“The Barbey-Nanteuil bank is certainly gorgeous!” thought Jerome Fandor as he traversed the hall on the ground floor, where the massive mahogany furniture, the thick carpets, the deep, comfortable chairs, the sober elegance of the window curtains breathed an atmosphere of luxury and good taste.  “And decidedly banking is the best of businesses!” added our young journalist.

An attendant advanced to meet him.

“What do you want, monsieur?”

“Will you take in my card to Monsieur Nanteuil?  I should be glad to have a few minutes’ talk with him.”

The attendant bowed.

“On a personal matter, monsieur?”

“A personal matter?...  Yes.”

Jerome Fandor wanted to interview the Barbey-Nanteuils on the subject of the recent occurrences, which had roused Paris opinion to the highest degree-mysterious occurrences on which no light seemed to have been thrown so far....  Not only were the Barbey-Nanteuils the bankers of the Baroness de Vibray, but they had been present at Thomery’s ball, when the attack on Princess Sonia Danidoff had taken place....  Would they allow themselves to be interviewed?  Fandor decided that they certainly would, for they were business men, and was he not going to give them a free advertisement?

The attendant-a stately individual-returned.

“Monsieur Nanteuil is sorry he cannot see you, he is taking the chair at an important committee meeting; but Monsieur Barbey will see you for a few minutes, that is to say, if he will do instead of Monsieur Nanteuil.”

“In that case, I will see Monsieur Barbey,” said Fandor, rising.

Following the attendant, Fandor traversed the whole length of the bank, and passing the half-open door of Monsieur Nanteuil’s office-the name on the door told him this-he noticed that it was empty.

Monsieur Barbey received him coldly and with a solemn bow.  Fandor’s reply was a pleasant smile.

“I know,” said he, “that your time is precious, Monsieur Barbey, so I will come straight to the object of my call....  You must be aware of the profound impression caused by the double crimes recently committed on the persons of Madame de Vibray and the Princess Sonia Danidoff?”

“It is true, monsieur, that I have followed, in the papers, the account of the investigations regarding them:  but, in what way?...”

“Does it concern you?” finished Fandor.  “Good heavens, monsieur, is it not a fact that the Baroness de Vibray was your client?  And were you not present at Monsieur Thomery’s ball?”

“That is so, monsieur; but if you are hoping that I can supply you with further details than those already published, you will be disappointed.  I myself have learned a good deal about these crimes only from reading your articles, monsieur.”

“Can you confirm the statement that Madame de Vibray was ruined?”

“I do not think I am betraying a professional secret if I say that Madame de Vibray had had very heavy losses quite recently.”

“And Princess Sonia Danidoff?”

“I do not think she is one of our clients.”

“You do not think so?”

“But, monsieur, you cannot suppose that we know all our clients?  Our business is a very extensive one, and neither Nanteuil, nor I, could possibly know the names of all those who do business with us.”

“You know the name of Jacques Dollon?”

“Yes.  I knew young Dollon.  He was introduced to me by Madame de Vibray, who asked me to give him a helping hand, and I willingly did so.  I can only regret now that my confidence was so ill placed.”

“Do you believe him guilty then?...  Not really?”

“I certainly do!...  So do all your readers, monsieur.  Is that not so?”

But, whilst Monsieur Barbey was regarding Fandor with some astonishment because of his half-avowal, that he himself was not sure of Dollon’s guilt, the door was flung open with violence, and Monsieur Nanteuil, out of breath, looking thoroughly upset, rushed into the room, followed by five or six men unknown to Jerome Fandor, and showing traces of fatigue and emotion also.

“Good Heavens!  What is it?” cried Monsieur Barbey, rising to meet his partner....

“The matter is,” cried Monsieur Nanteuil, “that an abominable robbery has just been committed....”

“Where?”

“Rue du Quatre Septembre!...”  Still panting, he began to give details....

Fandor did not wait to hear more.  He rushed from the Barbey-Nanteuil bank and made for the place de l’Opera at top speed.

In consequence of the extraordinary occurrence which Monsieur Nanteuil had hastened to report to his partner, a considerable crowd had flocked to the scene of the accident; but barriers had been quickly erected, and the crowd, directed by the police, were able to circulate in orderly fashion when Fandor arrived on the scene.

The agile young journalist had made his way to the front row of the curious, and was bent on entering the stone and wood yards of the works forbidden to the public; the usual palisade no longer existed owing to the landslip.

Just as he was searching in his pocket for the precious identification card, which the police grant to the reporters connected with the big newspapers, Fandor was jostled by an individual coming out of the yards.  It was a navvy all covered with mortar, white dust, and mud; he was without a hat and held his right hand pressed against his cheek; between his fingers there filtered a few drops of blood.

