all without defining anything, but permitted everything to be inferred: that word was — Spying!
V
THEY ARE NOT AGREED
As one who had the privilege of free entry to the house, Fandor opened the front door of Juve's flat with the latchkey he possessed as a special favour, traversed the semi-darkness of the corridor and went towards his friend's study.
He raised the curtain, opened the door half-way, and caught sight of Juve at his desk.
"Don't disturb yourself, it is only Fandor!"
The detective was absorbed in the letter he was writing to such a degree that he had never even heard the journalist enter. At the sound of his voice Juve started.
"What! You! I thought you had flown yesterday, flown South!"
Fandor smiled a woeful smile.
"I did expect to get away yesterday evening. Juve, in my calling, as in yours, it is the height of stupidity to make plans. You see! Here I am still — stuck here!"
Juve nodded assent.
"Well, what then?" he asked.
"Well, what do you think, Juve?"
The detective leaned back in his chair and considered his young friend.
"Well, my dear Fandor, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
Fandor did not seem much disposed to answer. He had taken off his hat and overcoat. Now he drew from his pocket a cigarette-case. He selected one and lighted it carefully, seeming to find a veritable delight in the first whiffs which he sent towards the ceiling.
"It's a fine day, Juve!"
The detective, more and more astonished, considered the journalist with the utmost attention.
"What's the matter with you, Fandor?" he said at last.
"Why are you carrying on like this? Why are you not on your travels?... Without being inquisitive, I suppose you have your head full of other things than the state of the weather?"
"And you, Juve?"
"How? I?"
"Juve, I ask you why you are so upset?"
The detective folded his arms.
"My word, Fandor, but you are losing your head. You think, then, that I am thoroughly upset?"
"Juve, you look like a death's-head!"
"Really?"
"Juve, you have not been to bed!"
"I have not been to bed, have I not? How do you know that?"
Fandor approached the writing-table and pointed to the corner, where a series of half-smoked cigarettes were ranged side by side.
"Ah, I do not doubt, Juve, but that they tidy up your study every morning; but, here are twenty-five cigarette ends, lying side by side: you certainly have not smoked all those in one morning, consequently you have lighted them during the night, and consequently you have not gone to bed."
Juve's tone was bantering.
"Continue, little one, you interest me."
"And, to cap it all, the ends of your cigarettes have been chewed, bitten, mangled, — an indisputable sign of high nervous tension — therefore."...
"Therefore, Fandor?"
"Therefore, Juve, I ask what is wrong with you — that's all!"
The detective fixed the journalist with a piercing look, trying to guess what he was aiming at. But Fandor was too good a pupil of Juve to let him have the slightest inkling of his feelings. There was an enigmatic smile on his lips whilst he awaited Juve's reply.
The detective quickly decided to speak out.
"I am looking into a very serious affair which interests me greatly."
"Grave?"
"Possibly."
This did not satisfy Fandor. He seated himself on the corner of the writing-table and considered his friend.
"See now, Juve, answer me if you can see your way to it.... Your attitude makes me sure that important things are in the air: you are in a very emotional condition, and that for some reason I have not fathomed. Can I be useful to you? Will you not let me share this secret?"
"Will you tell me yours?"
"In three minutes."
Juve sat for a few minutes deep in thought. Then in a changed voice, a solemn voice with a sharp note in it, he said:
"You know about Captain Brocq's sudden death, of course?... Let me tell you that I have discovered it was an assassination. It's this affair I am giving all my attention to."
When there was mention of the Brocq affair, Fandor started. Here was a strange coincidence. Since last night had not his own mind been distressed by the mysteries he divined in this strange death? And now here was Juve also upset by his examination of this same affair.
Fandor drew up a chair, placed himself astride it, facing Juve, putting his elbows on the back and holding his head between his hands.
"You are looking into this Brocq affair, Juve?... Very well! So am I!... You have read my articles?"
"They are very interesting."
"They lack conclusiveness, however!... But, as things are, I could not do better, not having any precise information and facts to go upon. Are you quite certain about the facts yourself? Do you know who has struck the blow?"
"Don't you suspect, Fandor?"
Juve did not give him time to reply. He half rose from his seat, and, bending close to Fandor, looked him straight in the eyes.
"Tell me, my boy! Suppose that after six months of truce, six months of tranquillity, your whole existence is again violently upset? If you understood that the efforts and dangers and struggles and tenacity of six long years were entirely wasted, and that the results you thought you had achieved did not exist — that you had to begin all over again — that once more you had to play a match with not only your life for stakes, but your honour as well — tell me, Fandor, would you not be stirred to your depths?"
Our journalist feigned indifference: it was the best way to draw Juve on, he well knew.
"What do you mean, Juve?"
"What do I mean, my boy? You shall hear! Do you know who killed Captain Brocq?"
"No! Who?"
