by Robert Bloch
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 shoulder-blade 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 off-balance, 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 my surprise. 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. Wherever 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 eyes widened, then narrowed, and I realized that for the first time he 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 expanse of 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 my 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 branche
s 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 candlelight flickering from tapers set in niches around the base of the tunnel beyond. I sensed that their value was not only practical but precautionary, for they could 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 tall and tangled weeds bordering the side of the bridge ahead. In the shadows I made out a small shape huddled amidst surrounding clumps of vegetation.
“Sandor.” My captive nodded. “He’s asleep.”
I glanced up. “What about Le Boss and the others?”
“Inside the sewer. Further 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 forward 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 snivelling 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, and I stood waiting.
Except for the rasp of Sandor’s hoarse breathing, the night was still. No sound emanated from the great oval of the sewer across the river, and my vision could not penetrate the flashing of flame from within.
But the reflection of the light served me as I studied my prisoner. Like Bobo he had the body of a child, but the face peering up at me was incongruously aged—not by wrinkles but by the grim set of his cracked lips, the gaunt hollows beneath protruding cheekbones, and the sunken circles outlining the eyes above. The eyes were old, those deep dark eyes that had witnessed far more than any child should see. In them I read a present submissiveness, but that was merely a surface reaction. Beyond it lay a cold cunning, a cruel craftiness governed not by intelligence but by animal instinct, fully developed, ready for release. And he was an animal, I told myself; a predator, dwelling in a cave, issuing forth to satisfy ageless atavistic hungers.
He hadn’t been born that way, of course. It was Le Boss who transformed the innocence of childhood into amoral impulse, who eradicated humanity and brought forth the beast beneath.
Le Boss. What was he doing now? Surely Bobo had reached him by this time, told his tale. What was happening? I held Sandor close at knife-point, my eyes searching the swirl of firelight and shadow deep in the tunnel’s iron maw.
Then, suddenly and shockingly, the metal mouth screamed.
The high, piercing echo rose only for an instant before fading into silence, but I knew its source.
Tightening my grip on Sandor’s ragged collar and pressing the knife-blade close to his throat, I started toward the foot-bridge.
“No!” he quavered. “Don’t—”
I ignored his panting plea, his futile efforts to free himself. Thrusting him forward, I crossed the swaying structure, averting my gaze from the dank depths beneath and focussing vision and purpose on the opening ahead.
Passing between the flame-tipped teeth of the candles on either side, I dragged Sandor down into the yawning throat beyond. I was conscious of the odor now, the odor of carrion corruption which welled from the dank inner recesses, conscious of the clang of our footsteps against the rounded metal surface, but my attention was directed elsewhere.
A dark bundle of rags lay across the curved base of the tunnel ahead. Skirting it as we approached, I saw I’d been mistaken. The rags were merely a covering, outlining the twisted form beneath.
Bobo had made a mistake too, for it was his body which sprawled motionless there. The grotesque angle of his neck and the splinter of bone protruding from an outflung arm indicated that he had fallen from above. Fallen, or perhaps hurled.
My eyes sought the rounded ceiling of the sewer. It was, as I’d estimated, easily twenty feet high, but I didn’t have to scan the top to confirm my guess as to Bobo’s fate.
Just ahead, at the left of the rounded iron wall, was a wooden ladder, propped against the side of a long, broad shelf mounted on makeshift scaffolding which rose perhaps a dozen feet from the sewer’s base. Here the candles were affixed to poles at regular intervals, illuminating a vast jumbled heap of hand-luggage, rucksacks, attaché-cases, boxes, packages, purses and mouldy, mildewed articles of clothing, piled into a thieves’ mountain of stolen goods.
And here, hunching before them on a soiled and aging mattress, amidst a litter of emptied and discarded bottles, squatted Le Boss.
There was no doubt as to his identity; I recognized him by his mocking smile, the cool casualness with which he rose to confront me after I’d forced Sandor up the ladder and onto the platform.
The man who stood swaying before us was a monster. Forgive the term, but there is no other single word to describe him. Le Boss was well over six feet tall, and the legs enclosed in the dirt-smudged trousers of his soiled suit were bowed and bent by the sheer immensity of the burden they bore. He must have weighed over three hundred pounds, and the fat bulging from his bloated belly and torso was almost obscene in its abundance. His huge hands terminated in fingers as thick as sausages.
There was no shirt beneath the tightly-stretched suit jacket and from a cord around his thick neck a whistle dangled against the naked chest. His head was bullet-shaped and bald. Indeed, he was completely hairless—no hint of eyebrows surmounted the hyperthyroid pupils, no lashes guarded the red-rimmed sockets. The porcine cheeks and sagging jowls were beardless, their fleshy folds worm-white even in the candlelight which glittered against the tiny, tawny eyes.
I needed no second glance to confirm my suspicions of what had occurred before my arrival here; the scene I pictured in my mind was perfectly clear. The coming of Bobo, the breathless, stammered story, his master’s reaction of mingled disb
elief and anger, the fit of drunken fury in which the terrified bringer of bad tidings had been flung over the side of the platform to smash like an empty bottle on the floor of the sewer below—I saw it all too vividly.
Le Boss grinned at me, his fleshy lips parting to reveal yellowed stumps of rotting teeth.
“Well, old man?” He spoke in French, but his voice was oddly accented; he could indeed be a yougoslave.
I forced myself to meet his gaze. “You know why I’m here,” I said.
He nodded. “Something about a key, I take it.”
“Your pack of thieves took it. But it’s my property.”
His grin broadened. “My property now.” The deep voice rumbled with mocking relish. “Suppose I’m not inclined to return it?”
For answer I shoved Sandor before me and raised the knife, poising it against his neck. My captive trembled and made mewing sounds as the blade pressed closer.
Le Boss shrugged. “You’ll have to do better than that, old man. A child’s life isn’t important to me.”
I peered down at Bobo’s body lying below. “So I see.” Striving to conceal my reaction, I faced him again. “But where are the others?”
“Playing, I imagine.”
“Playing?”
“You find that strange, old man? In spite of what you may think, I’m not without compassion. After all, they are only children. They work hard, and they deserve the reward of play.”
Le Boss turned, gesturing down toward the far recesses of the sewer. My eyes followed his gaze through the shifting candle-glow, and for the first time I became aware of movement in the dim depths. Faint noises echoed upward, identifiable now as the sound of childish laughter. Tiny shapes moved below and beyond, shapes which gleamed white amid the shadows.
The yougoslaves were naked, and at play. I counted four of them, scuttling and squatting in the far reaches of the tunnel.
But wait! There was a fifth figure, slightly smaller than the others who loomed over it and laughed as they pawed the squirming shape or tugged at the golden hair. Over their mirth rose the sound of sobbing, and over that, the echo of Bobo’s voice.