But Fagin was an amateur compared to today’s professors of pilfering. Their pupils—orphans, products of broken homes, or no homes at all—were recruited in foreign city streets, or even purchased outright from greedy, uncaring parents. These little ones could be quite valuable; an innocent at the age of four or five became a seasoned veteran after a few years of experience, capable of bringing in as much as a hundred thousand American dollars over the course of a single year.
When I described the circumstances of my own encounter the clerk shrugged.
“Of course. That is how they work, my friend—in gangs.” Gangs, expertly adept in spotting potential victims, artfully instructed how to operate. Their seemingly spontaneous outcries were actually the product of long and exacting rehearsal, their apparently impromptu movements perfected in advance. They danced around me because they had been choreographed to do so. It was a bandits’ ballet in which each one played an assigned role—to nudge, to gesture, to jab and jabber and create confusion. Even the hand-kissing was part of a master plan, and when one ragged waif thrust his folded newspaper against my chest it concealed another who ducked below and lifted my wallet. The entire performance was programmed down to the last detail.
I listened and shook my head. “Why don’t the police tell me these things? Surely they must know.”
“Oui, M’sieur.” The clerk permitted himself a confidential wink. “But perhaps they do not care.” He leaned across the desk, his voice sinking to a murmur. “Some say an arrangement has been made. The yougoslaves are skilled in identifying tourists by their dress and manner. They can recognize a foreign visitor merely by the kind of shoes he wears. One supposes a bargain has been struck because it is only the tourists who are attacked, while ordinary citizens are spared.”
I frowned. “Surely others like myself must lodge complaints. One would think the police would be forced to take action.”
The clerk’s gesture was as eloquent as his words. “But what can they do? These yougoslaves strike quickly, without warning. They vanish before you realize what has happened, and no one knows where they go. And even if you managed to lay hands on one of them, what then? You bring this youngster to the police and tell your story, but the little ruffian has no wallet—you can be sure it was passed along immediately to another who ran off with the evidence. Also, your prisoner cannot speak or understand French, or at least pretends not to.”
“So the gendarmes have nothing to go by but your words, and what can they do with the kid if they did have proof, when the law prohibits the arrest and jailing of children under thirteen?
“It’s all part of the scheme. And if you permit me, it is a beautiful scheme, this one.”
My frown told him I lacked appreciation of beauty, and he quickly leaned back to a position of safety behind the desk, his voice and manner sobering. “Missing credit cards can be reported in the morning, though I think it unlikely anyone would be foolish enough to attempt using them with a forged signature. It’s the money they were after.”
“I have other funds in your safe,” I said.
“Tres bien. In that case I advise you to make the best of things. Now that you know what to expect, I doubt if you will be victimized again. Just keep away from the tourist traps and avoid using the Metro.” He offered me the solace of a smile which all desk clerks reserve for complaints about stalled elevators, lost luggage, faulty electrical fixtures, or clogged plumbing.
Then, when my frown remained fixed, his smile vanished. “Please, my friend! I understand this has been a most distressing occurrence, but I trust you will chalk it up to experience. Believe me, there is no point in pursuing the matter further.”
I shook my head. “If the police won’t go after these children—”
“Children?” Again his voice descended to a murmur. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. The yougoslaves are not ordinary kids. As I say, they have been trained by masters. The kind of man who is capable of buying or stealing a child and corrupting it for a life of crime is not likely to stop there. I have heard certain rumors, M’sieur, rumors which make a dreadful sort of sense. These kids, they are hooked on drugs. They know every manner of vice but nothing of morals, and many carry knives, even guns. Some have been taught to break and enter into homes, and if discovered, to kill. Their masters, of course, are even more dangerous when crossed. I implore you, for your own safety—forget what has happened tonight and go on your way.”
“Thank you for your advice.” I managed a smile and went on my way. But I did not forget.
I did not forget what had happened, nor did I forget I’d been robbed of what was most precious to me.
Retiring to my room, I placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outer doorknob and after certain makeshift arrangements I sank eventually into fitful slumber.
By the following evening I was ready; ready and waiting. Paris by night is the City of Light, but it is also the city of shadows. And it was in the shadows that I waited, the shadows under the archways of the Rue de Rivoli. My dark clothing was deliberately donned to blend inconspicuously with the background; I would be unnoticed if the predators returned to seek fresh prey.
Somehow I felt convinced that they would do so. As I stood against a pillar, scanning the occasional passerby who wandered past, I challenged myself to see the hunted through the eyes of the hunters.
Who would be the next victim? That party of Japanese deserved no more than a glance of dismissal; it wasn’t wise to confront a group. By the same token, those who traveled in pairs or couples would be spared. And even the lone pedestrians were safe if they were able-bodied or dressed in garments which identified them as local citizens.
What the hunters sought was someone like myself, someone wearing clothing of foreign cut, preferably elderly and obviously alone. Someone like the grayheaded old gentleman who was approaching now, shuffling past a cluster of shops already closed for the night. He was short, slight of build, and his uncertain gait hinted at either a physical impairment or mild intoxication. A lone traveler on an otherwise-deserted stretch of street—he was the perfect target for attack.
