Paris Ransom

by Charles Rosenberg

  I was immediately on guard. “Like how?”

  “All I want you to do is be my spotter. To stand outside the part of the wall where I get in and text me if someone seems to be investigating.”

  “They probably have detection equipment inside, not outside.”

  “Are you coming or not?”

  I thought about it. If I said no, it would mean I wasn’t serious about renewing our push to find Oscar.

  “Okay, I’m in, but only if you tell Tess about your plan so she can try to talk you out of it.”

  “I’ll tell Tess if she keeps it to herself.”

  We were by then inside the apartment. After we’d hung up our coats, Tess emerged from her study and asked, “What is up?”

  I refrained from telling her that no one said it that way, and tried to imagine Bugs Bunny saying “What is up, doc?”

  “What’s up, my dear Tess, is that Jenna here thinks the key to finding the book and Oscar is in the Brioche family tomb in Père Lachaise.”

  Tess was not immediately dismissive of the idea, which surprised me. “Why, Jenna, do you think you will find something there?” she asked.

  “I will tell you if you will promise to keep my plans secret.”

  More easily than I expected, Tess said, “Okay, I agree.”

  Jenna explained her theory. Tess looked thoughtful. “It is not a crazy idea,” she said. “But it is filled with risk. If you are caught you will go to jail, and I will not be able to help you this time.”

  “You didn’t really help me last time.”

  “I did, but in ways you do not see.”

  “Well, whatever. I for one care about Oscar, who is probably about to be killed by his captors. And so I’m willing to risk it. You and Robert can just sit here on your butts and spin theories if you want, but I’m going to do something.”

  “I will not go,” Tess said, “but there is a thing I can do to aid you. One moment.” She went to her study and came back a few minutes later holding a small black address book, the old-fashioned kind that has little alphabet tabs.

  “I will give you a name of someone to call. But I do not know if he can help you tonight,” she said.

  She took a pen, consulted the address book, wrote something on a small piece of paper and handed it to Jenna.

  “Guido daNucci,” Jenna read aloud. “Who is he?”

  Tess looked slightly uncomfortable and was quiet for a few seconds. Then she said, “Once upon a time, well, it was not really so long ago, but before I met Robert, I had ennui—‘boredom’ is your word, I think—and I sought adventure. And this man, Guido, arranges adventures, often at night. He calls himself ‘le Guide Nocturne.’”

  “He does cemetery tours at night?” Jenna asked.

  “I have never been on a tour of a cemetery with him, but I think, yes. If he still works. I have not talked with him in a few years.”

  “Does he speak English?”

  “Yes, some of those who went on our adventures were rich people from England who had ennui. One was a lord of some kind. He was ridiculous.”

  “So I can use your name when I call him?” Jenna asked.

  “Please, no. Just say . . . I do not know. You will think of something.”

  “How, when you went on these, uh, adventures, did you protect your reputation as a spy?” I asked.

  “Merde. This tires me. Again, I am not a spy. But I went with false identification that daNucci furnished and, sometimes, in a kind of disguise. I took a big risk.”

  “And you’ll tell me all about it when we’re married?”

  She smiled a very broad smile. “If you wish.”

  “I’m going to go call him,” Jenna said.

  “Jenna,” Tess said, “Robert has told me you bought throw-away cell phones, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Use one of those to call. You do not want the general or anyone else who may listen to know where you go tonight.”

  Jenna left the room and came back a few minutes later. “He is available tonight. For a price.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “One thousand euros. Which I don’t really have to spare.”

  “Even though you stayed at the George V.”

  “Which is why I don’t have the funds to spare.”

  “I do,” I said. “I’ll supply the money and come along and wait outside. What time will we be going?”

  “Not until after midnight tonight—two in the morning. He says we have to wait until midnight has passed because the ‘midnight-crazies’ will be there before that doing their thing.”

  “They fade back into the drainpipes after midnight?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Where are we meeting him?”

  “He gave me an address along one of the streets that borders the cemetery. Our cabbie friend can take us there. Oh, and he said to wear old clothes.”

  “So I can get some sleep in before that.”

  “Yes. We both can.”

  As I drifted off to sleep, I realized that I didn’t know where Olga had been during our long conversation. But I was so tired that I put it out of my mind.

  CHAPTER 40

  I slept fairly soundly, and then, with the help of the alarm, got up and got dressed in blue jeans and an old sweatshirt. Tess hardly stirred. I walked into the living room just before one thirty in the morning. Jenna was already there. I grabbed an old overcoat from the closet. Jenna was wearing a blue parka.

  When we opened the door to leave, I was surprised to see Tess come into the room, belted into her floor-length, white terry cloth robe. “Bonne chance,” she said. “Good luck.”

  The concierge was, of course, asleep. I wondered, as we crept through the lobby, if he had finally gotten the surveillance camera running, or if he had some kind of alarm to tell him if people came or went late at night. If so, he gave no sign.

