The Cathedral of Fear

by Irene Adler

  Lupin coughed a couple of times.

  Shortly thereafter, we heard a sound coming from a door behind the desk, and a man soon appeared. His appearance was quite unusual. He should have been very tall, but he was so hunched over that he was barely normal height. His shiny head was bald, and a bushy white mustache drooped across his lips, completely hiding them.

  Clearly surprised by the arrival of three people — all together even! — he hastened to slip a monocle onto his right eye.

  “Gentlemen … Ahem … How may I …” he said after giving us a long look.

  My friends and I looked at each other. Sherlock gave a nod and began to speak. “Please forgive us, sir,” he began, with his light French drawl in a typical English accent. “We have something we’re curious about — it’s perhaps a bit odd — and we would be very grateful if you would help us.”

  The man seemed impressed by my friend’s manners. “Oh, but of course! I would be happy —” he began, when a noise from the hall next door interrupted him.

  BOOM!

  We all turned together and saw a man trying to remove some of the rubble, taking it from the floor and putting it into his wheelbarrow.

  “The war, regrettably,” the old librarian said with an air of worry. “You mentioned something you were curious about?”

  “Quite right,” I confirmed. “My friends and I were wondering if, considering your superior knowledge of the city’s antiquities, you might have ever heard mention of a place called the Cardinal’s Cavern?”

  “The Cardinal’s Cavern, eh?” the man repeated, putting his hand to his chin thoughtfully.

  Sherlock, Lupin, and I stared at him as if he were an oracle about to speak. But all that came from under his bushy mustache was a deep, thoughtful sigh.

  A moment later, the librarian turned toward the little door behind him. “Ferchet?” he called out. “Ferchet?!”

  To our surprise, another old man came out, a tiny man with short, tow-colored hair. He could easily have been a contemporary of Voltaire.

  “My dear Ferchet,” the librarian with the mustache said, turning to his colleague. “These bold young people are looking for information about a place called the Cardinal’s Cavern. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  The little man looked at us carefully. After thinking intensely for several moments, he replied, “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name. But it seems to me that I read it on an old piece of paper that Cardinal Brisy di Lastignac once had at his property near the Bois de Boulogne … a page about caves where coal was mined. Therefore, I would interpret the word caverns as meaning mine. So that would be —”

  A flicker of hope had just appeared on Sherlock Holmes’s face when the other librarian suddenly interrupted his colleague. “But no, my dear Ferchet! I believe you are remembering incorrectly! The coal mines you are referring to are located on the property of the Count of Grainvilliers, who never wore cardinal’s crimson. If anything, you should consider the idea that it has to do with a cavea cardinalis, which, if I’m not mistaken …”

  It took us a few moments to realize that these two good-natured old men were now bogged down in an intellectual discussion, and there was no clear possibility of extracting them from it.

  After listening to a couple of long asides on remains from Roman Lutetia, ancient Paris, and the period of Norman domination, Lupin quickly took advantage of a pause. “Thank you, gentlemen. We are extremely grateful. We will treasure all your valuable information!” he said with a deep bow.

  The two men seemed a bit disappointed that they would not be able to continue their discussion in front of a small audience, but they nonetheless said goodbye to us cordially. We did the same, trying to hide our disappointment that we had drawn a blank.

  We were leaving the library with gloomy faces when we heard a raspy voice behind us.

  “Hey! Hey, you!”

  As I turned, I have to admit I felt somewhat afraid. A disheveled man with a large ruddy nose was striding after us. When he got closer, I recognized him as the worker we had seen earlier trying to clear away the rubble in the library.

  “Hey! I heard you were looking for the Cardinal’s Cavern! Is that so?” he asked.

  “Yes, good man. You heard right,” Sherlock replied, intrigued.

  “Oh, well!” the man said. “You see, today’s your lucky day then.”

  “Ah, really?”

  “Sure! I know the place, and I can take you there!”