And the attack came.
Out of the deep dark doorway to an arcade the yougoslaves danced forth, squealing and gesticulating, to suddenly surround their startled victim.
They ringed him, hands outstretched, their cries confusing, their fingers darting forth to prod and pry in rhythm with the outbursts.
I saw the pattern now, recognized the roles they played. Here was the hand-kisser, begging for bounty, here the duo tugging at each arm from the rear, here the biggest of the boys, brandishing the folded paper to thrust it against the oldster’s chest while an accomplice burrowed into the gaping front of the jacket below. Just behind him the sixth and smallest of the band stood poised. The instant the wallet was snatched it would be passed to him, and while the others continued their distraction for a few moments more before scattering, he’d run off in safety.
The whole charade was brilliant in its sheer simplicity, cleverly contrived so that the poor old gentleman would never notice his loss until too late.
But I noticed—and I acted.
As the thieves closed in I stepped forward, quickly and quietly. Intent on their quarry, they were unaware of my approach. Moving up behind the youngster who waited to receive the wallet, I grasped his upraised arm in a tight grip, bending it back against his shoulderblade as I yanked him away into the shadows. He looked up and my free hand clamped across his oval mouth before he could cry out.
He tried to bite, but my fingers pressed his lips together. He tried to kick, but I twisted his bent arm and tugged him along offbalance, his feet dragging over the pavement as we moved past the shadowy archway to the curb beyond.
My rental car was waiting there. Opening the door, I hurled him down onto the seat face-forward. Before he could turn I pulled the handcuffs from my pocket and snapped them shut over his wrists.
Locking the passenger door, I hastened around to the other
side of the car and entered, sliding behind the wheel. Seconds later we were moving out into the traffic.
Hands confined behind him, my captive threshed helplessly beside me. He could scream now, and he did.
“Stop that!” I commanded. “No one can hear you with the windows closed.”
After a moment he obeyed. As we turned off onto a side street he glared up at me, panting.
“Merde!” he gasped.
I smiled. “So you speak French, do you?”
There was no reply. But when the car turned again, entering one of the narrow alleyways off the Rue St. Roch, his eyes grew wary.
“Where are we going?”
“That is a question for you to answer.”
“What do you mean?”
“You will be good enough to direct me to the place where I can find your friends.”
“Go to hell!”
“Au contraire.” I smiled again. “If you do not cooperate, and quickly, I’ll knock you over the head and dump your body in the Seine.”
“You old bastard—you can’t scare me!”
Releasing my right hand from the steering wheel I gave him a clout across the mouth, knocking him back against the seat.
“That’s a sample,” I told him. “Next time I won’t be so gentle.” Clenching my fist, I raised my arm again, and he cringed.
“Tell me!” I said.
And he did.
The blow across the mouth seemed to have loosened his tongue, for he began to answer my questions as I reversed our course and crossed over a bridge which brought us to the Left Bank.
When he told me our destination and described it, I must confess I was surprised. The distance was much greater than I anticipated, and finding the place would not be easy, but I followed his directions on a mental map. Meanwhile I encouraged Bobo to speak.
That was his name—Bobo. If he had another he claimed he did not know it, and I believed him. He was nine years old but he’d been with the gang for three of them, ever since their leader spirited him off the streets of Dubrovnik and brought him here to Paris on a long and illegal route while hidden in the back of a truck.
“Dubrovnik?” I nodded. “Then you really are a yougoslave. What about the others?”
“I don’t know. They come from everywhere. Where ever he finds them.”
“Your leader? What’s his name?”
“We call him Le Boss.”
“He taught you how to steal like this?”
“He taught us many things,” Bobo gave me a sidelong glance. “Listen to me, old man—if you find him there will be big trouble. Better to let me go.”
“Not until I have my wallet.”
“Wallet?” His eyed widened, then narrowed, and I realized that for the first time he’d recognized me as last night’s victim. “If you think Le Boss will give you back your money, then you really are a fool.”
“I’m not a fool. And I don’t care about the money.”
“Credit cards? Don’t worry, Le Boss won’t try to use them. Too risky.”
“It’s not the cards. There was something else. Didn’t you see it?”
“I never touched your wallet. It was Pepe who took it to the van last night.”
The van, I learned, was always parked just around the corner from the spot where the gang set up operations. And it was there that they fled after a robbery. Le Boss waited behind the wheel with the motor running; the stolen property was turned over to him immediately as they drove off to safer surroundings.
“So Le Boss has the wallet now,” I said.
“Perhaps. Sometimes he takes the money out and throws the billfold away. But if there was more than money and cards inside as you say—” Bobo hesitated, peering up at me. “What is this thing you’re looking for?”
“That is a matter I will discuss with Le Boss when I see him.”
“Diamonds, maybe? You a smuggler?”
“No.”
His eyes brightened and he nodded quickly. “Cocaine? Don’t worry, I get some for you, no problem—good stuff, not the junk they cut for street trade. All you want, and cheap, too.”
I shook my head. “Stop guessing. I talk only to Le Boss.”