  Jenna had asked the cab driver to wait for us a couple of blocks away so that we wouldn’t be seen being picked up in front of Tess’s building. We walked to the rendezvous spot quickly, and there he was.

  We got in, and he said, “I’ll take you guys where you want to go, but, hey, really sorry, none of my cab driver buddies up here have any ideas about how to get in.”

  “That’s okay,” Jenna said. “We’ve arranged some help in that department.”

  “Okay. I hope you’ll be alright. A few people told me it’s really dangerous in there at night. Not to mention scary.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said.

  “Oh me neither. Me neither! But still, you can’t be too careful around the dead. Because you never know.”

  “So you do believe in ghosts?”

  “Well, not exactly. I’d just say when you’ve got thousands of bodies lying around underground something has to be weird. Especially at night.”

  “Yes,” I said. “There are a lot of superstitions about that.”

  Jenna had remained silent throughout the ride and didn’t say whether or not she believed in ghosts. I decided not to inquire.

  The cab dropped us at the appointed place, on a narrow road that runs to one side of the cemetery. We asked him to come back for us in thirty minutes and told him if we weren’t there, to come back every fifteen minutes until we showed up. When we got out, I looked up at a high wall topped with thick ivy. But when I looked more carefully, I could see that the ivy obscured barbed wire and spikes. It would be hard to climb over the wall without tearing yourself to shreds. I wondered what tricks the guide had up his sleeve to get us in.

  We waited a few minutes on the road, standing in a thin, cold mist. It was that time of night when even the insects and birds are asleep, and the silence enveloped us. It was also pitch black. There were no lights on in the houses behind us, and there was no moon. I felt myself shiver slightly, e
ven though I didn’t believe in ghosts.

  “Bonjour.”

  The voice came from behind me and made me jump. Jenna startled, too. I had not heard anyone coming and, clearly, neither had she.

  I turned to greet the voice, who I assumed was the Guide Nocturne. It was a little hard to see him in the dark, but, despite that, the man’s appearance was a surprise to me. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting—a big, burly guy, perhaps, able to scale high walls? This guy was instead short, almost bald, and dressed in a three-piece suit. He reminded me of a dandier version of that guy with the unpronounceable, all-consonant name who is Superman’s mortal enemy. He was also carrying a wicker picnic basket.

  Meanwhile, as I looked him over, he looked us up and down. Eventually, he said, “And who might the two of you be?”

  “Robert Tarza and Jenna James,” I said.

  “Ah, good. May I see your IDs, please?”

  I thought it an odd request, but we both complied. He looked at our passports and seemed satisfied.

  “Why did you want to see our IDs?” I asked.

  “To be certain you are not les flics, as we call the cops here. And I am satisfied that you are not. It would be too much trouble for the police to falsify two American passports just to catch someone entering a cemetery at night.”

  “I see. And you are Monsieur daNucci?”

  “For these assignments, I am le Guide Nocturne. Without name otherwise. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I guess so.”

  “May I also have my fee, please?”

  “I’d prefer to wait to pay you until you get us in and out.”

  “Ah, Monsieur, as I told Madame James on the phone, I have only agreed to get you in and to show you how to get back out. So, assuming things go well, I will be long gone when you come out.”

  I looked at Jenna, who was nodding her head in the affirmative. Not that she had told me any of that. I grudgingly removed ten one-hundred-euro notes from my pocket and handed the bills to the guide.

  “Merci, Monsieur. Please follow me.”

  We walked down the road perhaps fifty yards, where there was a depression in the soil. Our guide pointed to the depression. “If you brush away the ivy there, there is a culvert that goes under the wall, and since neither of you is fat, you will be able to crawl through with minimum damage to your clothes.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He smiled. “Actually, I am, in part. The way in is different.” He took out his cell phone and tapped a few keys. A minute or two later, a small gate in the wall opened. There was a man on the other side who looked like a cemetery worker—French workingman’s brimmed cap, a light blue jacket and work boots. The jacket was unzipped enough to show the Père Lachaise logo on the shirt beneath.

  “Entrez, s’il vous plaît,” he said, and stood aside to give us room to move through the gate.

  “So you were only kidding about crawling through the culvert,” I said to the guide.

  “For getting in, yes. This is so much easier.”

  I was about to ask him how he had persuaded the guard to let us in when I saw him slip a wad of bills into the man’s hands.

  “Now,” the guide said, “listen carefully, both of you. This gentleman will take you to the gravesite. I have given him the grave location and family name which you gave to me. He will not note what you do there, except you may not take anything away with you.”

  “We understand,” Jenna said.

  “Also, when you get to the grave and again when you leave the cemetery, you should tip him. A tip, not a bribe. I have already bribed him. Four or five euros each time will do.”

  “What is the picnic basket for?” I asked.

  He handed it to me. “It has the usual picnic materials in it—a baguette, jam, cheese, a half-bottle of wine with a corkscrew, and so forth. Also a tablecloth and napkins. When you get to the gravesite, put down the tablecloth and set out the food. If you are accosted by anyone—there are many guards, not just this one—you are to say you are part of a religious group which believes in dining with your ancestors, and it must be at night so they will not be afraid to come up from below.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, very. Here, I have written it out in French, what you are to say.”

