Gilbert Keith Chesterton - 30 Suspense and Thriller Masterpieces

Table of Contents

A Royal Prisoner

The Thames Valley Catastrophe

Mr Standfast

Greenmantle

The Island of Sheep

The Three Hostages

The Thirty-Nine Steps

The Efficiency Expert

The Man Who Was Thursday: a Nightmare

The Riddle of the Sands

The Woman in White

The Rome Express

Lysbeth

Desperate Remedies

Rupert of Hentzau

The Prisoner of Zenda

The Apartment Next Door

The Film of Fear

The Green God

The Czar's Spy

The Pit: A Story of Chicago

The Double Traitor

The Evil Shepherd

The Kingdom of the Blind

The After House

The International Spy

The Bandbox

Four Just Men

The Dust of Death: The Story of the Great Plague of the Twentieth Century

The River of Death: A Tale of London In Peril

Table of Contents

A Royal Prisoner

Marcel Allain

Chapter 1 A ROYAL JAG

Chapter 2 MOTHER CITRON'S TENANTS

Chapter 3 THE TRAGEDY OF THE RUE DE MONCEAU

Chapter 4 WHO DO THEY THINK I AM?

Chapter 5 BY THE SINGING FOUNTAINS

Chapter 6 THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS

Chapter 7 THE KING RECEIVES

Chapter 8 MARIE PASCAL

Chapter 9 A PARTY OF THREE

Chapter 10 WULFENMIMENGLASCHK

Chapter 11 ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN STATIONS

Chapter 12 CAMOUFLAGE

Chapter 13 THE KINGDOM OF HESSE-WEIMAR

Chapter 14 QUEEN HEDWIGE RECEIVES

Chapter 15 THE MYSTERIOUS PRISON

Chapter 16 THE THEFT OF THE DIAMOND

Chapter 17 ON THE RIGHT TRAIL

Chapter 18 A SLEEPER

Chapter 19 FREE!

Chapter 20 FREDERICK-CHRISTIAN

Chapter 21 HORRIBLE CERTAINTY

Chapter 22 BETWEEN US THREE—FANTÔMAS!

Chapter 23 OFFICIAL OPINIONS

Chapter 24 JUVE'S LIES

Chapter 25 "I WANT TO LIVE!"

Chapter 26 THE ACCUSING WAISTCOAT

Chapter 27 THE EXPLOSION OF THE NORD-SUD

Chapter 28 INNOCENT OR GUILTY?

Chapter 29 COMPROMISING DISCOVERIES

Chapter 30 SHADOWED

Chapter 31 THE DEATH WATCH

Chapter 32 THE ARREST OF FANTÔMAS

Published:1918 Categorie(s):Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Thrillers

"After all, why not celebrate? It's the last day of the year and it won't come again for twelve months."

It was close upon midnight.

Jerome Fandor, reporter on the popular newspaper, La Capitale , was strolling along the boulevard; he had just come from a banquet, one of those official and deadly affairs at which the guests are obliged to listen to interminable speeches. He had drowsed through the evening and at the first opportunity had managed to slip away quickly.

The theatres were just out and the boulevard was crowded with people intent on making a night of it. Numberless automobiles containing the fashionable and rich of Paris blocked the streets. The restaurants were brilliantly illuminated, and as carriages discharged their occupants before the doors, one glimpsed the neat feet and ankles of daintily clad women as they crossed the sidewalk and disappeared inside, following their silk-hatted escorts, conscious of their own importance.

Many years of active service in Paris as chief reporter of La Capitale had brought Jerome Fandor in touch with a good third of those who constitute Parisian society, and rarely did he fail to exchange a nod, a smile, or half a dozen words of friendly greeting whenever he set foot out of doors.

But in spite of his popularity he led a lonely life—many acquaintances, but few close friends. The great exception was Juve, the celebrated detective.

In fact, Fandor's complex and adventurous life was very much bound up with that of the police officer, for they had worked together in solving the mystery of many tragic crimes.

On this particular evening, the reporter became gradually imbued with the general spirit of gaiety and abandon which surrounded him.

"Hang it," he muttered, "I might go and hunt up Juve and drag him off to supper, but I'm afraid I should get a cool reception if I did. He is probably sleeping the sleep of the just and would strongly object to being disturbed. Anyway, sooner or later, I'll probably run into some one I know."

On reaching Drouet Square, he espied an inviting-looking restaurant, brilliantly lit. He was about to make his way to a table when the head waiter stopped him.

"Your name, please!"

"What's that?" replied Fandor.

The waiter answered with ironical politeness:

"I take it for granted you have engaged a table. We haven't a single vacant place left."

Fandor had the same luck at several other restaurants and then began to suffer the pangs of hunger, having, on principle, scarcely touched the heavy dishes served at the banquet.

After wandering aimlessly about, he walked toward the Madeleine and turned off into the Rue Royale in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

As he was passing a discreet looking restaurant with many thick velvet curtains and an imposing array of private automobiles before it, he heard his name called.

He stopped short and turned to see a vision of feminine loveliness standing before him.

"Isabelle de Guerray!" he cried.

"And how are you, my dear boy? Come along in with me."

Fandor had known Isabelle de Guerray when she was a young school teacher just graduated from Sévres. Her career, beginning with a somewhat strange and unorthodox affair with a young man of good family who had killed himself for her, had progressed by rapid strides and her name was frequently cited in the minor newspapers as giving elegant "society" suppers, the guests being usually designated by their initials!

Fandor remarked that the fair Isabelle seemed to be putting on weight, especially round the shoulders and hips, but she still retained a great deal of dash and an ardent look in her eyes, very valuable assets in her profession.

"I have my table here, at Raxim's, you must come and join us," and she added with a sly smile, "Oh—quite platonically—I know you're unapproachable."

A deafening racket was going on in the narrow, oblong room. The habitués of the place all knew each other and the conversation was general. No restraint was observed, so that it was quite permissible to wander about, hat on head and cigar between lips, or take a lady upon one's knees.

Fandor followed Isabelle to a table overloaded with flowers and bottles of champagne. Here and there he recognized old friends from the Latin Quarter or Montmartre, among them Conchita Conchas, a Spanish dancer in vogue the previous winter. A tiny woman, who might have been a girl of fifteen from her figure, but whose face was marked with the lines of dissipation, ran into him and Fandor promptly put his arm round her waist.

"Hello, if it isn't little Souppe!"

"Paws down or I'll scratch," was the sharp reply.

The next moment he was shaking hands with Daisy Kissmi, an English girl who had become quite a feature of Raxim's.

Further on he noticed a pale, bald, and already pot-bellied young man, who was staring with lack-lustre eyes at his whiskey and soda. This premature ruin was listening distraitly to a waiter who murmured mysteriously into his ear.

At the end of the room, surrounded by pretty women, sat the old Duke de Pietra, descendant of a fine old Italian family, and near him Arnold, an actor from the music halls.

The patrons had no choice in regard to the supper, which was settled by the head waiter. Each received a bottle of champagne, Ostend oysters, and, later, large slices of pâté de foie gras , and as the bottles were emptied, intoxication became general, while even the waiters seemed to catch the spirit of abandon. When the Hungarian band had played their most seductive waltzes, the leader came forward to the middle of the room and announced a new piece of his own composition, called "The Singing Fountains." This met with instant applause and laughter.