But Bobo continued to eye me as I guided the car out of the suburban residential and industrial areas, through a stretch of barren countryside, and into an unpaved side road bordering the empty lower reaches of the river. There were no lights here, no dwellings, no signs of life—only shadows, silence, and swaying trees.
Bobo was getting nervous, but now he forced a smile.
“Hey, old man—you like girls? Le Boss got one the other day.”
“Not interested.”
“I mean little girls. Fresh meat, only five, six maybe—”
I shook my head again and he sidled closer on the seat. “What about boys? I’m good, you’ll see. Even Le Boss says so—”
He rubbed against me; his clothes were filthy and he smelled of sweat and garlic. “Never mind,” I said quickly, pushing him away.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I figured if we did a deal you’d give up trying to see Le Boss. It’s just going to make things bad for you, and there’s no sense getting yourself hurt.”
“I appreciate your concern.” I smiled. “But it’s not me you’re really worried about. You’ll be the one who gets hurt for bringing me, is that not so?”
He stared at me without replying but I read the answer in his fear-filled eyes.
“What will he do to you?” I said.
The fear spilled over into his voice. “Please, M’sieu—don’t tell him how you got here! I will do anything you want, anything—”
“You’ll do exactly what I say,” I told him.
He glanced ahead, and again I read his eyes.
“Are we here?” I asked. “Is this the place?”
“Oui. But—”
“Be silent.” I shut off the motor and headlights, but not before the beam betrayed a glimpse of the river bank beyond the rutted side road. Through the tangle of trees and rampant underbrush I could see the parked van hidden from sight amidst the sheltering shadows ahead. Beyond it, spanning the river, was a crude and ancient wooden foot bridge, the narrow and rotting relic of a bygone era.
I slipped out of the car, circling to the other side, then opened the passenger door and collared ray captive.
“Where are they?” I whispered.
“On the other side.” Bobo’s voice was faint but the apprehension it held was strong. “Please don’t make me take you there!”
“Shut up and come with me.” I jerked him forward toward the trees, then halted as I stared across the rickety old makeshift bridge. The purpose it served in the past was long forgotten, and so was the huge oval on the far bank which opened close to the water’s edge.
But Le Boss had not forgotten. Once this great circular conduit was part of the earliest Paris sewer-system. Deep within its depths, dozens of connecting branches converged into a gigantic single outlet and spewed their waste into the water below. Now the interior channels had been sealed off, leaving the main tunnel dry but not deserted. For it was here, within a circle of metal perhaps twenty feet in diameter, that Le Boss found shelter from prying eyes, past the unused dirt road and the abandoned bridge.
The huge opening gaped like the mouth of Hell, and from within the fires of Hell blazed forth.
Actually the fires were merely the product of candle light flickering from tapers set in niches around the base of the tunnel. I sensed that their value was not only practical but precautionary, for they would be quickly extinguished in the event of an alarm.
Alarm?
I tugged at Bobo’s soiled collar. “The lookout,” I murmured. “Where is he?”
Reluctantly the boy stabbed a finger in the direction of a tall and tangled weed bordering the side of the bridge. In the shadows I made out a small shape huddled amid surrounding clumps of vegetation.
“Sandor.” My captive nodded. “He’s asleep.”
&n
bsp; I glanced up. “What about Le Boss and the others?”
“Inside the sewer. Farther back, where nobody can see them.”
“Good. You will go in now.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone.” As I spoke I took out my key and unlocked the handcuffs, but my grip on Bobo’s neck did not loosen.
He rubbed his chafed wrists. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Tell Le Boss that I grabbed you on the street, but you broke free and ran.”
“How do I say I got here?”
“Perhaps you hitched a ride.”
“And then—”
“You didn’t know I was following you, not until I caught you here again. Tell him I’m waiting on this side of the river until you bring me my key. Once I get it I will go away—no questions asked, no harm done.”
Bobo frowned. “Suppose he doesn’t have the key?”
“He will,” I said. “You see, it’s just an old brass gate-key, but the handle is shaped into my family crest. Mounted in the crest is a large ruby.”
Bobo’s frown persisted. “What if he just pried it loose and threw the key away?”
“That’s possible.” I shrugged. “But you had better pray he didn’t.” My fingers dug into his neck. “I want that key, understand? And I want it now.”
“He’s not going to give it to you, not Le Boss! Why should he?”
For answer I dragged him toward the sleeping sentry in the weeds. Reaching into my jacket I produced a knife. As Bobo gaped in surprise, I aimed a kick at the slumbering lookout. He blinked and sat up quickly, then froze as I pressed the tip of the broad blade against his neck.
“Tell him that if you don’t bring me back the key in five minutes I’ll cut Sandor’s throat.”
Sandor believed me, I know, because he started to whimper. And Bobo believed me too, for when I released my grip on his collar he started running toward the bridge.
Now there was only one question. Would Le Boss believe me?
I sincerely hoped so. But for the moment all I could do was be patient. Yanking the sniveling Sandor to his feet, I tugged him along to position myself at the edge of the bridge, staring across it as Bobo reached the mouth of the sewer on the other side. The mouth swallowed him; I stood waiting.
The Year's Best Horror Stories 15 Page 2