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E-text prepared by Woodie4, Suzanne Shell, and the Project
Online Distributed Proofreading Team () from digital
material generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)



Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/exploitsofjuvebe00souviala





THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE

Being the Second of the Series of the "Fant鬽as" Detective Tales

by

EMILE SOUVESTRE and MARCEL ALLAIN







New York
Brentano's
1917

Copyright, 1917, by Brentano's




CONTENTS


CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE COMRADES' TRYST 1

II. ON THE TRACK 14

III. BEHIND THE CURTAIN 22

IV. A WOMAN'S CORPSE 33

V. LOUPART'S ANGER 42

VI. THE L翿IBOISI萊E HOSPITAL 50

VII. A REVOLVER SHOT 58

VIII. THE SEARCH FOR THE CRIMINAL 64

IX. IN THE REFRIGERATORY 70

X. THE BLOODY SIGNATURE 75

XI. THE SHOWER OF SAND 81

XII. FOLLOWING JOSEPHINE 90

XIII. ROBBERY; AMERICAN FASHION 99

XIV. FLIGHT THROUGH THE NIGHT 107

XV. THE SIMPLON EXPRESS DISASTER 113

XVI. A DRAMA AT THE BERCY WAREHOUSE 118

XVII. ON THE SLABS OF THE MORGUE 131

XVIII. FANT訫AS' VICTIM 142

XIX. THE ENGLISHWOMAN OF BOULEVARD INKERMANN 147

XX. THE ARREST OF JOSEPHINE 153

XXI. AT THE MONTMARTRE F蔜E 165

XXII. THE PUGILIST'S WHIM 176

XXIII. "STATE'S EVIDENCE" 185

XXIV. A MYSTERIOUS CLASP 192

XXV. THE TRAP 204

XXVI. AT THE HOUSE OF BONARDIN, THE ACTOR 212

XXVII. THE MOTHER SUPERIOR 222

XXVIII. AN OLD PARALYTIC 230

XXIX. THROUGH THE WINDOW 238

XXX. UNCLE AND NEPHEW 245

XXXI. LOVERS AND ACCOMPLICES 256

XXXII. THE SILENT EXECUTIONER 268

XXXIII. A SCANDAL IN THE CLOISTER 280

XXXIV. FANT訫AS' REVENGE 291




EXPLOITS OF JUVE




I

THE COMRADES' TRYST


"A bowl of claret, Father Korn."

The raucous voice of big Ernestine rose above the hubbub in the
smoke-begrimed tavern.

"Some claret, and let it be good," repeated the drab, a big, fair damsel
with puckered eyes and features worn by dissipation.

Father Korn had heard the first time, but he was in no hurry to comply
with the order.

He was a bald, whiskered giant, and at the moment was busily engaged in
swilling dirty glasses in a sink filled with tepid water.

This tavern, "The Comrades' Tryst," had two rooms, each with its
separate exit. Mme. Korn presided over the first in which food and drink
were served. By passing through the door at the far end, and crossing
the inner courtyard of the large seven-story building, the second "den"
was reached--a low and ill-lit room facing the Rue de la Charbonni鑢e,
a street famed in the district for its bad reputation.

At a third summons, Father Korn, who had sized up the girl and the crowd
she was with, growled:

"It'll be two moons; hand over the stuff first."

Big Ernestine rose, and pushing her way to him, began a long argument.
When she stopped to draw a breath, Korn interposed:

"It's no use trying that game. I said two francs and two francs it is."

"All right, I won't argue with a brute like you," replied the girl.
"Everyone knows that you and Mother Korn are Germans, dirty Prussians."

The innkeeper smiled quietly and went on washing his glasses.

Big Ernestine glanced around the room. She knew the crowd and quickly
decided that the cash would not be forthcoming.

For a moment she thought of tackling old Mother Toulouche, ensconced in
the doorway with her display of portugals and snails, but dame
Toulouche, snuggled in her old shawl, was fast asleep.

Suddenly from a corner of the tavern, a weary voice cried with
authority:

"Go ahead, Korn, I'll stand treat."

It was the Sapper who had spoken.

A man of fifty who owed his nickname to the current report that he had
spent twenty years in Africa, both as a soldier and a convict.

While Ernestine and her friends hastened to his table, the Sapper's
companion, a heavily built man, rose carelessly and slouched off to join
another group, muttering:

"I'm too near the window here."