  Chapter 16

  DESCENT INTO DARKNESS

  We looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Then Sherlock gave Lupin and me a look that seemed to say, “What do we have to lose, after all?”

  We needed nothing else to decide.

  “Well, Mr… .” Lupin started.

  “Thomas, but everyone calls me Tomate!” the man said. His smile revealed two rows of crooked, yellowed teeth.

  “Well, Mr. Tomate,” Lupin then continued. “How much will your … gracious company cost us?”

  Tomate smiled again. Twisting his felt hat between his hands, he said, “Well … I’m glad to do it for you. But of course, if out of generosity …”

  Lupin pulled a franc coin from his pocket. Twirling it in the air with a flick of his thumb, he caught it on the fly and offered it to Tomate. “Will this generosity do?”

  “And how, young man! Tomate now has wings on his feet!” the man rejoiced, grabbing the coin with a predatory grip. And without saying another word, he strode off, signaling us to follow him.

  Exchanging a final look, my friends and I went behind him. The man moved through the streets of Paris without hesitation. Very soon we found ourselves along the squalid alleys near the Place Pigalle. Little by little, as the streets grew narrower, I felt more and more anxious. Suddenly, after turning a corner, Tomate stopped and pointed to a hovel of sorts. All it had for a door was a filthy curtain.

  Two drunkards sat next to the doorway, bellowing an awful song.

  I saw Lupin’s face flare up with anger in an instant. He went over to Tomate and grabbed him by the collar.

  “Perhaps the fact that we’re a third of your age made you think we were a bunch of idiots? Eh, Tomate?!”

  “Young man … I … I don’t know what you’re …”

  “Arsène, leave him be,” Sherlock said. And stretching out his hand to push aside a blanket of ivy tumbling down from the roof, he showed us some writing on the wall, almost erased by time but still legible:

  THE CARDINAL’S CAVERN

  Lupin let go of Tomate suddenly. Straightening his jacket, Tomate began to grumble.

  “Tsk! What manners! Young people … It’s the last time I give any help to strangers, by the word of old Tomate!”

  I apologized to him for my friend’s rudeness and gave him a bit more loose change. This seemed enough to lift his spirits again. When Tomate had moved away, the three of us stayed to examine the entrance of that miserable establishment.

  “Seeing we’ve come all the way here, we might as well,” Sherlock said. Lupin and I nodded without much enthusiasm.

  We entered the Cardinal’s Cavern, and all our fears were confirmed. It appeared to be nothing more than a filthy tavern. Its customers were stretched out on the wooden benches or splayed across the tables, and a mammoth innkeeper looked suspiciously at us as soon as he saw us cross the threshold. I could not make heads nor tails of any of it.

  “But how could Dumas …” was all I could say.

  “Maybe they served good sausages here before the war, which our writer found delicious!” Lupin joked, a bitter grin across his face.

  Sherlock moved nervously through the big room that comprised the entire premises. He came back to us, shaking his head.

  “Sausages or no, there’s nothing interesting here,” he said, literally leaping toward the entrance.

&
nbsp; Lupin and I followed him without saying a word. The day really seemed like one endless, sick prank. As soon as we spotted a trail in our investigation, it turned out to be some sort of vicious joke, leaving us empty-handed.

  We turned the corner we had come around and found Sherlock ahead of us, a stunned expression on his face.

  “Stop!” he commanded us, hands in the air. “Didn’t you see it?”

  Lupin and I looked at each other, not understanding.

  “Sorry, you saw something? I only heard the sound of hooves and —” Lupin replied.

  Sherlock shushed him and cautiously peered around the corner, inviting us to do the same.

  “Look!” he hissed.

  When I had leaned forward enough to see, I glimpsed an elegant carriage parked at the entrance to the alley, which was too narrow for it to go in any farther. A tall man had just gotten out. He was wearing a long, dark coat and had a top hat on his head.

  “A bit too posh for this dump, don’t you think?” Sherlock whispered.