The glances of the man and the journalist met, and Fandor felt as though someone had struck him a blow on the heart!  The navvy had given him so strange a look.  Fandor thought he had read in his eyes a threat and an invitation.

Whilst our journalist hesitated, troubled by this sudden encounter, the man moved off, forcing his way through the crowd.  Then Fandor caught sight of some of his colleagues, stumbling about amidst the ruins and rubble in the stone-yard.  This reassured him; if he followed the navvy, and he had the strongest inclination to do so, he could telephone to some reporter friend who would supply him with the necessary details for his article on the accident.  He had got some facts already:  a sudden collapse of stones and mortar had buried a hand-cart, in which were large bars of gold belonging to the Barbey-Nanteuil bank.  But the precious vehicle had soon been rescued, and they were taking it to the bank under escort.

Satisfied as to this, Fandor followed with his eyes this strange navvy who was going further and further away.

Fandor had an intuition-a very strong feeling-that he must follow the trail of this man and make him talk.  It was of the utmost importance-something told him this was so.

The navvy was not simply going away, he had the air of a man in flight.

Fandor, who was following now and keenly observant, noticed the hesitating movements of the man-then there was an astonishing move on the navvy’s part:  he hailed a taxi and got in.  Fandor had the good luck to find another taxi at once; jumping in, he said to the driver: 

“Follow the 4227 G.H. which is in front of you:  don’t let it outdistance you ... you shall have a good tip!”

The chauffeur, a young alert fellow, understood there was a chase in question, and amused at the idea of pursuing a comrade through the crowded streets of Paris, he set off.  He adroitly cut through a file of carriages and caught up taxi 4227 G.H.  He then proceeded to follow closely in its track.

Fandor, keen as a bloodhound on the scent, kept watch over their progress to an unknown destination.

They rolled along the avenue de l’Opera:  they cut across the rue de Rivoli.  Then, when they were going at a good pace through the place du Carrousel, Fandor felt much moved by memories of past times, those days of great and wonderful adventures, when he would follow this very route to keep some exciting appointment with his good friend, Juve.  How frequent those appointments used to be, when the famous detective was alive and so actively at work-the work of unearthing criminals-those pests of society!  Off Fandor used to set when the longed for summons came, and would meet Juve in his little flat on the left side of the Seine.  Ah, those were times, indeed!

When a lad, Fandor had been practically adopted by the famous detective.  Young Jerome Fandor had served a kind of apprenticeship with Juve, and this had brought him into close touch with the ups and downs of a number of crime dramas:  he and Juve together had even been the voluntary, or involuntary, heroes of some of them!  Then the tragic disappearance of Juve had occurred, when Fandor had escaped death by a kind of miracle!

After that dreadful date, our journalist had found himself alone, isolated, with not a soul to whom he cared to confide his perplexities, his anxieties, his hopes!  Fandor shuddered at the thought of this.

The taxi had just crossed the bridge des Sainte Peres, had followed the quay for a few minutes, then rounding the Fine Arts School they entered the old and narrow rue Bonaparte....

What was this?  Of course, it could only be a coincidence ... but still ... rue Bonaparte-why that only brought the memory of Juve more vividly to mind!  For Juve had lived in this street; and now, a few yards further on, they would pass before the modest dwelling where, for years, the detective had made his home, keeping jealously hidden, from all and sundry, this asylum, this secret retreat.

Ah, what happy hours, what jolly times, what tragic moments, too, had Fandor not passed in that little flat on the fourth floor!  How they had chatted away in the detective’s comfortable study!  Then Fandor, full of spirit, would come and go from room to room, unable to sit still, all fire and activity; and Juve would remain in one place, calm, full of thought, sometimes sunk in a reverie, often silent for hours at a time, his eyes obstinately fixed on the ceiling, smoking methodically, mechanically even, his eternal cigarette.  Oh, those good, good days gone for ever!

After the disastrous disappearance of Juve, Fandor had not gone near the rue Bonaparte for six months.  It was all too painful, to find again the familiar rooms and no Juve!  It was too painful.

However, one fine day, he determined to go and see what had happened to his friend’s old home....  Alas, in Paris, the lapse of half a year suffices to alter the most familiar scene!  In rue Bonaparte, the former house porters had left; their place had been taken by a stout, sulky woman who gave evasive replies to Fandor’s questions.  He extracted from her the information that the tenant of the fourth floor flat had died, that his furniture had been cleared out very soon after his death, and the flat had been let to an insurance inspector....