  “Won’t they be suspicious?”

  “Perhaps. But if you make sure they know you are Americans, it will be more believable.”

  “Why?”

  “Most French people think Americans are uncultured, and this is exactly the kind of thing that someone from a barbarian civilization would do.”

  “I see, I guess.”

  “And the advantage will be that if they think you are simply nuts, they will simply kick you out. If they think you are up to no good, they will have you arrested.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “One more thing. Do you have a flashlight with you?”

  “Yes, we do,” Jenna said.

  “Do not use it. There is just enough light to follow this man without it if you stay very close. If you turn the light on it will attract attention from . . . other guards. Good luck.”

  “Wait,” Jenna said.

  “What, Madame?”

  “How do we get out?”

  “If all goes well, this gentleman will escort you back to the gate and open it for you.”

  “And if it doesn’t go well?”

  “You will crawl out through the culvert. Its opening on the inside of the wall is right there.” He pointed to a large pipe. “And with that, I will just say bonne chance, good luck.”

  “Why do all French people always say good luck to us in both French and English?” I asked.

  “They do not think saying good luck in an inferior language is effective in bringing luck,” the guide said.

  He turned and walked away, leaving us with the inside guy, who took us, without speaking a word, to the Brioche grave site. On the way, we passed by dozens of mausoleums, many with elaborate doors, grillwork, and statuary, some with inscriptions, most built of concrete, a few rendered as horizontal slabs in marble or onyx, all crowded together in a formation just shy of a jumble. Fortunately, it was only a five- or six-minute walk from where we entered to our destination. I looked over my shoulder several times as we walked and thought we’d be able to find our way back to the gate on our own if we absolutely had to.

  The Brioche family tomb itself was modest compared to many of the others. It was unadorned concrete, perhaps eight feet high, with double doors and plain grillwork on the top half of the doors. There was no inscription on the tomb save the name “Famille Brioche.”

  We spread the picnic cloth on the ground, as instructed, with all the food laid out. I broke off a piece of the baguette and took a bite, just to show that we really were there to eat. I tipped our guard five euros, after which he moved back a fair distance and began to study something on his cell phone, never looking up.

  Jenna went up to the tomb doors, pushed the key into the small lock and turned it. It made a faint scratching sound of metal on metal. To my relief, it opened easily, and she walked inside. After she was in, she gestured to me, and I walked forward into the tomb.

  Inside it was even darker. Despite the instructions not to use a light, Jenna had taken her flashlight out of her pocket and was shining it around. Dust motes kicked up by our shoes shone in the air, and cobwebs hung between the roof and the floor. Along one wall, five small urns sat on a stone shelf. One of the five was much smaller than the others. I assumed it held the remains of a child. Each urn bore a name. The names of Oscar’s parents adorned two of them.

  “I don’t see anything that looks like Oscar might have left it,” Jenna said, shining the light around again.

  “I don’t either. Or anything else of interest, for that matter.”

 
A scurrying noise caused us both to jump.

  “Probably a mouse,” I said.

  “Yeah. And this looks like it was a total waste of time,” she replied. “There’s nothing other than what you’d expect in a tomb.”

  “There is something, Jenna. Do you see the little grilled gate beneath the urns?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s something bright white inside it.”

  She tugged on the gate, which opened with a squeak. Inside there was a sealed plastic bag that had a white business-size envelope inside. She pulled it out.

  “Should we open it?” I asked.

  “No, we should just take it and get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

  “What about the rule that we shouldn’t take anything?”

  “Who will know? It’s not like we’re taking an urn or someone’s ashes.” She picked up the envelope and shoved it in her purse.

  We walked out of the tomb and looked around for our guard. He was nowhere to be seen.

  “Maybe,” Jenna said, “we should wait a few minutes and see if he comes back.”

  “Okay.” We sat down on the blanket. I was suddenly hungry, so I broke off another piece of bread and spread some soft cheese on it. “You want some, Jenna?”

  “No. You know, we should have gotten his cell number.”

  “Yeah. We forgot.”

  After ten minutes had passed, I was beginning to get nervous that our guard was not coming back. “What do you think?” I asked. “Should we wait longer or get out of here?”

  “The longer we wait, the more chance some different guard will find us, and I don’t know if the picnicking with the dead excuse is going to fly.”

  “Alright, let’s go,” I said. “I think we can find our way back to the gate we came in. Maybe he’s waiting for us there.”

  I packed up the picnic basket. My initial inclination was to leave it, but then I thought that if we were accosted by someone, it was at least some kind of excuse. So I took it along.

  It proved not all that easy to find our way back. Most of the tombs looked more or less alike, and we took several wrong turns. After ten minutes or so, it was clear that we were lost.

  “Try your GPS,” Jenna said.