“I don’t know about that, Marcel. You seem as though you are doing quite well for yourself, despite the years.”
“Yes,” he said, lighting a cigar. Marcel offered one to Henry and me. He declined. I did not. “It took me awhile to get over our last encounter. You cost me a fortune.”
“Well, that artifact you discovered and I…disposed of…would have been quite dangerous in the wrong hands. And it tends to be from those hands that the largest sums will pass. You always did believe in the philosophy of the highest bidder.”
Marcel smiled. “I didn’t get in this business to lose money. But you are right, my friend. You are right. I realize that now. Not much comes with age, but maybe wisdom still does. That little trinket was a score that was too big for me. Too big for anyone, I suppose. Still, it was worth a lot of money.”
“Perhaps I can make it up to you today.”
The young woman, the only other person in all of the Café du Marché—what one might call a “rustic” establishment well off the beaten Parisian paths—arrived with the wine. She uncorked it, pouring three full glasses. Marcel raised his. “Well, to making up old debts then.”
He took a sip and gestured with his glass toward me. “I’m not surprised you had something in mind. I didn’t suppose you wanted to talk about old times. You never struck me as the sentimental type.”
“No,” I said, smiling. “Straight to business then?”
Marcel nodded, and I knew that, whatever he might say, he still remembered what I had cost him a decade before.
I had known Marcel since we were both much younger men. Marcel had been a French lieutenant in the Great War, and after watching most of his friends and countrymen cut down in a conflict that shattered the world and slayed a whole generation with nothing to show for it, he decided he had given enough of himself. From then on, fortune and glory—with an emphasis on fortune—were his watchwords. He became a procurer of rare antiquities. A grave-robber to some, but a good one. Our paths had crossed many times over the years, but it was when Marcel came into possession of a rare and exquisite diadem which he procured from a questionable trader on the Massachusetts coast that we had our little disagreement. It was fortunate that we were able to intercept Marcel and “liberate” the artifact from his possession before the Walpurgis moon shone down on Devil Reef.
“We need a guide, an expert to take us down in the catacombs.”
Marcel arched an eyebrow. “The catacombs? That’s dirty business, Dr. Weston. Dirty business, indeed. The catacombs are the resting place of my countrymen, my brothers.” He grinned broadly. “To violate their sleep would be a desecration.”
He had always driven a hard bargain.
“Come now, Marcel. You and I both know that quite a bit of your empire is built on lost treasures you’ve dug up from that same ground. There’s no man in Paris, no man in all the world, who knows those tunnels better than you do. Your reputation precedes you.”
Marcel shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “I said it would be a desecration. I did not say it would be impossible.” Then he grinned again. “Nor did I say it would be cheap.”
“Good thing you know that I’m good for it.”
“It’s hard to say what you are good for these days. Last I heard, you were dead.”
Now it was my turn to grin. “I suppose I should be flattered that rumors of my demise made it all the way across the Atlantic. But as you can see, they were greatly exaggerated.”
“Of course, Carter. And yes, I do know that you are a man of your word. So about that, I am not concerned. What does concern me is that trouble seems to follow you like a storm cloud. And whatever you seek in the catacombs? I can only assume that it will bring some of the worst trouble of all.”
I grabbed the bottle and refilled our glasses. When it ran dry, Marcel gestured for another. We sat in silence until it arrived. “Have you heard of the Staff of Dzyan?” I asked. His brow furrowed.
“Ah, the Staff of Dzyan. So that’s what you seek? You do look for trouble.”
“What do you know about it?”
Marcel stubbed out his dying cigar and exhaled a last cloud of smoke. He leaned across the table, resting on his elbows, and clasped his hands together. “In its early days, a thousand years or more ago, Paris was known for its mines. Limestone, gypsum, what-have-you. And then the city grew,” he said, waving his hand across the table. “As it did, it covered the old mines, burying them beneath the city’s glory. And perhaps that would have been the end of the story, but the mines did not want to be forgotten. When they started collapsing, with streets and people and buildings disappearing below, everyone was reminded. The old mines had to be reinforced, lest the entire city fall into the depths.
