“So I proposed the deal to Jacques,” Frank said, “and I was totally surprised by his reaction.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I figured he’s going to be really excited, right?” Frank said. “We’re asking him to be involved in one of the most crucial parts of the case—to actually do some major detecting, not just interview a crazy soccer coach.”
“And he wasn’t into it?”
“He was on his computer when I got there,” Frank said. “I proposed the deal, and he seemed to think the idea was okay. But it wasn’t what I expected, and that raised a red flag in my mind. The phone rang, and when he left the room to take the call, I carefully ran through some of the things on his desk. I found these.”
Frank laid out three pieces of paper. They were computer printouts—one bio for each Hardy. “Look at the dates,” Frank said.
“He ran these Wednesday,” Joe concluded.
“But he said he didn’t know who we were until he read the articles on Thursday,” Frank said.
“We already know he lies,” Joe pointed out.
“Yeah? Wait until you hear this,” Frank said. “When he got back to the room, he told me the call was from Isabelle, and she was sorry she’d brushed me off at the rally. He said she’d changed her mind about talking to me and was asking Jacques to set up a meet between Isabelle, you, and me. He said it was for eight o’clock tonight at Les Catacombes.”
“Whoa,” Joe said under his breath. He leaned back in his chair, picturing Isabelle being pushed away on the gurney and loaded into an ambulance. “No way she’s calling him from the hospital.”
“Exactly,” Frank said. “He’s setting us up.”
“He’s got to be in on all this somehow,” Joe said. “Maybe he’s one of Bergerac’s people.”
“Or he could be in Victoire, for all we know,” Frank said, “and he’s been setting us up from the very beginning—the rally, everything.” Frank took a long gulp of soda.
“He could even be a lone wolf,” Joe said.
“Well, I feel he’s now the prime suspect for the sabotage at Le Stade,” Frank said. “He also could have sent the e-mail from Dad.” He felt a rush of adrenaline.
“So we roll tonight,” Joe said, bringing his chair back down on all four legs, “no matter what.”
“Into probably the worst trap we’ve ever been invited into,” Frank said quietly.
Joe went to the counter at the front of the café and picked up a brochure with information about Les Catacombes. “It’s like an underground tomb,” he said. Frank ordered some croque-monsieurs while Joe filled him in.
“‘In the late seventeen hundreds,’” Joe read, “‘they quarried stone from under the streets and left these enormous vaults. The cemeteries were all overcrowded because of war and disease, so they moved millions of bodies from battlegrounds and other graveyards and hospital morgues to the catacombs.”
“Millions?” Frank repeated.
“They added bodies for two hundred years, it says here,” Joe read, “until there were eventually six million. Now it’s a tourist attraction that closes at four o’clock in the afternoon most days.”
“Except for people like us,” Frank said. “Tonight we get our own exclusive look at Les Catacombes.”
It was four o’clock when they finished eating. Frank placed his fifth call of the day to the symposium emergency number. The other times he’d talked to the same man who had called the night before. This time the call was answered by someone new, a woman with a kind, reassuring manner. She told Frank that all the conferees were working on locating Fenton Hardy, and no one was alarmed yet.
“He’s working on a difficult case,” she told Frank. “He might not check in as often as we’d like, but that doesn’t mean he’s in danger.”
“Checking in often is never necessary,” Frank said, after he’d repeated the conversation to Joe. “Just checking in once, though, would be a help.”
“I’m with you,” Joe said. “I’m thinking Jacques might be really dangerous. I don’t like the idea of him messing with Dad. Let’s get there early. I want every advantage we can get.”
They returned to the apartment along the same path they believed Fenton had taken the day before and that Frank had retraced that morning. They repeated Frank’s earlier efforts, showing shopkeepers and bus drivers a photo of their father and asking questions. No one had seen him the day before.
They got back to the apartment by about six o’clock. Frank checked for phone messages and e-mails, but there were none. Joe got out a map and they studied it carefully. Les Catacombes was located just a few steps from the Denfert-Rochereau Metro stop in the Montparnasse section of the city.
