At the bottom of his trunk JÉrÔme Fandor was foaming with rage, furious at being caught in the trap and uneasy as to how this adventure would end.

Whilst he was realising that his unknown porters were carrying their heavy weight with difficulty to the pavement of rue Raffet, he made up his mind to a definite course of action: regardless of consequences, he was going to shout, move about, make a regular disturbance, rouse the attention of the passers-by—if there happened to be any—but, at all costs, he meant to get out of the trap!... He saw a ray of hope: Madame Bourrat had accompanied her visitors as far as the gate. In presence of such a witness, they would, at least, hesitate to do him serious bodily harm when he made his presence unmistakably known, furious though they would be. He would take every advantage of the situation....

Fandor was about to act: a second more and he would have started, when he heard them speaking. He kept quiet.

"We must have a taxi, or at the very least a cab to transport this big trunk. Do you know where one is likely to be found?"

"I doubt if one will be passing at this hour, monsieur. We retire early in these parts; but, if you like, Jules can go to the station."

"That's settled. Let him go as fast as he can!"

"Well, that is reassuring," thought Fandor. "If these fine fellows take a cab, it is not with the intention of chucking my cage and me into the river—and that is what I feared most. They may be going to leave me in a cloak-room till called for; or they may pack us off as luggage to some destination unknown! ... Oh, well, I shall only be a traveller without a ticket and I shall be sure to find some way out of the difficulty! And then, what stuff for an article I shall have when I get back to La Capitale!... What must they be thinking at the offices! It's forty-eight hours since I put foot in them! Never mind! When they know!..."

Fandor was listening with all his ears; but the bandits had little to say; and, when they did speak, their voices were plainly disguised. Was it as a general precaution, or was it on account of Madame Bourrat?... But, unless they were known to her, why the necessity? If, however, she knew one or more of them personally, why, they must have disguised their faces and figures as well as their voices!... If only he could have a peep at them!

The sound of wheels made him suppose that Jules had succeeded in getting a cab at the Auteuil station. Then the trot-trot-trot of a horse became audible: a few moments later a cab drew up at the edge of the pavement.

A hoarse voice was heard.

"It's not a long journey, I hope!" said the hoarse, grumbling voice of the cabman.

"To Police Headquarters," replied the pretended police inspector.

"We shall see about that!" thought Fandor. "That address is to throw dust in Madame Bourrat's eyes. They will change their destination on the way. I bet on it!..."

"The brutes! Are they going to jam my cage and me on to the seat?" Fandor asked himself, for they had seized the trunk and were beginning to lift it up. ... "Am I to be stuck upside down beside the driver? I don't fancy so!... We must weigh at least ninety kilos, as I weigh seventy myself!"

Fandor's mind was soon made easy on that score. After a fruitless attempt to hoist the trunk to the box seat, they decided to put it on to the back seat of the Victoria. One of the bandits planted himself on the little folding seat opposite the trunk: the other bandit mounted to the box seat next the driver.

The two bandits took leave of Madame Bourrat. The rickety old vehicle started off. Presently, Fandor heard what he had expected to hear: one of his captors told the driver to take them to some other address than Police Headquarters. Owing to the rattling of the ramshackle cab—it lacked rubber tyres—Fandor, though listening with ears astretch, could not hear one word distinctly.

Soon pale gleams of light began to filter through the wickerwork: dawn was near.

"Ah, we shall soon reach our destination," thought Fandor. "I don't fancy my trunk lifters will wish to be seen with this turnout in broad daylight! Now, where the deuce are we going?"

In vain did Fandor strive to follow the route taken by the bandits! He had noted each shock and counter-shock produced by cobbled streets and smooth roads, by bumping against pavements, by crossed tram lines and sharp turnings!...

The cab stopped with a jolt and a jerk. The two men got out. The trunk was lifted down to the pavement. The driver was paid. He rattled off.

"Now trunk and I are in for it!" thought Fandor.

A bell pealed. A courtyard entrance gate was thrown open. The two men lifted the trunk, cursing under their breath at its weight.

In passing under the archway they called some name unknown to Fandor and so unintelligible that he could not remember it; then it was a painful ascension: up a staircase they went with prodigious effort, stopping on two landings.

"Two floors," counted Fandor. "We are coming to the end, and, all said and done, I would rather be in a house than at the bottom of the river!"

A key turned in a lock; the trunk was pushed rapidly inside; then the noise of a door being shut.

Fandor was in a room; no doubt, alone with the two bandits, and at their mercy! He was plunged into complete darkness. Evidently the shutters were still closed. The noise made by footsteps on the floor showed that it was uncarpeted. Judging from the sound, there seemed to be little furniture and no hangings in the room.

"Am I and my cage in an ordinary room, in a studio, or in a hall?" wondered Fandor. In any case, the fellows who had brought him there seemed anxious to avoid making a noise.

Then he felt the cover of the wickerwork trunk bend slightly and heard it creak. For a moment, he thought the two men were about to open his prison. He had his revolver ready: every inch of him was on the defensive! Then he realised that his captors had merely seated themselves on the trunk to rest!

They began to talk.

"This," thought Fandor, "is splendid! I shall hear everything they say. Why, it is a conversation in my honour! What luck!"

Fandor was delighted: thanks to his position he would hear some interesting secrets. He listened. Alas! He could hear every word they uttered, but he could not understand what they were saying! Fandor swore strictly to himself. The two wretches were conversing in German.

To the best of his judgment, a good hour had passed since the false police inspector and his acolyte had left the room. They had simply drawn to the door behind them, not troubling to lock it, much to the joy of JÉrÔme Fandor.

