by J. G. Sandom
“Tell him to bring a spade and a pick. Oh, yes. And some lamps. Maybe Guy can help him there. In twenty minutes. And tell him to be discreet about it.”
There was a long pause. “For God’s sake, Mariane,” Lyman continued. “This is important. I’d do it myself if I thought I could. But I need his help, Mariane. I need him.”
“So do I, Monsieur Lyman.” He felt her balancing his words, weighing one future up against another. “It’s about the labyrinth, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Lyman said. “The labyrinth. The Book of Thomas the Contender.” He hesitated. “But it’s more than just that.” He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead up against the wall. “It’s about Maurice as well. It’s about the accident in Austria.”
“Damn you,” she said suddenly. He heard her catch her breath, and then the words came out just as he knew they would, each one a knife stroke deep inside him. “All right,” she added, calmly now. “I’ll tell him.”
Chapter XVII
AMIENS
September 24th, 1991
IN THE SLANTED AUTUMN LIGHT, IN THE BASEMENT OF the Bishop’s Palace, Koster remembered that it had taken mankind five millennia to think of a symbol for nothing. Then in some unknown Indian village a nameless Brahman had drawn a sign called sunya, meaning empty, and out of the void, the darkness, the zero was carried on the backs of camels, like the grandchild of the Countess de Rochambaud, through the deserts of the Middle East, from the Levant to the West. He turned and looked up at Mariane. “How long did he say?”
“I told you, twenty minutes.”
Koster sighed. “Right. Sorry.” He shifted on his seat. The basement was half full of metal folding chairs, stacked back to back in rows. Mariane stood with her brother by the door leading up into the courtyard of the Winter Chapel. A single lightbulb hung from the low ceiling, casting a dusky amber glow. “Well, it’s been at least half an hour now. What’s keeping him?”
“I don’t know, Joseph.” Mariane walked over and stood beside him. “I just wish…”
“Wish what?”
“I wish he’d just get it over with. I’m frightened, Joseph. I don’t know why, but I am.”
“I like Nigel,” Guy cut in.
“We all like him,” Koster said. “That’s not the point.”
“Why isn’t it?”
Just then, as if on cue, the basement door swung open and Lyman appeared under the lintel. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to see the watchman.” He turned to Guy. “Did you find a spade?”
Guy smiled. “Of course,” he answered, pointing at a pair of grub-axes leaning up against the wall.
“Good.”
“Just a minute, Nigel,” Koster said. “What’s this all about? We can’t just start digging up the place.”
“I thought you told me Langelier gave you excavation rights.”
“He did, but there are certain formalities. I can’t just do it willy-nilly.” He put his hands in his pockets. “And besides, what’s the point? The labyrinth is the answer. You said so yourself, remember?”
Lyman ignored him and continued through the basement. When he had reached the farthest window facing up into the courtyard, he began to move about in circles, keeping his eyes on the window the whole time.
“What are you doing?” Koster asked.
“I’m sighting off against that room on the second floor. That’s where the watchman told me he was standing when he saw the light go on the night of Duval’s disappearance.” Lyman stopped. “Here,” he said, looking down at the dirt floor. “Fetch me one of those picks, will you?”
Guy carried one over to him. Lyman hefted the grub-ax in his hands, testing the weight, and then swung it upward through the air, over his right shoulder and down into the earth. The blade vanished with a thud. Lyman heaved and the ground began to crack and loosen at his feet. He worked the dirt apart into a shallow trench. Guy ambled over to help. Mariane sighed and Koster watched, following each swing, thinking that each arc the ax described was like the curve between his apprehension and curiosity, and somewhere on that line he had to place his trust.
Minutes passed. The hole deepened and suddenly the rhythm of the digging stopped midbeat. The Englishman fell to his knees. Koster could not help himself. He sidled over toward the hole and looked inside. Lyman was dragging his fingers through the earth.
“Get one of those lights,” he said. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”
Guy lit one of the oil lamps and in seconds the room was filled with yellow light. Lyman’s fingers settled on a stone. He brought it up and without even looking Koster realized what it was—another abraxas, like the one around Mariane’s neck.