Fandor was roused from this retrospect:  he grew pale, his heart seemed to stop its beating:  the taxi he was pursuing had slowed down-had drawn up beside the pavement-had stopped in front of Juve’s old home!

Fandor saw the navvy descend from the taxi, pay his fare, and enter the house, still keeping his right hand pressed to his cheek.  Without a moment’s reflection, Fandor leapt from his taxi, flung a five-franc piece to his driver, and without waiting for the change he rushed into the house, whose passages and stairs were so familiar.

The navvy was swiftly mounting the stairs in front of our excited young journalist, who was close on his quarry’s heels:  the two men were panting as they went up that dark staircase.

At the fourth floor, Fandor was nearly overcome by emotion, for the man entered Juve’s old flat as if he had a right to do so.

He was on the point of shutting the door in the face of his pursuer, but Fandor had foreseen this.  He slipped through with a forceful push and caught the navvy by his jacket.

Quick as lightning the navvy turned, and the two men stood face to face....  The result was startling!

Speechless they stared at each other for what seemed an interminable moment; then, with a strangled cry, Fandor fell into the man’s arms, and was crushed in a strong embrace.  Two cries escaped from their lips at the same moment: 

“Juve!”

“Fandor!”

When he came to himself again, Fandor found he was lying in one of the comfortable leather arm-chairs in Juve’s study.  His temples and the lobes of his ears were being bathed with some refreshing liquid:  the commingled scent of ether and eau-de-Cologne was in the air.

When he opened his eyes, it was with difficulty that he could credit the sight that met them!

Juve, his dear Juve, was bending over him, gazing at him tenderly, watching his return to consciousness with some anxiety.

Fandor vainly strove to rise:  he felt dazed.

“Fandor!” murmured Juve, in a voice trembling with emotion.  “Fandor, my little Fandor.  My lad, my own dear lad!”

Oh, yes, this was Juve, his own Juve, whom Fandor saw before him!...  He had aged a little, this dear Juve of his-had gone slightly grey at the temples:  there were some fresh lines on his forehead, at the corners of his mouth, too; but it was the Juve of old times, for all that!...  Juve, alert, souple, robust, Juve in his full vigour, in the prime of life!  Oh, a living, breathing, fatherly Juve:  his respected master and most intimate friend-restored to him, after mourning the irreparable loss of him and his incomprehensible disappearance!

While Fandor slowly came to himself, Juve had lessened the disordered state of his appearance; he had taken off his workman’s clothes, and also the red beard which he had worn, when he ran up against the journalist in the place de l’Opera.

As soon as Fandor was himself again, not only did he feel intense joy, a quite wild joy, but he also knew the good of a keen curiosity.  Now he would know why the detective had felt obliged to disappear, officially at any rate, from Paris life for so long a period.

Protestations of faithful attachment, or unalterable affection poured from Fandor’s excited lips, intermingled with questions:  he wanted to know everything at once.

Juve smiled in silence, and gazed most affectionately at his dear lad.

At last he said: 

“I am not going to ask you for your news, Fandor, for I have seen you repeatedly, and I know you are quite all right....  Why, I do believe you have put on flesh a little!”

Juve was smiling that enigmatic smile of his.

Fandor grew impatient, on fire with curiosity.  Ah, this was indeed the
Juve of bygone days, imperturbable, ironical, rather exasperating also!

However, Juve took pity on Fandor, who was still under the influence of the shock he had received.

“Well, now, dear lad, did you recognise me, a while ago?”

Fandor pulled himself together.

“To tell you the truth, Juve, I did not ... but, when our glances met, I had an intuition, a kind of interior revelation of what I had to do, and without any beating about the bush-I knew I had to follow you, follow you wherever you went.”

Juve nodded his approval.

“Very good, dear fellow; your reply gives me infinite pleasure, and on two counts:  in the first place, I perceive that your remarkable instinct for getting on to the right scent, strengthened by my teaching, has improved immensely since we parted; and, in the second place, I am delighted to know that I made my head and face so unrecognisable that even my old familiar friend, Fandor, did not know me when we were brought face to face!”

“Why this disguise, Juve?” demanded Fandor, his countenance alight with curiosity.  “How was it I came across you at the very spot where the Barbey-Nanteuil load of gold had been submerged, for the moment, under bricks and mortar?  And, with regard to that, Juve, how comes it ...”

Juve cut Fandor short.

“Gently!  Fandor!  Gently!  You are putting the cart before the horse, old fellow; and if we continue to talk by fits and starts, never shall we come to the end of all we have to say to each other, and must say.  Are you aware, Fandor, that we have been drawn into a succession of incomprehensible occurrences-a mysterious network of them?...  But I have good hopes that now we shall be able to work together again; and I like to think that if we follow the different trails we have each started on, we shall end up by...”