The Hardys memorized street and avenue names and other landmarks. They knew they had to be prepared to escape or to chase. And they had to know where they were going to be at all times.
“We can’t take much with us,” Frank said. “We need to be lean and mean; we can’t have backpacks weighing us down.”
“And no fancy spy gear for Jacques to steal,” Joe added. “We’ll just take one handheld.”
“Do we know what we’re getting ourselves into?” Frank asked. “He may have Victoire or Bergerac guys with him. Or he may be alone.” Each teen tucked a lockpick into the bottom of his left sock. Joe slipped the handheld under his shirt, down below his jeans, and hid it behind his belt buckle. They were about the same size; if he got frisked, no one would feel the small device behind his buckle. Finally both Joe and Frank tucked penlights into their pockets.
“If he’s by himself, he’ll have to be armed,” Frank reasoned, “because he knows we could take him. And he probably won’t dare frisk us because if he gets in too close, he risks our jumping him.”
By six forty-five they were ready. They took a couple of trains to the Denfert-Rochereau stop. As they walked from the train to the steps leading up to the street, Frank tried to picture the walls packed with bones. It was hard to imagine.
When they got to Les Catacombes, the area was deserted. The night was very dark. The full moon that had illuminated the lawn of Auguste Bergerac’s chateau the previous evening was no help the next night. It was completely masked by thick clouds.
They walked around the area. “I studied that map so hard,” Frank whispered, “that it all seems familiar.”
They circled back to the entrance and were only slightly startled when Jacques materialized from the shadows with barely a sound.
“There you are,” Joe said. “And alone.”
“You don’t seem surprised that it is me,” Jacques observed. “So you had used your detective skills to put two and two together?”
“You made it easy,” Frank said. “We’ve unearthed criminals far smarter than you.”
“Now, boys, let’s play nice, yes?” Jacques warned. He pulled his right arm up until his hand was lit by a streetlight. Clenched in his palm and glinting in the pale rays was a small revolver. He lowered his arm to his side again.
Frank felt an adrenaline rush. “This is your party, Jacques,” he said. “What’ve you got in mind?”
Jacques motioned them forward with his head. The Hardys headed in the direction Jacques had indicated until he told them to stop. They were in front of a small secluded door to what looked like an ancient building. “This may look like an old door, but it’s deceptive,” Jacques said. “And its lock is regulated by a computer program. Open it.”
Frank turned the knob, and the latch clicked.
“As you can see, I disabled it in preparation for our visit,” Jacques said. “Go inside.”
Frank pushed the door open, and he and Joe stepped into a large, dimly lit room. Jacques followed and closed the door. He ordered the Hardys to cross the room and walk down a narrow hall, until they finally came to a steep circular staircase leading sixty-five feet down to the catacombs.
He pushed them down the winding stairs. Then they turned into dimly lit narrow passages lined with bones; wal
l after wall of leg bones and arm bones stacked like bricks. In a few spots the Hardys saw designs created with skulls—hearts, flowers, and circles. The designs were made out of skulls.
On they walked, weaving through dozens of narrow tunnels, past thousands of bones. It seemed like a gruesome maze without a solution.
At last Jacques stopped the Hardys and turned them toward a darkened corridor with no bones in the walls. They moved forward until they came to a low door. Jacques shoved the Hardys through the opening. He turned on a flashlight that had been lying on the dirt floor. They were in a tiny room, sort of like an old-fashioned farm cellar.
“Where are we?” Frank demanded. He strained to see past the glow of the light beam.
“Hi, guys.” A lump instantly filled Frank’s throat when he heard his father’s voice. He reached down and grabbed the flashlight, aiming it in the direction of a large shadowy mass in the corner.
The pale yellow light washed over a horrifying sight. Sticking up from a bank of dirt were Fenton Hardy’s head and shoulders. He gave them a wry smile and nodded slowly.