“The same,” Lyman said.
Koster reached for a grub-ax of his own.
They dug side by side for another fifteen minutes when, suddenly, Lyman’s blade struck something that sounded like metal, and the earth shuddered at the bottom of the trench. Lyman kicked the dirt aside, revealing a long section of corrugated iron still half buried in the ground. A few more strokes and they could bend it over without difficulty. It was brittle and mottled with rust. A draft of wind whistled through the basement. The lamplight flickered.
“What is it?” Mariane said, trying to look over their shoulders.
“A passage,” Koster said.
“More like a grave,” Guy added with a shudder.
Lyman scowled. “Pass that light over. Mariane, you’d better stay here.”
“Why?” she said. And then more firmly, “I want to come too.”
Lyman swung his feet over and down into the hole. It was about three feet wide and appeared to run parallel to the floor. “I don’t think you should. We don’t know what we’ll find.”
“Why not?” said Koster. “If she wants to go, why shouldn’t she? She’s as much a part of this as you are. Maybe more.”
“That’s not the point.”
“We’ll go first.”
Lyman frowned and pulled his legs up out of the ground. “Have it your own way.”
Koster took Mariane by the hand. “You follow her,” he said to Lyman. “Guy can take up the rear.” Then, without pausing for an answer, he lifted one of the lamps down into the opening and slipped within the narrow breach.
Once in the tunnel itself, Koster dropped to his knees and crawled forward, holding the lamp up before him in his left hand. The dirt gave way to blocks of stone, well-hewn and snugly laid without a trace of mortar. Mariane tugged at his trouser leg. He turned to see her close behind, rocking on her elbows. “Are you okay?” he said. She nodded without speaking.
After several minutes, Koster noticed that the shaft was starting to decline and, suddenly, only a few yards distant, the passage ended abruptly, falling off to emptiness. He was perspiring heavily. Crawling with only one arm had tired him and he put the lamp down for a moment and rested. A fine veil of dust descended through the light. Koster looked up. There was a crack in the block of stone directly above his head. The dust was slipping through it into the light and for a moment he understood the terror of the sailor in the belly of a sinking submarine, the miner’s fear as he sees the final wood support give way. He took another breath. Nothing happened. Get a grip, he told himself. Mariane was tapping his left ankle. He started toward the edge of the tunnel, holding the lamp out before him, cautious, prickly with fear.
The shaft opened up onto the heart of another corridor, several feet below. Koster brought his legs up and dangled them over the edge so that he could slip to the floor of the new passageway with ease. As he did so, he noticed a small room to his right. It was only about eight or nine feet deep, surrounded on all sides by a low stone bench. Mariane called his name and he turned to see her head appear through the breach in the corridor wall. He put the lamp on the ground and helped her down. In the distance, at the end of the long dark shaft, he could see Lyman and Guy crawling forward end to end, palled by a firefly glow. “Come on,” he said. Then he realized he was whispering.
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Mariane picked the lamp up from the floor and started down the corridor. Koster hurried after her. They made their way through the damp darkness, hand in hand, scanning the ceiling and walls for other passages. Suddenly, Mariane stopped and pointed. Just ahead, a shiny object lay at the foot of the right wall. They moved upon it cautiously. Mariane held the lamp up high until, in a rush, they realized what it was—a cross of some kind, an altarpiece. Koster reached over to pick it up. But this was no ordinary cross. Even in the dim lamplight, he could see that it was oddly shaped, golden, and covered with glittering stones.
“Wait!”
Koster paused. It was Lyman who had spoken.
“Don’t touch anything,” the Englishman continued.
“Why not?”
“Let’s just go on for a bit first. We can always come back for it later.”
“Joseph, look.”
Koster glanced back. Mariane was standing further up the corridor. The torch glowed high above her head and she was poised midstride, her legs apart, her right hand pointing. Koster scowled at Lyman. Then he turned to follow Mariane.