It was Fandor’s turn to interrupt: 

“Hang it all, Juve!  I partly understand you, of course; but there’s a lot I don’t know yet....  What are you after, dear Juve?  Are you, as I am, on the track of Jacques Dollon?”

There was a pause, then Juve said: 

“I shall reserve the details for our leisure.  What matters now is, that I should make clear to you the principal lines my existence has followed during the past three years or so.  A few minutes will suffice to put you in possession of the main facts.  Now, listen.”

The narrative went back to the time when Juve, aided by Fandor, was close on the heels of their mortal enemy, the mysterious and elusive Fantomas.  The detective and the journalist had succeeded in cooping up the formidable bandit in a house at Neuilly, belonging to a great English lady, known under the name of Lady Beltham.  This Englishwoman was the mistress and accomplice of the notorious Fantomas. But at the precise moment when Juve was about to arrest him, a frightful explosion occurred, and the building, blown up by dynamite, collapsed in ruins, burying the two friends and some fifteen policemen and detectives.

Rescuers were on the spot in a very short time, and uninterruptedly, for forty-eight hours, they searched among the ruins for the victims of the disaster, dead or alive.

By a miraculous piece of good fortune, Fandor had been but slightly hurt, and at the end of a few days he was as well as ever.  But the poor fellow had lost his best friend-Juve!

The search for Juve had been a useless one.  Several corpses could not be identified owing to the injuries they had sustained; and, as it seemed incredible that the detective could have escaped, they had concluded that one of the unrecognisable bodies must be his.

Juve, however, was not one of the dead!

Saved in as miraculous a fashion as Fandor had been, less injured even, a few seconds after the frightful crash, he had been able to rise and make his escape.  The distracted detective had raced away from the scene of disaster in search of Fandor, and also in pursuit of Fantomas, for he believed that both had made their escape.

After wandering about for some hours, he had returned to mingle with the crowd of rescuers, and had learned that Fandor had been found, and was not dangerously hurt:  on the other hand, there were those present who declared that he, Juve, was killed!

This unexpected announcement gave him an idea:  for an indefinite period he would accept this version!  For, more than ever set upon catching his enemy, the detective said to himself, that if Fantomas could feel certain that Juve no longer existed, the pretended dead would have a far better chance of catching the living bandit!

Thereupon, Juve had submitted his project to his chief, Monsieur Havard; and the head of the police secret service had consented to ignore Juve’s presence among the living.

Juve knew that Lady Beltham had escaped to England.

Supposing that Fantomas would rejoin her without delay, the detective left Paris, crossed the Channel.  He then went to America.  For scarcely had he arrived in London when he learned that the bandits had gone off to the United States.

Juve travelled from place to place for some months.  It was a vain quest:  Fantomas had vanished, leaving not a trace behind, and the disgusted detective, now convinced that he had followed a false trail, returned to France.

He determined to set himself to study anew the prison world; he was all the more interested in it because, before his supposed death, Juve had effected the arrest of several members of a band of which Fantomas was the leader.  Among these were the Cooper, the Beard, and old Mother Toulouche.

Then, at the prison connected with the asylum, Juve had come across a warder, who, some years previous to this, had been the warder in charge of a man condemned to death, one Gurn, who had not been guillotined because a substituted person had been executed in his stead.  Juve was convinced that the condemned criminal was none other than Fantomas.  Juve strongly suspected that this warder, Nibet by name, knew a great deal about this old affair.  But soon Nibet passed to the Depot.  The accomplices of Fantomas, having served the time of their respective sentences, some at Melun, others at Clermont, all this nice collection of criminals would meet once more on the pavements of Paris.  Juve, therefore, had imperious reasons for mingling with this charming crowd!...

Fandor had followed Juve’s rapid narrative with the most intense interest.

“And then, Juve, what then?” insisted Fandor.

“And then,” said the detective, “to make an end of it-for we must not be forever going over the past adventures-let me tell you, that after many and diverse happenings, a band of smugglers and false coiners, among whom are to be found individuals already known to you, notably the Beard, the Cooper, and also that wretch of a Mother Toulouche, one fine day made the acquaintance of a poor sort of creature, simple-minded, and anything but sharp-witted-an individual who goes by the name of Cranajour!”

“Cranajour?” queried Fandor, “I don’t in the least understand.”