“And then someone hit upon an idea. No one knows exactly who it was. You see, the city had an overcrowding problem. Not of the living, but of the dead. Bodies were stacked one upon another in their graves, four, five deep. The stench of decay and the smell of disease were ever-present. Finally, a use for the miles of limestone caverns carved beneath our feet. Paris’s dead were disinterred and entombed, this time forever, in the catacombs.
“It’s a beautiful irony, I think. Paris, the city of lights, the crown jewel of Western Europe. And yet, like a beautiful and supposedly virtuous woman, the truth she hides underneath is quite different.”
Marcel leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine. He cocked his eyebrow and swirled the burgundy liquid gently. “At least, that’s the official story.”
“Precisely,” I said.
“There were always rumors that powerful interests used the opening of the catacombs to hide certain valuable and…how do you say…sensitive items where only they could find them. For their protection, I suppose. I can confirm that the first rumor is true. As to the protection…” He grinned wide. “Well, I’ll just say that in these difficult times, people will go to great lengths to ensure that buried treasure does not stay buried for long.”
“And the staff?”
Marcel had now transitioned to cigarettes. “Of all the gifts of the new world, tobacco is certainly the one that I prefer the most. Yes, Carter. I have heard of your staff, but it is one relic I have never found. A certain religious order is said to revere it.”
“The Tzadikim Nistarim,” Henry said.
Marcel merely nodded. “And the story I have always heard is that they themselves deposited it in the catacombs. Buried it, deep below the main tunnels. Unless you knew where you were looking, finding it would take an army. One that was dedicated, and highly motivated.”
He grinned again, and it was evident that he was toying with us.
“All right, Marcel,” I said. “You’ve had your fun. Clearly you know something you’re not telling us.”
“Well the thing is, my dear Carter, you are not the first person to enquire into the Staff of Dzyan. In fact, it seems that any number of people are interested in its whereabouts. Including some unsavory characters of Teutonic descent.”
“Germans?” Henry said more than asked, as if there was any question.
“Indeed. In fact, they were here yesterday. We met in this very restaurant.”
Henry and I glanced at each other. Suddenly, this charming hole-in-the-wall bistro took on a more sinister atmosphere. I half-expected a division of SA to burst from the kitchen at any moment.
A sly smile crossed Marcel’s face. “Lucky for you, I hate Germans. So I told them to go back to Berlin. To eat a sausage, as it were. But I wouldn’t count on them listening.”
“No,” I said. “They are rather persistent.”
“In any event, I am at your disposal. Personally, I rarely go into the catacombs anymore.” He patted his stomach, it having grown much larger than the last time I had seen him. “It seems that time has been kind to me, and I have grown weary of tight spaces. But I will send one of my best men to guide you. He will meet you at your hotel. I hope you find what you seek, particularly before the Germans get to it.”
“Thank you, Marcel,” I said, taking his hand. “I promise you that I will make it worth your troubles.”
“I know you will, my friend. But Carter, one other thing. It is not only the Germans who seek the staff. Rumors persist in the Latin Quarter of unsavory goings-on in the dark corners of the city. Tales of unsavory men about, strange tidings and strange portents. Beware the Yellow Sign.”
Marcel rose, grabbing his cane and throwing a few francs on the table. “That should cover it. Next time, it’s on you. My man will meet you tonight in the lobby of your hotel at eight o’clock, sharp. Don’t be late.” He tipped his hat to Henry and me, and then he was gone.
“The Yellow Sign?” Henry muttered.
“We knew it would come to this,” I said. “It seems the Germans are the least of our problems.”
Chapter 23
Journal of Carter Weston
July 26, 1933
When I told Rachel that we were going into the catacombs—and that I wanted her to stay behind—she was not pleased.