Absolute silence reigned.

Fandor attempted some discreet movements as a test. The wickerwork creaked as he gently shook the trunk at short intervals. Not an answering sound came from outside! Menaced with cramp, Fandor felt that the moment of escape had arrived.

He was, certainly, the only living soul in the place: listen as he might, and his sense of hearing was acute, he could not hear any sound of breathing. Yes, the time to quit his prison had come!

Fandor had with him, besides his revolver, a box of matches, and a hunter's knife consisting of several blades, and a little saw. Getting out his knife with some difficulty, he began to hack at the wickerwork. Dry and pliant, the interlaced rods did not long resist the saw's steel teeth. It took him a bare ten minutes to make an opening, sufficiently large to push his head and shoulders through: the rest of his body followed easily. Such was his haste to be free, that he tore, not only his clothes, but his elbows and hands, on the jagged ends of the broken wickerwork: large drops of blood fell on the flooring.

"Bah! I've got off cheaply!" cried Fandor, standing up to relax his cramped muscles and stretching his aching legs and arms.

"Unless I am jolly well mistaken, I am lord of all I survey. I am alone in my glory! There's not a soul in the place! Good luck indeed!"

He turned for a last look at his broken prison house, the cage in which he had spent such exciting hours. He suddenly stiffened and drew back: a nervous trembling seized him—the nervous trembling due to sudden shock. Between the trunk which had been dumped down in the centre of a large square room, without a scrap of furniture in it, and the window, through whose shutters the rays of morning sunshine shone, Fandor had caught sight of a body lying on the floor—a man's body! Fandor leapt forward. Was this same cunning criminal feigning sleep for some evil purpose? Standing over that motionless figure, Fandor bent and touched one of the man's hands: it was ice-cold and rigid. The man was dead!

To see his face was imperative: it was turned towards the floor. With difficulty Fandor raised the head and shoulders, for they were unusually large and strongly built. Fandor glanced at the face and suddenly withdrew his hand: the corpse fell back on the floor with a thud!

"Thomery!" murmured Fandor. "Why, it's Thomery!"

It was the well-known sugar refiner's body. The face was purple, the tongue protruding. Round his neck was tied a tricoloured scarf, the scarf of a police inspector! Was this the murderer's ironic touch?

Fandor sank down quite overcome. He tried to collect his thoughts.

"A disgusting joke this! If someone should take into his head to enter the room at this moment, what kind of explanation could I give? Here I am, alone with the dead body of a man I know, and in a room I don't know, in a neighbourhood whose whereabouts I know no more than the man in the moon."

"Where am I?... In whose house?... For what purpose?... Have those beauties of last night no suspicion of the truth?... Did they leave me in this lair of theirs of set purpose, knowing I was cooped up inside the trunk?"

Just then, Fandor felt a slight moisture on the palm of his hand: it was all red: the scratches, made by the jagged edges of the wickerwork, were still bleeding.

"Better and better I declare!" murmured Fandor. "If I don't look like a little holy Saint John! A corpse, and a man with blood on his hands seated beside the dead body of this murdered man! Nothing more is required to jail me with all the power of the law!... To go to prison under such suspicious circumstances is serious!... The police, who are floundering about in a maze of investigations, without any result so far, will be only too delighted to kill two birds with one stone—to suppress a journalist and discover a criminal!... I have got to get out of here; that is plain as a pikestaff!... Get away? Yes, but with the honour of war!... I must establish an alibi—that is absolutely necessary.... I like to think that my false police inspector and his accomplice have cut and run for some time; at any rate, that they will be in no hurry to come back to see what is happening where they have so neatly and nicely left the corpse of this Thomery.... What part did this fellow play in the drama?... Criminal or victim?"

Fandor had reached the door of the hall opening on to the main staircase. He was listening.... He had explored the flat. It was empty. He had found water in the kitchen, had washed his face, and removed every trace of blood from his person. It was a flat suitable for a middle-class household. There were three large rooms, decorated with a certain amount of luxury.

Fandor looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. He stood listening. Someone, a man, was coming downstairs: someone, a woman, was coming up. They met on the landing just outside.

"Monsieur Mercadier, here are your letters! I was bringing them up to you!"

"It was hardly worth while, my good lady. I have to come down, you see, so you can save yourself five flights of stairs!"

"Oh, no, monsieur! I have to come up to go down my stairs."

Monsieur Mercadier continued to descend, and the portress continued to mount.

Fandor's heart beat faster when he realised that she was approaching the door. Would she come in and find him there? Had the new tenants left a key of the flat with her? No, the portress dusted the landing quickly and continued her ascent: he heard her going up and up....

He made up his mind to slip out on to the landing. Despite his efforts, he could not prevent his shoes creaking: it was spring-time, and already the stair carpet had been taken up. He was on the point of going downstairs, when he heard the portress calling from above:

"Who's there?... What do you want?"

Had she heard him leave the flat? Was he to be stupidly caught, just as he was escaping?... He must act at once. He went up a step or two of the next flight of stairs and called out:

"Is Monsieur Mercadier at home?"

"Ah, no, monsieur! He has just this minute gone out! I am surprised you did not meet him!..."

"Very good, madame. I will come another time!"

Fandor turned on his heel, and, whistling, with hands in pockets, he gained the ground floor, passed the entrance gate, and found himself in the street. He mingled with the passers-by, and learned from the first plaque he came to with the name of the street on it, that he was in rue Lecourbe, Vaugirard....