“Yes, Cranajour,” repeated Juve.  “Here is how it came about.  You remember when Fantomas got an unfortunate actor named Valgrand executed in his stead?  Well, our mysterious Fantomas, the better to mislead and bamboozle those who might suspect this atrocious jugglery, our bandit of genius-for Fantomas has genius-took the personality of Valgrand for several hours, and dared to go to the theatre where the real Valgrand was playing.  However, as Fantomas was not capable of playing the part to a finish, he conceived the idea of making those about Valgrand believe that he had been suddenly afflicted with loss of memory, and from that moment could not remember anything whatever:  Fantomas, the false Valgrand, could thus pass for the true Valgrand, and be taken as such by the true Valgrand’s intimates!...  I humbly confess, Fandor, that I copied Fantomas by creating Cranajour....”

Juve, then rapidly explained to the journalist the origin of this nickname, and also told him how the bandits treated him as one of themselves; how, as soon as they were convinced that he could not remember anything he had seen or heard for two hours together, they talked freely before him of their plans and doings!

The detective went on: 

“I must add, my dear Fandor, that no very sensational revelations have come to me, so far, through my intimacy with this set of criminals.  It seemed to me I was in the midst of common thieves, who smuggled and circulated false coin; but one thing did puzzle me-puzzles me still:  these folk succeed in selling a considerable number of pounds sterling, false coin, of course, and that without my being able to discover, so far, where they sell them-who makes their market.  They also sell lace smuggled from Belgium; that, however, interests me but little, and I was prepared to leave to the lower ranks of the service the duty of clearing Paris of this common-place brood of criminals; already, indeed, the regular police had arrested one of the smugglers, the Cooper, and two of his subordinate confederates; I was about to turn my back on this crew in order to give all my attention to a new trail which might put me on the track of Fantomas once more, when the Dollon affair blazed forth; and then suddenly, I meet again my Fandor, braver than ever, more perspicacious also, adroitly taking the affair in hand, bravely thrusting himself into the breach!

“Is there any connection between the Dollon affair and my band of smugglers?”

“You will appreciate the importance of this question and the reply to it in a minute, my Fandor, when you learn that the Depot warder, Nibet, is one of the most valuable confederates of the coiners, of Mother Toulouche, of that hooligan, the Beard....”

“Is it possible!” cried Fandor.  “Ah, Juve, all this is so strange that I believe you are really on Fantomas’ track, once more!”

Juve shook his head; then he continued: 

“I have still a great deal to tell you, but I must pause a moment to say, that I ought to apologise to you for a fairly brutal act I committed on your behalf-in your best interests, as you will see....”

And to Fandor, who opened his eyes in astonishment, the detective related, in humorous fashion, the history of the famous kick he had administered-a kick wherewith Juve had removed his friend from the immediate and certain danger of assassination, at the hand and by the knife of Nibet.

Fandor could not get over it!  He grasped Juve’s hands and pressed them warmly.

“My friend!  My good friend!” murmured he, moved almost to tears.  “If I had had the least suspicion!...”

Juve interrupted him.

“There are many more things, Fandor, you never suspected, things you ought to know....  And what is more, you seem to me to be neglecting your work badly at this very moment, Mr. Reporter!  It is already one o’clock in the afternoon; and if they are counting on you to supply them with information about this affair of the place de l’Opera....”

Fandor leapt to his feet.

“It’s true!” he cried.  “I had quite forgotten it!...  But it is of no importance by the side of ...”

Juve interrupted.

“The affair is serious, Fandor, attention!... Do you remember?  It is the formula I employed on two or three occasions, when warning you, after the assassination of Jacques Dollon, after the attack on Sonia Danidoff at Thomery’s house....”

“What!  It was you, Juve!” cried Fandor.

“Yes, it was ... but let us pass on!  Time presses.  I am going to disappear anew; but you now know where to find me, in future, and under what form, should occasion require it.  Cranajour I am; Cranajour I remain-for the time being, at any rate.  As to you, Fandor, be off with you at once ... and go and hatch out that article of yours!”

Our journalist rose mechanically; but Juve, thinking better of it, caught him by the arm, drew him back and pointed out the writing-table.

“Come to think of it, you know nothing about the affair, and I do:  there are things which should be said, above all things, to be hinted at ... do you wish me to give you information?...  Sit yourself there, my lad:  I am going to dictate your article to you!”

Our journalist, understanding the gravity of the situation, and well knowing that if Juve took this course, he had important reasons for so doing, did not say one word.  He simply brought out his fountain pen, screwed it ready for action, and, with his hand resting on a pile of white paper, he waited.

Juve dictated.

“First of all, put this as your title: 

     An Audacious Theft

“That does not tell the reader anything, but it awakens his curiosity....  Let us continue!

“Write.”