Page:Weird Tales Volume 10 Number 1 (1927-07).djvu/111

then I should endeavor to discover the motive of the criminal.

At 10 o'clock I called on Paul's mother. She was so overcome that she could hardly speak. While it was true that so far I had heard nothing of her son's condition, I tried to console her, saying that I had indeed heard and that all was sure to be well. She begged me to go and learn more. I left her and went directly to the hospital.

The attendants were reluctant to let me see the patient, but upon hearing that I was the man's best friend and came at the request of his mother, they admitted me to the sickroom. Before I entered, the nurse told me the bullet had missed the jugular vein, but that some of the smaller blood-vessels had been damaged. Paul, having stood the anesthetic well, was resting quite comfortably amid his white surroundings, but he was not permitted to speak. His face indicated that he knew of my anxiety, and when he heard that I had reassured his mother, his teeth showed in a game grin. Yet there was a ghastly look to his face, and I knew that if chance there was, it was small indeed. Only the next few hours could tell.

"I am going to find out if possible, Paul," I said to him, "why the attack was committed. I suppose you think, as I do, that the man is a maniac. I shall ask permission this afternoon to see him. If he will talk, I shall no doubt have something to tell you when I see you again."

With a grasp of the hand he thanked me for coming, and I left him. But still I did not know whether he would live. I should have to lie again to his mother. If death came, she would overlook the lie; if life prevailed, there would be no harm done.

At 4 o'clock I made my way to the proper officials. They said the prisoner was not dangerous unarmed and that I might have a short interview. Soon, surrounded by things of steel, I was face to face with Louis Fanon. The conducting gentleman of arms, chin in air, respectfully walked away down the corridor, holding his keys behind his back and digging his heels into the floor with an air of absolute indifference.

Fanon sat on a bench in his cell and received me with perfect calm. He was clad in his black suit and looked quite comfortable. I was surprized to see that the mean expression had vanished. He did not look the same man at all; some sort of relaxation had come over him. The extraordinary keenness of his eyes was absent, and they were now of a softer light. I sat down opposite him, and he spoke to me in French.

"So you are Monsieur Dexter, the friend of Paul Mitrande?"

"I am," I said, "and I have come, Monsieur Fanon, to ask you to tell me why you committed this assault. The man is unknown to you. You doubtless had never seen him before."

"There are many things to be explained," he said suavely. "But I will tell them all. You assume, Monsieur, that I am insane. I assure you that nothing could be more untrue. A saner man never walked; a man more devout in his worship of right never lived. I have achieved my purpose, and my heart is calm."

"Calm! You are indeed cold-blooded to speak so when at the hospital this man lies near to death!"

"Your feelings will be different when you hear my story. There are things—many things—beyond the comprehension of materialistic Americans like you. No doubt this criminal Mitrande will have a few apologies to make to me!"