capitale_
had brought Jerome Fandor in touch with a good third of those who
constitute Parisian society, and rarely did he fail to exchange a nod, a
smile, or half a dozen words of friendly greeting whenever he set foot
out of doors.

But in spite of his popularity he led a lonely life--many acquaintances,
but few close friends. The great exception was Juve, the celebrated
detective.

In fact, Fandor's complex and adventurous life was very much bound up
with that of the police officer, for they had worked together in solving
the mystery of many tragic crimes.

On this particular evening, the reporter became gradually imbued with
the general spirit of gaiety and abandon which surrounded him.

"Hang it," he muttered, "I might go and hunt up Juve and drag him off to
supper, but I'm afraid I should get a cool reception if I did. He is
probably sleeping the sleep of the just and would strongly object to
being disturbed. Anyway, sooner or later, I'll probably run into some
one I know."

On reaching Drouet Square, he espied an inviting-looking restaurant,
brilliantly lit. He was about to make his way to a table when the head
waiter stopped him.

"Your name, please!"

"What's that?" replied Fandor.

The waiter answered with ironical politeness:

"I take it for granted you have engaged a table. We haven't a single
vacant place left."

Fandor had the same luck at several other restaurants and then began to
suffer the pangs of hunger, having, on principle, scarcely touched the
heavy dishes served at the banquet.

After wandering aimlessly about, he walked toward the Madeleine and
turned off into the Rue Royale in the direction of the Faubourg
Saint-Honore.

As he was passing a discreet looking restaurant with many thick velvet
curtains and an imposing array of private automobiles before it, he
heard his name called.

He stopped short and turned to see a vision of feminine loveliness
standing before him.

"Isabelle de Guerray!" he cried.

"And how are you, my dear boy? Come along in with me."

Fandor had known Isabelle de Guerray when she was a young school teacher
just graduated from Sevres. Her career, beginning with a somewhat
strange and unorthodox affair with a young man of good family who had
killed himself for her, had progressed by rapid strides and her name was
frequently cited in the minor newspapers as giving elegant "society"
suppers, the guests being usually designated by their initials!

Fandor remarked that the fair Isabelle seemed to be putting on weight,
especially round the shoulders and hips, but she still retained a great
deal of dash and an ardent look in her eyes, very valuable assets in her
profession.

"I have my table here, at Raxim's, you must come and join us," and she
added with a sly smile, "Oh--quite platonically--I know you're
unapproachable."

A deafening racket was going on in the narrow, oblong room. The habitues
of the place all knew each other and the conversation was general. No
restraint was observed, so that it was quite permissible to wander
about, hat on head and cigar between lips, or take a lady upon one's
knees.

Fandor followed Isabelle to a table overloaded with flowers and bottles
of champagne. Here and there he recognized old friends from the Latin
Quarter or Montmartre, among them Conchita Conchas, a Spanish dancer in
vogue the previous winter. A tiny woman, who might have been a girl of
fifteen from her figure, but whose face was marked with the lines of
dissipation, ran into him and Fandor promptly put his arm round her
waist.

"Hello, if it isn't little Souppe!"

"Paws down or I'll scratch," was the sharp reply.

The next moment he was shaking hands with Daisy Kissmi, an English girl
who had become quite a feature of Raxim's.

Further on he noticed a pale, bald, and already pot-bellied young man,
who was staring with lack-lustre eyes at his whiskey and soda. This
premature ruin was listening distraitly to a waiter who murmured
mysteriously into his ear.

At the end of the room, surrounded by pretty women, sat the old Duke de
Pietra, descendant of a fine old Italian family, and near him Arnold, an
actor from the music halls.

The patrons had no choice in regard to the supper, which was settled by
the head waiter. Each received a bottle of champagne, Ostend oysters,
and, later, large slices of _pate de foie gras_, and as the bottles were
emptied, intoxication became general, while even the waiters seemed to
catch the spirit of abandon. When the Hungarian band had played their
most seductive waltzes, the leader came forward to the middle of the
room and announced a new piece of his own composition, called "The
Singing Fountains." This met with instant applause and laughter.

As the night wore on the noise became positively deafening. A young Jew
named Weil invented a new game. He seized two plates and began scraping
them together. Many of the diners followed his example.