“Absurd. That’s what I think. We came here to get you, to save you. And now you expect me to wait behind while you risk your life? You know what could be waiting for you down there.”
“And I am sure that Guillaume and I can handle it.”
“Guillaume?” she said, and I could have sworn the blood drained away from her face. The young man stepped forward and took her hand. Margot inhaled sharply.
“I spoke to your father about it earlier. I promise I will keep him safe.”
Rachel jerked her hand away. “You can’t promise that,” she said, but her voice was weak. “You can’t promise that at all.”
“Rachel, darling,” I said, “I won’t tell you it won’t be dangerous. But I assure you, we will take every precaution.”
“And if something happens? If you run into something you can’t handle? What if Zann shows up? You know he’s here. You know he’s looking for you.”
“All the more reason for you to go with Henry and Margot. I don’t want you to be in more danger than you have to be.”
The look on Rachel’s face combined shock and disgust. “You have some nerve. Some damn nerve. You’re feeling guilty about something that happened thirteen years ago, and now you’re taking it out on me?”
“Now Rachel, that’s not fair,” said Henry.
Rachel would have none of it. “You’re damn right it’s not fair. God, Henry. I would have thought you of all people would understand.” She rounded on me. “The only reason you are even here, the only reason you are even free is because of me. Because of us. And now you want to go off on your own.”
Guillaume put a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. I half expected her to bite it off. Instead, she instantly softened.
“Rachel, it’s okay,” he said. “Your father knows what he is doing. We’ll be fine.”
Now it was Margot’s turn. “I don’t appreciate being left out of this decision. I didn’t come all the way from Germany to tag along while you two fools risk your lives.”
“You’re right,” I said, holding up a hand. “And the truth of the matter is that I have something important that I need you to do.”
“All right,” Rachel said. “I’m listening.”
I sat at the table and spread out a map of France. “There is a monastery between Paris and Orleans, one of the oldest in the country. It is called Abbaye d’Crosse.”
Guillaume furrowed his brow. “The Abbey of the Staff?”
“Precisely. The most reliable stories point to the catacombs as the hiding place of the Staff of Dzyan. But the catacombs are not all that old, in the grand scheme of things. Legend has it that the staff was kept at the abbey and revered as a relic for the better part of a millennium before it was moved for safe keeping.”
“But if the staff was moved, what is the purpose of going there?” asked Rachel.
“Legends can be wrong. We must be sure. It may turn out to be a dead end, a waste of time. But it’s an avenue of inquiry that we cannot ignore. I wish that I could go with you, but I fear the hour is short. Rachel, I need you to do this for me. I need you to use those investigative skills you were renowned for and learn what you can at the abbey. Who knows? Perhaps the staff remains there yet, or maybe the priests will know its resting place.”
She fixed me with her eyes, staring hard. I feared she didn’t believe me, that she would assume I was merely trying to keep her busy and that she would refuse the errand. It was true that I did not want her venturing into the catacombs. But at the same time, we needed to know what the masters of the abbey knew, and I trusted no one more to find out that information than my daughter and Henry.
“Fine. I’ll go.”
“Good. I’ve purchased three tickets for you, Henry, and Margot on a train that leaves in an hour.”
Henry didn’t like the fact that I was sending him away. But he didn’t say a word.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Last week you thought I was dead. Now I’m alive. I don’t intend on that changing anytime soon.”
Rachel looked from Guillaume to me, and then she sighed, long and deep.
“Just be careful,” she said. “I can’t bear to lose you. Either of you.”
Perhaps I was the only one to notice how Margot glared at Rachel, and I began to wonder if there was much I did not know going on between them, among all of them.
“Then it’s settled. We meet back here tomorrow night.”
* * *
Rachel gave me a hug before she left. There was little warmth. I believe the only reason she did it was in case I didn’t make it back. After they were gone, Guillaume and I wasted away the day as we waited to meet our guide. “That could have gone better,” Guillaume said. I suppose he was right, but my only thought had been that it could have gone much worse.
