The Other Log of Phileas Fogg

18

As noted, this remarkable phenomenon has been commented on by various critics and translators. The original French version contains no footnotes about this, so it may be presumed that Verne thought this singularity was unique to the clocks of the English, an eccentric people all told.

Fogg made no such mistake. He knew that, somewhere in London, a distorter was being used. As far as he knew, the Eridaneans had only one, so it must be a Capellean’s. Probably, the man from China was using his to transmit himself to London, which meant that they had at least two now. Had the box with the distorter taped on its underside failed to be washed off the Mary Celeste? Had it been stolen by a Capellean sent to Gibraltar for that very purpose? Surely, that must be the explanation.

After leaving Charing Cross Station, Fogg ordered Passepartout to buy some food for their stay at No. 7, Savile Row, that night. Fogg and Aouda would proceed straight to his house for a night’s rest. There was plenty of time to win the bet. In fact, Fogg planned to make his entrance into the Reform Club only a few minutes before his time was up. Stuart might be angry at this delay because he had important information or orders for him. But Fogg desperately needed that night. The anxieties and terrors had been accumulating in him to the bursting point. He had to discharge at least some to keep his psychic boiler from exploding. About six hours of therapeutic emission of neural current would restore him.

On the way, however, he changed his mind about Stuart. He would have to tell him that he was at No. 7. The Capelleans were up to something; the clangings showed that. By indulging himself, he might be ruining his own people, not to mention himself.

As they passed a telegraph office, he ordered the cab to stop. He took only a little time to write the telegram since it consisted of one codeword with his name in code. Directing the clerk to send a messenger at once if a reply came, he left the office. The cab soon drew up before his house. Fogg did not enter it for a few minutes. The front of the house looked as he had left it. The light from Passepartout’s gas jet was shining through a narrow opening between the blind and the windowsill. Fogg led Aouda quietly into the house. Both held revolvers. Fogg had smuggled these into England, adding this crime to piracy on the high seas. A thorough search of each room revealed nothing untoward.

Presently Passepartout entered with the provisions. He deposited the bags in the pantry and hurried upstairs to his own room. The jet had not been turned off by Fogg, who thought, correctly, that this was his valet’s duty. Passepartout reached out to extinguish the flame, then held his hand. Why turn it off now when he would be needing it?

He went downstairs and removed the mail from the letter box. On seeing the bill from the gas company, his eyes bugged. He would never be able to pay off his debt, not unless he worked for nothing for eighty days and then some. Fogg, being a stickler, even if a hero, would not bear the expense himself.

The night lurched, bumped, and groaned by. Aouda reached vainly for sleep in her room. Fogg sat in his chair in his room and delved into his own mind. He had to be as careful in his probing as an electrician without a schematic trying to find the cause of a malfunction in a tangled mass of high-voltage equipment. One mistake, and he could be severely injured or even killed. From time to time, a shudder passed through him. His pupils dilated or contracted. His nostrils flared. His ears and scalp twitched. His fingers fastened upon the arms of his chair as if he would tear the leather off. Sweat poured out all over him.

Now and then, he groaned. Pain, hate, loathing, contempt, and horror twisted his face in succession. He soundlessly mouthed words he should long ago have verbalized. Sometimes, his body became rigid and shook as if he were in a grand mal seizure. Sometimes, he was as limp as if he were newly dead.

Dawn came while Passepartout watched outside Fogg’s door. If he heard sounds that seemed as if Fogg were hurting himself or even killing himself, he was to hasten in. But this had not occurred, though there were moments when he was about to interfere.

Shortly after dawn, Passepartout, looking through the keyhole, saw Fogg sleeping in bed. The crises were over, for that night at least. Fogg had told him that it would take at least three sessions to discharge most of the heavy stuff.

The Frenchman went to his own room then to perform some therapy on himself. Since he was much less self-controlled than Fogg (as who wasn’t?), and had a temperament which naturally discharged anxieties more easily than Fogg’s, his therapy was shorter and less dangerous. After an hour, he went to sleep.

Fogg, looking haggard and pale, rose late that morning. By noon he had regained his customary healthy appearance, though he acted as if he still had much energy bound up in him. Aouda came down for breakfast about twelve. She, too, was pale and had bags under her eves.