"Look here," exclaimed Conchita Conchas, leaning familiarly upon
Fandor's shoulder, "why don't you give us tickets for to-morrow to hear
these famous Fountains?"

Fandor started to explain that the young woman would be in bed and sound
asleep when that event took place, but the Spanish girl, without waiting
for the answer, had strolled away.

The journalist rose with the intention of making his escape, when a
voice directly behind him made him pause.

"Excuse me, but you seem to know all about these 'Singing Fountains.'
Will you kindly explain to me what they are? I am a stranger in the
city."

Fandor turned and saw a man of about thirty, fair-haired, with a heavy
moustache, seated alone at a small table. The stranger was well built
and of distinguished appearance. The journalist suppressed a start of
amazement.

"Why, it's not surprising that you have not heard of them, they are
quite unimportant. On the Place de la Concorde there are two bronze
monuments representing Naiads emerging from the fountains. You probably
have seen them yourself?"

The stranger nodded, and poured out another glass of champagne.

"Well," continued Fandor, "recently passers-by have fancied they heard
sounds coming from these figures. In fact, they declare that the Naiads
have been singing. A delightfully poetic and thoroughly Parisian idea,
isn't it?"

"Very Parisian indeed."

"The papers have taken it up, and one you probably know by name, _La
Capitale_, has decided to investigate this strange phenomenon."

"What was Conchita asking you just now?"

"Oh, nothing, merely to give her a card for the ceremony."

The conversation continued and turned to other subjects. The stranger
ordered more wine and insisted on Fandor joining him. He seemed to be
particularly interested in the subject of women and the night life of
Paris.

"If only I could persuade him to come with me," thought Fandor. "I'd
show him a stunt or two, and what a scoop it would make... if it could
be printed! He certainly is drunk, very drunk, and that may help me."

       *       *       *       *       *

On the Place de la Concorde, deserted at this late hour, two men, arm in
arm, were taking their devious way. They were Fandor and the stranger he
had met at Raxim's.

The journalist, with the aid of an extra bottle, had persuaded his new
friend to finish the night among the cafes of Montmartre. The sudden
change from the overheated restaurant to the cold outside increased the
effects of the alcohol and Fandor realized that he himself was far from
sober. As his companion seemed to be obsessed with the idea of seeing
the Fountains, the journalist piloted him to the Place de la Concorde.

"There you are," he exclaimed, "but you see they're closed. No more
singing to-night. Now come and have a drink."

"Good idea, some more champagne."

Fandor hailed a taxi, and ordered the chauffeur to drive to the Place
Pigalle. As he was shutting the door, he observed an old beggar, who
evidently was afraid to ask for alms. Fandor threw him a coin as the
taxi started.

It was three in the morning, and the Place Pigalle was crowded with
carriages, porters and a constant ebb and flow of all sorts of people.

The journalist and his companion emerged some time later from one of the
best known restaurants, both drunk, especially the stranger, who could
scarcely keep his feet.

"Look here, we must go... go..."

"Go to bed," interrupted Fandor.

"No. I know where we can go...."

"But we've been everywhere."

"We'll go to my rooms... to her rooms... to Susy d'Orsel... she's my
girl... d'ye know, she's been expecting me for supper since midnight."

"More supper?"

"Of course... there's plenty of room left."

With some difficulty the stranger managed to give the address, 247 Rue
de Monceau.

"All right," said Fandor to himself, "we'll have some fun; after all,
what do I risk?"

While the taxi shook them violently from side to side, Fandor grew
comparatively sober. He examined his companion more closely and was
surprised to see how well he carried himself in spite of his condition.

"Well," he summed up, "he certainly has a jag, but it's a royal jag!"




CHAPTER II

MOTHER CITRON'S TENANTS


"Now you've forgotten the fish knives and forks! Do you expect my lover
to eat with his fingers like that old Chinaman I had for three months
last year!"

Susy d'Orsel spoke with a distinct accent of the Faubourg, which
contrasted strangely with her delicate and distinguished appearance.

Justine, her maid, stood staring in reply.

"But, Madame, we have lobsters...."

"What's that got to do with it, they're fish, ain't they?"

The young woman left the table and went into the adjoining room, a small
drawing-room, elegantly furnished