Philip Jose Farmer (24 page)

So, when Verne says that Fogg wrote in his journal that day, “21st December, Saturday, Liverpool, 80th day, 11:40 a.m.,” he is inserting his own fiction. Indeed, Verne adds more imaginative detail by writing that Fogg noticed that his watch was two hours fast. If he took the express train at that very moment, he would just make the quarter to nine deadline.

It was at this time that Fix was told that the real thief, a James Strand, had been arrested three days ago. Fogg was in the clear. Stammering, Fix related the news to Fogg.

Phileas Fogg walked up to Fix, gave him a steady and cold look, and knocked him down with one blow of his fist.

Fix, lying on the floor, felt that he still had not been properly punished. But he at least could salvage something from the incident. Fogg evidently believed him to be nothing more than a meddling detective.

This incident shows that Fix was as ignorant of the real date as Passepartout. Otherwise, he would not have believed that Fogg had lost his bet because he had arrested him.

But if Fogg knew that he still had plenty of time, why did he hit Fix?

The answer is obvious. As Phileas Fogg, English gentleman, he could be expected to resent being arrested by a man whom he had so generously treated. He had to play out his role.

The party, minus Fix, took a cab and arrived at the station at twenty minutes before three. They were thirty-five minutes too late to catch the express.

Fogg ordered a special train but could not get one until 
three o’clock. He wondered if Nemo’s hand was in this delay, if Nemo was planning to have unauthorized passengers on board. Before the train left at three, Fogg thoroughly searched the locomotive, tender, and his car. Satisfied that these hid no one, he signaled the train to depart. It soon roared along at a speed that should have brought them to London in five and a half hours. There were, however, unexpected delays.

When Fogg stepped from the car at Charing Cross, he was five minutes late. (Or would have been if this had been the twenty-first.)

All the clocks of London were striking ten minutes to nine.

 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.”