At half-past seven that evening, the occupants of No. 7 heard the clanging of fire-wagon bells. Looking out the windows, past the curtains, they saw by the gaslights many people, including their neighbors, hurrying up Savile Row. The bells became louder, and two fire-wagons, each drawn by a team of horses, sped by. The bells had no sooner died out than the boom of an explosion rattled the windows. Passepartout, quivering with curiosity, asked if he could not leave the house to find out the source of all this excitement.

“No,” Fogg said. “Someone might see you and thus know that I am back. I prefer to keep it secret until the last moment.”

Passepartout thought that that was not likely, since everybody, servants and masters, seemed to have rushed off to the fire or whatever it was. They did not know what he looked like, and he would take care to be back before they returned to Savile Row. But he did not argue. He could not, however, refrain from looking between the curtains several times. Just as he was about to turn away from his latest peek, he saw a hansom cab stop two houses from No. 7. The horse drawing it stood for several seconds while the driver, perched high on a seat at the rear of the two-wheeled carriage, shouted at it. The passenger turned around and in turn shouted at the driver through the opening in the roof. The horse, quivering, took several more steps forward. The driver stood up to lash his whip at it. A moment later, the horse suddenly collapsed, causing the cab to tilt even more forward and precipitating the driver off to one side and onto the street.

The occupant of the hansom must have been startled, since he did not open the door for at least a minute. Then he got out slowly on the other side, where he examined the driver, who had not moved after striking the street. Presently, he rose from the driver, looked around at the deserted street, and then headed for the nearest house across the street. He leaned on a heavy walking cane, dragging his right leg somewhat. He wore a long heavy cloak against the late December cold. On his head was a military cap, probably an officer’s. He knocked on the door so hard that Passepartout could hear the banging. Receiving no answer, he turned and walked with awkward and slow three-legged gait to the next house. He must be some officer who had returned wounded from India or some far-off place, Passepartout thought. His bronzed skin indicated a long residence in the tropics.

Meanwhile, the driver had sat up and then fallen back again. The horse had not moved.

Passepartout did not go out to help the man, since he had been forbidden to leave. The officer, however, would soon work his way to No. 7. What should he do? Passepartout thought. The poor fellow on the street evidently needed help. Well, he would go ask Fogg for his orders.

The officer had just turned toward Fogg’s house when Passepartout saw a man in the uniform of a telegraph officer runner on the opposite side of the street. Could he be bringing a message to No. 7? Fogg had said that he might be getting one. Yes, he was crossing the street at an angle toward No. 7. This relieved Passepartout’s predicament. He had orders to open the door only for a telegram. He could not help it that the officer would arrive at the same time as the messenger. Fogg could not reasonably refuse help to the injured man; besides, it would look suspicious if he did.

Though he kept on the latch chain, he opened the door. Now he saw, coming up the street, a chimney sweep. And, down the street, on the other side, the door of a house opening. A young man, bareheaded and in a dressing gown, stepped out. Evidently, he had been sleeping and had just awakened. Looking out, perhaps wondering why the servants were gone, he had seen the fallen man. This was good. Passepartout could direct the officer to him, telling the officer at the same time that he was unauthorized to leave the house.

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.

Passepartout shivered. With such men holding them prisoner, what chance had they?

Vandeleur said, “Your brother wants you, Colonel.”

The tall dark man set the pail down and called up the stairs, “Shall I come up?”

“No,” Nemo said. “Don’t forget to stay out of the way of the horse when he first revives. The drug sometimes causes the beast to go into a frenzy. Hang onto his head for a minute, keeping out of the way of his hooves, and he’ll soon be quiet.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” the colonel said. “I’m no green recruit.”

“Also,” Nemo said, “I want you to take a message to Nesse I. Tell him to listen for our signals. We may use the distorter after all. There’s too much chance of the police or the neighbors getting curious. Those Reform Club swine may send somebody over to ascertain if Fogg has at least gotten home even if he hasn’t shown up there. And Fogg’s colleagues may try a rescue attempt. He surely must have notified them that he was back.”

“Why didn’t you think of that before we came here?” the colonel said somewhat sulkily.

“Because, my dear brother, I had expected to overpower these Eridaneans at once. I didn’t know how inept my help was.”

“You were with us,” the colonel said.

“Yes, and I should have handled the Frenchman myself. He would never have been able to get that shout out, and we would not now have Fogg and the woman giving us a problem. And pray shut up, brother, while I tell you what else you must do.”