Both Frank and Joe quickly turned back toward Jacques, but his grim expression and the gun in his hand told them it wouldn’t do any good to argue with him. And it might do a lot worse to jump him.
“Have a seat, Frank, over by your father,” Jacques ordered.
After Frank was settled, Jacques turned to Joe. “Now bury him,” Jacques ordered.
Joe knew that for now he had no choice. He began shoveling dirt around his brother’s legs.
“More,” Jacques barked. “Higher—like I did with your dad.”
Joe packed the dirt until Frank was buried up to his chest like his dad. Before his hands were covered, Frank slipped Joe his penlight. Joe tucked it in his jacket pocket without Jacques seeing.
When Frank was buried up to his chest, Jacques handcuffed both of Joe’s hands to the iron ring handle inside the door. Then he picked up his flashlight. He left the room and slammed the door shut behind him. Joe could hear him on the other side, pushing something against the door. The Hardys were plunged into a rank, earthy blackness.
15 The Quarry in the Quarry
* * *
“Dad? Frank? Are you okay?” Joe twisted around a little. He could only turn partway from the door.
“Define ‘okay,’” Fenton said in a weak voice.
“How long have you been here, Dad?” Frank asked. He tried to move his arms. Joe had done the best he could to make it a light packing of dirt, but Frank still could only wiggle his fingers and hands a little. He kept at it, but knew at this rate, it would take hours to free himself.
“I’m not sure,” Fenton answered. “All day. It’s time to get out.”
“I’m working on it,” Joe said. He twisted and contorted until he could get his jacket pocket near his fingers, which were trapped by the handcuffs. Inch by inch, he slowly pushed and pulled Frank’s penlight from his jacket pocket and flicked it on. Then he dropped it to the floor. He pushed it around with his foot until it was propped up on a small mound of dirt.
The light helped a little. He saw his dad’s face at the end of the light beam. Fenton looked pale and tired.
“Can you get to your pick?” Frank asked.
“I think so,” Joe said, already pushing his sneaker off with the other foot. “I feel like something in a circus act.”
He propped his leg up on the door near his handcuffed wrists. He positioned his fingers perfectly so he could strip off his sock and grab the lockpick before it fell to the dirt floor below.
It seemed to take hours to pick the handcuff lock because he had to twist his fingers into such difficult positions.
While Joe worked, Frank talked to Fenton. He could tell his dad was weak from going so long without food and water. He kept him awake by telling him about the Louvre secret passages, the houseboat, Isabelle Genet and Auguste Bergerac, and how their suspicions had grown about Jacques.
“How’s it going, Joe?” Frank finally called from the shadowy corner of the little room. The dirt packed around him was beginning to drive him crazy. “This stuff is making me itch. It’s probably the dozens of crawling things living in it.”
“I’ve almost got it,” Joe said. “Almost… there! I’m out.” With a loud click, the cuffs fell away from his wrists. He rubbed his hands and fingers and headed right for the shovel.
Joe rushed over to unearth his father and brother. Fenton was weak and woozy. Once both Frank and the boys’ father were free, Joe and Frank helped their dad move to the door of the little room. Jacques had firmly blocked the door, but the Hardys were determined. While Fenton held the penlight, Frank and Joe rammed into the door. It creaked open with a shower of dirt and rusty dust.
Jacques had pulled an iron bar from a brace shoring up the wall. He had jammed that against the door of the room to trap the Hardys.
Joe and Frank took a few moments to replace the bar on the ceiling, to ensure that the next visitors weren’t showered with skulls. Then the three wound through the bone-lined maze of winding paths and finally arrived back at the circular staircase that led up to the street.
Once back in fresh air, Joe looked at his dad. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“I’ve been better,” Fenton said. “But I think I’ve also been worse.” He and Frank brushed from their clothes bits of dirt and pebbles. They left wet brown-black stains where they had clung.
