A Royal Prisoner

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Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
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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!"