On the lip of the lamplight, Koster could see that the corridor dissolved into a void of darkness, marking a new chamber. He took the lamp from her hand and lifted it higher. First, he saw a pedestal and chair. Then, a wooden rostrum. The floor appeared to be identical to the one in the cathedral above, a mosaic of black and white tiles, like a chessboard with a tessellated border. Koster walked slowly forward, shining the light about the room. There was a golden star etched in the center of the floor. Within it glowed a single Hebrew letter.
“What is this place?” Mariane said, her voice echoing through the darkness.
“I don’t know. A temple of some sort.” He swung the light around. Across the way, set directly within the stone wall itself, Koster saw a spiral staircase leading upward through the ceiling. He moved closer, wondering if he had finally found the entrance, when he noticed that the staircase was blocked with boulders from above. Even more interesting was the way in which it had been constructed, with stone supports located underneath the individual stairs instead of at the center of the spiral. Then he realized why. Climbing the first few steps, he leaned across the inside banister and glimpsed the playful winking of his own lamp far below, like the moon in a puddle of water. The newel revolved around a well.
“Look, Joseph. Over here.”
He turned away from the stairs. Mariane was walking at the very edge of the lamplight toward the wooden rostrum. Koster crossed the tiles uneasily. As he approached, he noticed a kind of compass and a builder’s square atop the rostrum, leaning together, one against the other. They appeared to be made of solid gold. But what did it all mean? he thought. He was about to pick the compass up when, without warning, Mariane screamed.
Koster whirled about. Mariane stood but a dozen yards away, a little mound by her feet. “What is it?” he said, moving toward her. “Jesus Christ! You scared me.”
“It’s Maurice Duval,” said Lyman. He stepped out of the shadows.
Koster looked down and suddenly the mound in front of Mariane took shape: the broken torso gathered up its errant ribs; the ragged shirt, the jawbone, and the skull assembling; the leathery hands uniting once again as if in prayer. “My God,” he said, bringing his hand up to his mouth. The bile crawled in his throat. “Mariane.” He took her in his arms. “Are you all right?”
Mariane could not answer. She buried her face against his chest and he could feel her shuddering as she gasped for air. Koster looked up. Both Lyman and Guy were advancing from across the room. “How did you know?” said Koster.
“I didn’t until just now,” said Lyman. “But it is him, isn’t it, Mariane? It’s Maurice, isn’t it?”
Mariane nodded without turning. “Yes,” she finally said. It’s Maurice. The shirt.” She suddenly released her grip and turned to face the Englishman. “You knew all the time, didn’t you?” She took another step. “Didn’t you? Answer me.” She struck Lyman on the chest, first one blow and then another. “Didn’t you!”
Koster reached out to pull her back but Mariane was already spent. Her hands hung at her sides like two stones. Lyman had not even tried to defend himself. He just stood there with a dull, confused expression on his face.
“Call the police, Guy,” Koster said.
Lyman took a step away. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Call the police, Guy,” Koster repeated, the words edged slightly sharper. Guy started for the corridor but Lyman pulled him back.
“Just one moment. Let’s not be hasty here.”
Koster planted himself before the Englishman, his chest out, drawing himself up, trying to look bigger. “Get the damn police,” he said gruffly. “Now.”
Guy started for the corridor again. This time Lyman let him pass. “You don’t understand,” he said.
“Save it for Captain Musel, Lyman. Or is it Terry Randall now? I can barely keep up.”
Lyman sighed. “I am the bloody police,” he said flatly.
“What?”
Lyman reached into an inside pocket and pulled his wallet out. “Here,” he said, tossing it to Koster. “Go ahead. Take a peek. Detective Inspector Nigel Lyman. City of London Police.”
Koster opened the wallet and the ID stood straight up, like a flag. It was Lyman all right. A little younger, but the same.
“Give me five minutes,” Lyman said. “Ten at the most. That’s all. Then, if you’re still not satisfied, I’ll go with you to Musel. Ten minutes. It’s all I’m asking.”
“Why are you so afraid of Musel, if you’re a cop?” Koster tossed the wallet back to Lyman.