“We need a cab,” Frank said to his father. “You’ve got to get checked out by a doctor. Joe, you and Dad stay here and rest. I’ll go over to the boulevard and get a cab.” From his map study earlier, Frank knew just which way to go to get to the busy street. A few cabs passed him by, but one finally stopped. He directed the driver back to where his father and Joe were resting.
“At last,” Joe said.
“Yeah, well, a few didn’t stop,” Frank told them as they climbed in.
“I don’t blame them,” Fenton said, gesturing first to Frank and then himself. “We look like something that just crawled out of Les Catacombes.”
“Les Catacombes… uumph,” the cabby said with a shudder.
At the hospital Fenton quickly got attention. The doctors said he was badly dehydrated, chilled, and weak from hunger, but otherwise okay. He refused to stay for observation.
Frank insisted someone look at Joe’s head wound. After the doctor cleaned and bandaged it, Joe was ready to get out of there too.
While his brother and father were being examined and mended, Frank paid a visit upstairs to Gabriel Sant’Anna. The coach was sitting up, able to talk, and happy to have a visitor.
“Do you remember the attack?” Frank asked.
“Yes, a little,” Coach Sant’Anna answered. “I’ve told the police I saw the man only briefly before I lost consciousness.”
Frank took out the folded-up paper he had taken from his first visit to that room. “Do you remember this note?” he asked. “And the message you wrote in blue pen on the locker room floor?”
“Yes—the police thought at first it was an M,” Coach Sant’Anna said. “And they thought I was naming Montie Roberts.” He chuckled. “I almost let them believe that too. But I couldn’t, because it wasn’t Montie. It could not have been Montie. He is a passionate man, but he is not violent.”
“So were you writing a W?” Frank asked. “Or a V?”
“Yes, yes, a V,” Coach Sant’Anna said, pointing to the letter on the paper. “Not just one V—two Vs to make sure. You are the only one who figured that out.” He waggled his finger at Frank. “You are very smart.”
“And the V stands for ... ,” Frank prompted.
“Volunteer,” said the coach. “It was one of the volunteers who jumped me. I had seen him on the field.”
Frank described Jacques, and the coach nodded. “That could definitely be the man,” he agreed. “Perhaps I will recognize him if I see him.”
“We’ll try to arrange that,” Frank said with a smile. He thanked the coach
and rejoined Joe and Fenton in the emergency room.
Frank told the others what he’d learned from Coach Sant’Anna. Then Fenton called his security colleagues and told them everything the Hardys knew about Jacques.
“They’re putting out a bulletin on him,” Fenton told his sons when he hung up the phone. “I expect he’ll be picked up before morning.”
“I say we celebrate,” Joe said. “We’re all okay, we might be about to crack a case, and we’re in Paris. How about some dinner?”
“I’m meeting with some of my colleagues,” Fenton said, shaking his head. “After all, I’m a prime witness, and I want to be in on the capture.”
“We should go too,” Frank said. “I’ve got a few bones to pick with him myself.” Fenton and Joe groaned when they heard the play on words.
“Nice try,” their father said. “But this guy’s more than dangerous, I think. He’s a little nuts. We’ve got a lot of people on this. I’m sure we’ll get him… and we’ll do it without putting you two in danger. I’ll keep you posted.”
After Fenton left, Joe talked to one of the nurses. He told her their friend Isabelle Genet was in a hospital in Montmartre, and asked if the nurse could call over there and find out how she was doing. The nurse placed the call. She found out that Isabelle was in serious condition, but would recover.
Frank needed to change out of his filthy, stained clothes, so they headed back to the apartment for a cleanup. While Frank changed, Fenton called. He told Joe that they still hadn’t picked up Jacques, but hoped to soon.
“I say we set our own trap,” Joe said. After checking the guidebooks and maps, they agreed on a plan. Joe set up the high-tech voice alterer. Frank called Jacques’s cell phone. Someone accepted the call, but no one spoke. Figuring that Jacques was on the other end but didn’t want to give himself away, Frank spoke without waiting for a response. He knew the voice alterer would disguise the sound so that Jacques would not know who was calling.
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