  I watched the man with the coat. He seemed to be heading right toward the Cardinal’s Cavern. I was about to observe that sometimes aristocrats had secret vices when I saw Lupin’s eyes grow wide and his mouth drop.

  The man in the alley had stopped in front of the inn’s entrance for a moment, briefly showing his face.

  “But that … that’s Montmorency!” Lupin babbled, not believing what he saw.

  A beam of light crossed Sherlock’s eyes. In the meantime, Montmorency checked his pocket watch and entered the Cardinal’s Cavern.

  My instinct was to race over and go back into the tavern, but Sherlock held out his arm to stop me.

  “Wait!” he said. “All three of us can’t go back in. We’ll be noticed!”

  He quickly slipped off his jacket and tossed it on the ground. Then he untucked his shirt and smeared it with mud from the street. It was not the first time I found myself wondering if Sherlock was completely crazy, but I recall that this time, the thought presented itself especially strongly. What the devil was he doing?

  “Wait here!” he ordered us.

  Appalled, we watched him run toward the tavern and embrace one of the drunkards seated by the entrance. Singing that dreadful ditty we’d just heard at the top of his lungs, he staggered into the Cardinal’s Cavern.

  Lupin and I watched, amazed. We had just witnessed another of many sudden transformations skillfully executed by our friend!

  Stationed behind the corner, all that was left for us to do was to wait for his return, holding our breath.

  We only had to wait a couple of minutes. Then Sherlock, still playing his part, sprang out through the curtain, bellowing something in the direction of the innkeeper. After a couple more yells, our friend made sure there was no one on his heels and rejoined us.

  “You won’t believe it!” he said. His eyes were bright and sparkling, the way they were when something really intrigued him.

  “Well, start telling us about it,” Lupin replied.

  “When I went into the tavern, I saw Montmorency disappear into the kitchen,” Sherlock began.

  “And then?”

  “Here’s the interesting thing — no one was there. And no one came out of there!”

  The three of us looked at each other.

  “Whatever is back there that’s interesting enough to attract the Duke of Montmorency, I’d say is worth our seeing, too!” Lupin said, his eyes laughing.

  “You can bet on it!” Sherlock nodded. “But there’s a problem. After my latest foray, that elephant of an innkeeper was pretty worked up. I’m afraid he wouldn’t appreciate our going back in again.”

  Lupin replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “If you ladies and gentlemen will allow me to take care of this small obstacle …”

  Taking the devilish smile that rippled across Lupin’s face into account, I knew he was considering something risky and foolish. But in those days, we were guided by recklessness, and so we agreed to his suggestion without hesitation.

  In my memory, the image from those next agitated moments was first of Lupin signaling to us to stay outside. Then we heard a shout and the sound of shattering wood coming from the tavern.

  “Now!” he then told us, peeking through the curtain.

  We raced into the saloon at a run. Inside the Cardinal’s Cavern, a huge brawl had exploded, which — I do not even today know how — Lupin had sparked off.

  The mammoth innkeeper had flung himself between the opponents to try to calm the crowd, only to wind up involved in the brawl as well. He was not even aware of us sneaking into his kitchen.

  We found ourselves in a small, dimly lit room cluttered with cooking pots and dirty plates. Our attention was immediately drawn to a small wooden door next to the fireplace.

  Lupin opened it without giving it a second thought.

  We saw a flight of stone steps descending into the darkness. Once again we had no doubts. We plunged into that dark throat of stone intending to discover what could be hidden in its gloom. At the bottom of the stairs, Lupin lit a match. Before us stretched a tunnel that smelled of moisture and mold.

  “Look!” I exclaimed, noticing something above our heads. Lupin lit a second match. I pointed out the ceiling vault to my friends. There a marble arch ended in a noble coat of arms.

  In a few moments, we were back in darkness again. We began walking with great caution, almost on tiptoes. I felt a hand grab mine. It was Sherlock’s. When my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I noticed a dim glow at the end of the tunnel, toward the left.