“It’s not that I’m afraid of him. I just don’t trust him very much.”
“But we should trust you, right?”
“Come on, Joseph. Ten minutes. Is that so much to ask? And besides, we have to trust each other now. We don’t have any other choice. We have to have faith,” he added, looking desperately at Mariane. “Don’t you see?”
They stood for a moment in silence at the side of the checkerboard floor. Koster had wrapped his arm round Mariane, supporting her. At their feet lay the grim mound of dried skin and bone that was all that remained of Maurice Duval. Lyman shifted his weight from one foot to the other, attending the response, the pause. The lamplight flickered.
“Ten minutes?” Mariane said.
“Fifteen, at the very most.”
She nodded almost imperceptibly. “All right,” she said. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
Chapter XVIII
AMIENS
September 24th, 1991
THEY SAT IN THE BASEMENT OF THE BISHOP’S PALACE in metal folding chairs, all save Lyman who was pacing like a lecturer, fearful of their glances, worried by the patch of mud across his chest as he began to gather up his story. No one believes a man with muck on his shirt, he thought. And they had to believe him. This time it was all or naught. He had faced that boy by the river with his gun and something had happened in the space between the gun sight and the boy’s unscored and open face. It had brought him back to Crosley once again, to that look of horrible surprise as the knife slipped through its mark, to the man with the wing-tipped shoes, to the fear which Lyman felt each time his pistol cleared the holster. Either he solved the case or it was over. There was no return now to the drab stairs and the steampipes by the door.
“I know what you’re probably thinking,” he said, raising his forearm smoothly, the presentation of a fly. “It’s a question of trust, isn’t it?” He found his left hand in his pocket and pulled it out. “It’s a question of beliefs. The things we believe. The beliefs we fight for. Ends and means.” Lyman sighed. This was all wrong. He was starting all wrong and for an instant he resented Koster with a lightning passion, for making him save his life, for making him run through this pointless game.
Lyman gathered himself up and there it was, at the baseboard of his memory, that book of discount coupons
he had scooped out of the dustbin after Koster had tossed it away. The simplest show of human weakness, Lyman thought. That was the key to Koster.
“Let’s stick to the facts,” he said. “Much of this you know—the abraxas and the man at the antique shop. You were right to distrust Tellier, Mariane. He’d already spent six years in jail for smuggling before he moved to Amiens.”
“I knew it,” Mariane cut in. “I knew there was something about him.”
“Yes,” he said. “And it was the words you used to describe him which helped me unravel the line. The abraxas were found beneath the Bishop’s Palace, and Maurice confronted Tellier. The antique dealer told him what the talismans were worth and Maurice became a part of the conspiracy. Then something happened between them.
“We may never know what it was. Perhaps it was greed, or jealousy, or fear. Whatever the reason, Tellier doublecrossed Maurice and began to investigate the abraxas and their history on his own.” Lyman smiled. “But Maurice didn’t trust the antique dealer, and on the night of your argument, Mariane, perhaps the very night that Tellier first discovered the entrance to the temple, Maurice came to the Bishop’s Palace to see what Tellier was up to. Tellier was caught. There was a struggle, and somehow Maurice was killed.
“Imagine it for a moment. Tellier is standing where we stood, in that darkened corridor below. His weapon is in his hands and Maurice is lying at his feet.”
Lyman sighed as he caught sight of Mariane’s face. It was pale as a ghost orchid in the feeble light. “Tellier had already been to jail,” he added quickly. “He knew what would happen to him if he were caught, so he decided to make a run for it. But he needed money, papers. He was too frightened to travel under his own name, and he had no time to buy a new identity. Maurice was killed on a Saturday and the banks were closed the following day. In all likelihood, Tellier didn’t keep much money at his house. The Amiens police said he was a timid man, with a history of complaints about robbers in the night. And so,” Lyman continued, looking down, his hands palm up before him, “having killed him, Tellier decided to become Maurice. He put his hat and coat on, he took his car, and he drove off through the night.”