"It's Nonet," explained the Sapper to Ernestine. "He's home from New
Caledonia, and he doesn't care to show himself much just now."

The girl nodded, and pointing to one of her companions, became
confidential. "Look at poor Mimile, here. He's just out of quod and has
to start right off to do his service. Pretty tough."

The Sapper became very interested in the conversation. Meanwhile Nonet,
as he crossed the tap-room, had stopped a few moments before a pretty
girl who was evidently expecting some one.

"Waiting again for the Square, eh, Josephine?" Nonet inquired.

The girl, whose big blue eyes contrasted strikingly with her jet black
hair, replied:

"Why not? Loupart doesn't think of quitting me that I know of."

"Well, when he does let me know," Nonet suggested smilingly.

Josephine shrugged her shoulders contemptuously, and, glancing at the
clock above the bar, rose suddenly and left the tap-room.

She went rapidly down the Rue Charbonni鑢e and along the boulevard, in
the direction of the Barb鑣 Metropolitan Station. On reaching the level
of the Boulevard Magenta, she slackened and walked along the right-hand
pavement toward the centre of Paris.

"My little Jojo!"

The girl who, after leaving the tavern, had assumed a quiet and modest
air, now came face to face with a stout gentleman with a jovial face and
one gleaming eye, the other eye being permanently closed. He wore a
beard turning grey and his derby hat and light cane placed him as
belonging to the middle class.

"How late you are, my adored Jojo," he murmured tenderly. "That accursed
workshop been keeping you again after hours?"

The mistress of Loupart checked a smile.

"That's it!" she replied, "the workshop, M. Martialle."

The man addressed made a warning gesture.

"Don't mention my name here; I'm almost home." He pulled out his watch.
"Too bad; I'll have to go in or my wife will kick up a row. Let's see,
this is Tuesday; well, Saturday I'm off to Burgundy on my usual
half-monthly trip. Meet me at the Lyons station, platform No. 2,
Marseilles express. We won't be back till Monday. A delightful week-end
of love-making with my darling who at last consents.... What's that!"

The stout man broke off his impassioned harangue. A beggar, emerging
from the darkness, importuned him:

"Have pity on me, kind sir."

"Give him something," urged Josephine.

The middle-aged lover complied and tenderly drew away the pretty girl,
repeating carefully the details of the assignation:

"Lyons Station; a quarter past eight. The train leaves at twenty to
nine."

Then suddenly dropping Josephine's arm:

"Now, sweetheart, you'd better hurry home to your good mother, and
remember Saturday."

The outline of the portly personage faded into the night. Loupart's
mistress shrugged her shoulders, turned, and made her way back to the
"Tryst," where her place had been kept for her.

At the back of the tavern, the group which Nonet had joined were
discussing strange doings. "The Bear," head of the band of the Cyphers,
had just returned from the courthouse. He brought the latest news.
Riboneau had been given ten years, but was going to try for a reduced
sentence.

The talk suddenly dropped. A hubbub arose outside, a dull roar which
waxed louder and louder. The sound of hurrying footsteps mingled with
shrill cries and oaths. Doors in the street slammed. A few shots were
fired, followed by a pause, and then the stampede began again.

Father Korn, deserting his bar, warily planted himself at the entry to
his establishment, his hand on the latch of the door. He stood ready to
bar entrance to any who might try to press in.

"The raid," he warned in a low tone.

His customers, glad to feel themselves in safety, followed the
vicissitudes of what to them was almost a daily occurrence.

First came the frenzied rush of the "street walkers," deserted by their
sinister protectors and fleeing madly in search of shelter in terror of
the lock-up. Behind the shrieking herd the constables, in close ranks,
swept and cleared the street, leaving no corner, no court, no door that
remained ajar unsearched. Then the whirl swept away, the noise died
down, and the street resumed its normal aspect: drab, weird and
alarming.

Father Korn laughed. "All they've bagged is Bonzville!" he cried, and
the customers responded to his merriment. The police had been fooled
again. Bonzville was a harmless old tramp, who got himself "jugged"
every winter on purpose to lay up for repairs.

The passage of the "driver" had caused enough stir in the tap-room to
distract attention from the entry at the back of a stoutly built man
with a bestial face, known by the title of "The Cooper."

Swiftly he passed to the Beard's table, and, taking the latter aside,
began:

"The big job is fixed for the end of the week.



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