  Sherlock and Lupin became aware of it, too, and their steps slowed. We tried to act with great care — as much as we could in a situation like that. But it was of little use. I barely realized we had turned a corner when I suddenly found myself dazzled by the light of a torch attached to the wall.

  Spotting the silhouette of a hooded man, I could not hold back a scream.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” the man commanded.

  Lupin went to attack him. But after taking a step, he stopped as still as a statue. The barrel of a revolver had sprung from the wide sleeve of the hooded man’s robe.

  Chapter 17

  THE DARK HEART OF PARIS

  The hooded man stood still, his gun pointed at us. We could not see his face, but we realized he was taking a good look at us.

  “What the devil are you doing down here?” he snarled.

  Lupin swallowed.

  “Here, look …” Sherlock murmured, just to stall for time.

  I had an idea. I did not know if it was good or bad, but there certainly was not enough time to consider it. So I spoke.

  “Oh, sir,” I said, whining. “The truth is that we’re starving! And we were hoping that the inn’s pantry was down here. Don’t tell the owner, I beg you! Let us go.”

  The man stayed silent again and seemed to be considering my words.

  After a night at the Alchemists and the rest of our day, our appearances must have fit three starving children.

  “All you can find down here is trouble! And if I see you here again, I’ll shoot you without thinking twice! Now get lost!” the man warned us, waving the revolver slightly.

  We did not need to hear the message repeated. My friends and I darted away, oblivious to the darkness and the uneven floor. When we found ourselves back in the kitchen of the Cardinal’s Cavern, we did not even have time to breathe a sigh of relief before the gigantic innkeeper confronted us.

  “Ha! Three young crooks! I’m going to teach you now!” he shouted, blocking the way toward the exit and brandishing a large blackened frying pan in front of him threateningly. I saw Lupin spring like a jaguar and grab the innkeeper’s arm so that only the bottom of the pan would hit him.

  “You’ve got nothing to teach us, you ball of tallow!” Lupin shouted as the innkeeper fel
l to the ground, leaving the passage free. Sherlock and I followed our friend’s footsteps and left the tavern at a run.

  We did not stop running until we were at the banks of the Seine. I pointed out a small grassy bank that sloped gently down toward the river. We reached it and lay down in the grass. Only then, my eyes to the sky, did I realize that the sun had pushed through the clouds. Bright sunlight shone through the trees on the buildings along the river.

  Sherlock burst out laughing. “Ball of tallow?” he said. “I wonder where you came up with that!”

  Lupin laughed, too. “Well, it’s exactly what he looked like, right?”

  Even while struggling with that enormous innkeeper, Lupin had been very funny.

  “Ball of tallow,” I repeated. “Don’t you think it would be an excellent title for a short story?”

  My friends smiled and agreed with me. But other thoughts, very different ones, were already making their way into our minds.

  “That hooded guy,” Lupin said thoughtfully. “What the devil was he doing down there?”

  “Acting as a guard. That seems obvious to me. And it’s clear that someone wants to make sure no one goes in who isn’t allowed, as the Duke of Montmorency is, for example,” Sherlock said, a blade of grass between his lips.

  “But of course … the Grand Master!” I said, suddenly popping up onto my knees.

  “Oh, boy!” Lupin exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Perhaps that Grand Master and our hooded friend have already found the path that leads to the Heart of St. Michael’s and —”

  “And now are ready to start their ritual!” I concluded.

  “I doubt it,” Sherlock said.

  “And might I know why?” I pressed him.

  Holmes pulled out the two fragments of the ancient map again and showed us a mark — a very tiny cross sketched in red, which I had first missed.

  “It’s the only mark this shape and color on the map pieces we have. According to my calculations, it should be right under the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. And there — do you see? At that spot, the underground passages become narrow and tangled. I’m ready to bet that the relic of St. Michael is there!” he said, looking first Lupin and then me in the eyes.