“All right,” the colonel muttered.

“After you’ve delivered my message, stay at Nesse I. We don’t want too many coming and going here. Remember, Fogg’s a celebrated man, and if we hadn’t lured his neighbors away, they’d be down around our ears by now.”

“I’ll miss all the fun. Can’t Vandeleur go instead?”

“Do I have to repeat everything” Nemo said in an exasperated tone. “You are dressed like a cabbie. What if someone should see a gentleman drive off a hansom?”

“Very well,” the colonel said reluctantly. He turned and went to the pail.

Nemo’s voice came sharply. “Can’t you wait until I’m through? You will take one of the distorters with you. Nesse doesn’t have any, and I think it’d be better that we be transmitted there than to the other place, which is too close to the heart of London.”

“Which one?” the colonel said. “Passepartout’s or the one you made?”

The one you made! Passepartout thought. Then that was why Nemo stayed behind in San Francisco! And it was his arrival via the distorter that caused the clangings. That was sorry news indeed! Nemo could manufacture distorters! But how had he been able to accomplish something that both Eridaneans and Capelleans had been trying to do without success for two hundred years? The original Old Ones had brought some distorters with them, those still in use, but they had lacked the knowledge to make new ones. And their desire to take some apart for analysis had been unfulfilled because opening them would cause them to blow up.

The distorter which Head had carried! Was that one which had been recently manufactured? Had he taken passage as a mere cook-steward on a small merchant sailing vessel to avoid the Eridaneans covering the liners? Had he done this because the chief of the Eridaneans knew that he was coming to Europe with the distorter?

Where then had Nemo gotten the knowledge to make a new distorter? Surely, from schematics. Where had he gotten them? From Head? But Fogg had examined Head’s clothing and body, and Nemo had been examined by both Passepartout and Fogg. Still, Nemo had not been frisked again after returning to the General Grant.

Could Nemo have removed the schematics from Head’s body during the disarming and the cleaning up of the Mary Celeste? The only time he had been close to Head after he had been searched was when he had helped Fogg throw the corpse overboard.

Somehow, he had gotten hold of the schematics. And he had made two new ones in San Francisco while Fogg’s party was traveling east. One of the new distorters would have to be left behind. He had brought with him the other distorter when he was transmitted, undoubtedly by the device brought to London by the man from China.

And he had carried the new distorter with him to Fogg’s house just in case he would not be able to get hold of Passepartout’s.

The colonel went up the steps and returned a minute later. He left the house with a hard slam of the door. Nemo called out, “The fool! Will he never go quietly?”

Valdeleur got up to look through the window. He gave a cry and clutched the curtains. Then he said, “The idiot!”

He whirled and ran to the foot of the staircase and called up, “Your brother’s in trouble!”

Passepartout could hear the heavy footsteps of Nemo as he ran to the room overlooking the street. A moment later, his boots sounded on the floor as he returned and on the steps as he descended. He strode to the curtains, pulled Vandeleur roughly aside, and looked out.

He swore and said, “I told him! He was to keep his body away!”

He swore again, ran to the door, opened it, and then closed it again.

Passepartout heard a shrill whinnying, the clatter of hooves, and a scream. Shouts from down the street came faintly.

Vandeleur swore also.

“The beast knocked him down and the hansom rode over him!”

He turned to Nemo.

“What do we do now?”

Nemo said, “Oh, the fool! He’ll pay for this!”

“In more ways than one,” Vandeleur said. “He’s unconscious, the bloody blighter!”

“How he ever got to be a colonel is understandable only if you know the general level of intelligence of Her Majesty’s officers,” Nemo said. “But how I could be brother to him and that other idiot is explainable only by the fact that we had different mothers!”

“I didn’t know that,” Vandeleur muttered. “That explains why your brother’s named James, too.”

“And a fine lot of confusion that resulted in, too!” Nemo said. “She would insist on naming him after her father, even if my father objected!”

His expression became even harder. He said, “That’s neither here nor there.”

He went back up the stairs. Presumably, he was notifying whoever was stationed at the door of Fogg’s bedroom of the situation.

Passepartout groaned behind the gag. If only Mr. Fogg and Aouda had known about this, they could have made a break. With only one man at their door, they might have gotten loose.