Philip Farmer - The Other Log of Phileas Fogg

The officer reached the door first and addressed him through the opening in a rich baritone.

“There’s been an accident, as you can see. My driver seems to have broken his arm and also suffered head injuries. I’m afraid that he has been drinking. Could you run for the nearest doctor?”

Now that the officer was closer, Passepartout could see the cold blue eyes under heavy lids. These, combined with the bushy eyebrows, the thin, projecting nose, heavy black moustache, heavy lips, and strong jaw, combined to form a ruthless yet sensual face. Passepartout did not care for him, but, after all, it was the driver who needed medical attention.

“There is a Doctor Caber several blocks from here, sir,” the Frenchman said, remembering that Fogg had told him so before retiring. “I cannot leave the house, but you might send that sweep after him. Or perhaps the messenger would oblige you?”

The runner had drawn to within a few feet of them. He was an exceptionally broad-shouldered fellow with a bushy moustache and long hair, both streaked with gray. His bulbous red nose indicated his chief occupation when not on duty.

“Ah, perhaps I could, my good fellow!” the officer said. He pointed the cane through the opening at Passepartout. The Frenchman saw the round hole in its end.

“But I do not care to,” the officer said. “And don’t think about trying to leap away. This is an air gun disguised as a walking stick. It can, and will, drive a rifle bullet through you at this range. So open up for us or suffer the consequences.”

The messenger must have had concealed a pair of bolt cutters under his cloak. Their ends appeared and closed on the latch chain, which fell apart. The door was pushed violently inward against Passepartout, and he staggered backward. Despite the officer’s demand for silence, Passepartout gave one loud cry. The officer, no longer crippled, lifted the air gun and brought it down over Passepartout’s head. Passepartout ducked so that he did not receive the full impact. Stunned, he still had sense enough to throw himself to one side. He had intended to bounce up onto his feet but found that his legs failed him. The officer ran at Passepartout with the messenger close behind him. In a flash, Passepartout recognized him, under the dyed hair and the false nose, as Nemo. He tried to get up again, but this time the stick came down fully on his head.

A few minutes later, according to the clock on the mantel of the fireplace, he awoke on the floor. His head hurt. His hands were bound behind him, and he was gagged. The only other occupant of the room was the hansom driver, recovered from his “broken arm.” He was a tall, very stooped man in his early forties. He bore a resemblance to Nemo but lacked the widely spaced eyes and was much darker in eyes and skin. He held a peculiar weapon in one hand. Passepartout thought it must be an air gun. It was small enough to be concealed under a cloak.

The minutes throbbed by, along with his head, as the clock hands progressed. About ten minutes later, Passepartout heard footsteps on the staircase. He twisted his neck, not without pain to his head, to see who was coming. He was shocked. This was a stranger. How many others had invaded while he lay unconscious?

The newcomer also carried an air pistol. He was tall and looked as if he were in his late forties. He had bold aquiline features on which was an arrogant and predatory expression. His peculiar yellow-green eyes and sharp profile made him look like a hungry fish-eagle.

“They’re still locked in his room,” he said. “Nemo says there’s no hurry to take them. We want as little noise as possible. The people are starting to come back from the fire. Moran is stationed in the back with his air rifle. If they try to get out of the third story window, he’ll drop them. He won’t miss, that one.”

The other frowned and said, “Why don’t we just break down the door and storm them? If they get off a few more shots, they’re not likely to draw much attention. The sounds will be confined in their room. But if Fogg shoots out the window, the sound will carry a long distance.”

“Your brother says no. Too many people returning. Evidently we didn’t provide them with a large enough spectacle.”

He laughed harshly and said, “We should have set the whole block ablaze.”

“Nemo knows what he’s doing,” the tall dark man said. He looked at Passepartout. “While they’re holed up, we can work on this frog. You should enjoy that. You’ve had so much practice.”

“Excellent!” the man with yellow-green eyes said. “But what is to keep the other two from killing themselves?”

“Nothing. But that’s the way Nemo wants it. You ask too many questions.”

The other looked as if he did not like that. Though he did not carry himself as if he were or had been a soldier, he radiated the air of one who had been in command of many and would like once more to be.

“Also,” he added, “how do we know that Fogg doesn’t have secret escape routes?”

“I presume that the house was examined while Fogg was gone,” the tall dark man said. “Why don’t you ask Nemo?”

“We’re always left in the dark,” the predatory-looking man said.

The tall dark man shrugged and then walked over to Passepartout. He looked at him.

“I wonder if he knows anything we don’t.”

“The code?”

“It’s been changed since he started on his trip, and we know the old one now. But he’ll have some items of interest for us, I’m sure.”

“We’ll have to keep the gag on, since we wouldn’t want the neighbors to hear his screams. So we’ll leave the right hand untouched. He has to be able to write out the information.”

“What if he uses his left hand to write with?”

“We’ll find out.”

The tall dark man said, “Before the entertainment begins, I have to revive the horse and get the cab out of the way. It’s a wonder that someone hasn’t noticed the beast. Where’s the kitchen? A pailful should do it.”

He left the room, and the yellow-green-eyed man sat down. He seemed disgruntled.

Jealousy, Passepartout thought. He was jealous of Nemo’s authority. If only he could work on that. But that was a forlorn hope even if Passepartout could talk. And he couldn’t talk.

A familiar voice came from the head of the stairs. Yellow-green eyes rose and walked to its foot.

“Yes?”

“Yes what, Vandeleur?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hold the colonel for a minute. I have another idea.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vandeleur? Passepartout thought. Where had he heard that name before?

The colonel’s footsteps sounded, and he entered holding a large pail from which water sloshed.

“This should be enough to get the beast back onto its legs,” he said, chuckling, “We must thank Moran sometime for discovering this rare Oriental drug. One pill, and the beast drops seemingly dead at a precisely calculated moment. One pailful of water, and it is resuscitated in a minute.”

“I know that,” Vandeleur said.

Now Passepartout remembered where he had heard Vandeleur’s name before. He must be the notorious Englishman whose duel with the Duc de Val d’Orge, one of the best swordsmen of the world, had been in all the French newspapers. The Duc had lost a hand during the encounter and his wife afterward, since she had run off with Vandeleur. A few years later, Vandeleur had become, for a brief time, the dictator of Paraguay. He had eventually been forced to flee because of a rebellion caused by his atrocities. The Duchess had died during his flight, some said under circumstances which did not reflect credit upon Vandeleur. He had also, it was said, been of service to the British government during the Indian mutiny, but his exploits were such that the government did not dare acknowledge them. There was also a story afloat that he had never backed away from a duel with any man, except one, the equally notorious Captain Richard Francis Burton. Vandeleur’s admirers, however, claimed that the government had interfered because Vandeleur was then engaged in the delicate and extremely important task of recovering the jewels of the baronet, Sir Samuel Levy. The duel would be resumed whenever Vandeleur and Burton happened to meet again, which was not likely, since both were seldom in England.