The man Marcel had sent was waiting for us in the lobby. He was tall and slender. A black man, probably from the Algerian or Tunisian colony. Perhaps Morocco. I had dealt with men of his nation during several of my expeditions along the African coast of the Mediterranean. I had found them to be reliable and efficient, and I hoped that he would live up to my expectations.
“Gentlemen,” he said, bowing slightly to us both. “I am Nassim. Monsieur Dupont sends his regards.”
“Thank you, Nassim,” I said. “You can give him ours when we return.”
He bowed again slightly and we followed him out the door.
“Monsieur Dupont tells me that you have a rather unusual request,” he said. “It is not often that outsiders visit the catacombs.”
“Outsiders?” said Guillaume as we stepped out into a cool Parisian night. “Surely it’s not that often that anyone visits the catacombs, outsiders or not.”
Nassim chuckled lightly. “You would be surprised, my friend. There are some in this city that have a peculiar obsession with death. A legacy of the war, I suppose.”
We followed in silence while he led us deep into the warrens of Montparnasse. The casual visitor knows Paris as a city of broad boulevards and open space, a city of light. But off the beaten paths that tourists travel lie darker, older places, where furtive eyes stare from towering tenements to the artificial canyon floor below.
It was there that we went, stopping at a café that had no name. Nassim signaled to the man behind the bar, who nodded once in return. Then, without a word, we were led into a back room, empty but for a table and a single lantern that swung lazily from the ceiling, providing the only light. Nassim reached inside his coat and removed a roll of papers, which he spread out on the table.
“The catacomb system is vast,” he said. “More than a hundred miles worth.”
“Oh God,” I said, “and we don’t even know where to begin.”
“Then perhaps your God favors you,” Nassim said with a smile, “for I do. My youth was spent in Marrakesh, selling baubles to wealthy sons of the aristocracy with more money than they could spend in a lifetime. I learned quickly how to tell the difference betwe
en a treasure and a trinket. Monsieur Dupont found me, recognized my talent. Through him, I came to know the catacombs like most men know the streets around their home.”
“And you think you know where we should begin our search?”
Nassim nodded. He pointed on the map to a square that meant nothing to me.
“Much of the catacombs are unremarkable. At least, as unremarkable as a city of the dead can be. But this area here, it is different.”
“Different?”
“There are…whispers. Stories. They say things lurk within those tunnels. Things that walk when they should crawl. When I was a boy, my father told me that the wastes of the desert were to be feared. He told me that Allah dwelt with men and in the land of men. But the wilds, the deep, the tunnels beneath the earth, the places where human voices are stilled? That is where they dwell. The catacombs are the same. The remains of the dead keep men at bay, but that does not mean that nothing walks those halls. And in this area in particular, one can feel their presence. It is for that reason that those who have something to hide often hide it there.”
“According to the information I have received, the staff would be buried beneath the catacombs themselves. Have you heard of anyone digging?”
Nassim leaned back and stroked his beard. “There are always stories, but about several months ago, word spread among those who work the trade that it would be ill-advised to venture into the catacombs for the foreseeable future. Others spoke of large groups of men descending into the tunnels. And then, of course, there were the murders.”
I glanced at Guillaume and saw the same fear in his eyes that I was trying to hide in mine.
“Murders?”
“Killings of the most devious kind. The police have done everything in their power to keep information out of the press, but the street has many ears. Sacrifices. Women, cut from stomach to throat. Gutted alive.”
It is a cliché, I suppose, to say that I felt my blood run cold. But I can think of no other way to describe it. The signs were clear. The cult of Nyarlathotep was not only searching for the staff, but they had attempted to raise their master, to bring him into our world, once again. And unlike that day in the Louisiana swamps, there was no one to stop them. Our mission had become all the more critical, and all the more dangerous.
He Who Walks in Shadow Page 14