This time, Betty nodded.
“The old tunnels are very dangerous. Civilians are forbidden to enter, but many do. They often lose their way, their flashlight batteries run down, or they injure themselves. In the six months I was on patrol, I rescued three people inside the catacombs. One was lucky—he had been missing for only a few hours. Two had been underground for much longer, and they seemed to have lost their minds in the darkness. They spoke of a mysterious savior who had discovered them trapped in one of the catacombs’ deepest passages. The man gave the pair water before guiding them to a part of the tunnels where the police were certain to find them.
“I should have listened more closely to their story. I knew that the police never visited the deepest tunnels. Anything could have been happening down there. But the man in charge of the Catacomb Patrol was convinced such expeditions would be a waste of our time. He believed no sane visitor would dare venture so far into the underworld. For months, I never once questioned his wisdom.
“Then one evening, I happened to take a wrong turn, and I found myself inside a tunnel I had never explored before. I wandered for hours, trying to find a way out. There was nothing down there—no sign of human activity. I was on the edge of despair when I discovered it: a cinema.”
“A movie theater?” Betty asked.
“That is correct. The subterranean cavern I had stumbled across was wired for electricity and appointed just like an ordinary theater. A large screen hung from the ceiling at one end of the room. There were dozens of velvet chairs and even a popcorn machine. They had an old-fashioned projector and a library of classic films. The walls of the cavern were decorated with movie posters. I recall Journey to the Center of the Earth and Land of the Lost. I must admit, it was a very nice cinema. But it didn’t belong in the catacombs. I knew I had made an important discovery. I used the electrical wires to guide myself back to the surface, and I immediately filed a full report.
“The next day, I gathered reinforcements and returned to the catacombs. It took us hours to locate the chamber. When we got there, the cinema was gone. Even the chairs had vanished overnight. The only thing left in the room was a note. It said, ‘DO NOT TRY TO FIND US.’ And it was signed, ‘the Darkness Dwellers.’ Everyone on the police force assumed I had pulled a prank. I was officially reprimanded by my superiors and ridiculed by my colleagues. So I resigned from the force and phoned a reporter I knew. She took my claims seriously, but few people ever read the article she wrote.”
“I read it,” Madame Beauregard said. “And I knew in an instant that Detective Fitzroy was telling the truth.”
“How?” Betty asked. What would someone like Amelia Beauregard know about a group of Parisians who like to watch movies underground?
“Because they call themselves the Darkness Dwellers. It’s rather unusual for a French group to take an English name, wouldn’t you say? Well, I believe I know how they chose it. You may recall, Miss Bent, the day we met in the Marble Cemetery. I was visiting an old friend of mine, a man by the name of Gordon Grant. He was here in Paris more than sixty years ago, working as a code breaker with a small group of French and American spies who were stationed inside the catacombs. They were intercepting orders from Nazi command, hoping to save Paris from destruction. When I heard that Gordon would be spending weeks underground, I began calling his team the Darkness Dwellers. The name was a private joke between the two of us. As far as I know, neither of us ever shared it with another soul.”
“Then how could the French group have heard about it?” Betty asked.
“They must have seen the name somewhere in the catacombs. I need to know where they saw it or what they found.”
“Why?” Betty asked.
“For years, I was told that Gordon had vanished during the war. Now I have reason to believe that he never made it out of the tunnels alive. If his body is still down there, these new Darkness Dwellers may know where to find it.”
“And what does all of this have to do with me?” Betty asked.
The headmistress let the detective answer. “I have spent the past two years attempting to make contact with the Darkness Dwellers,” he said. “Somehow they always manage to elude me. But not long ago, I met a young man your age in the catacombs. He showed me a hideout he had constructed himself, and he claimed he knew many of the Darkness Dwellers personally. Unfortunately, he introduced me to a friend, and the other young man recognized me at once. His father is the leader of the Catacomb Patrol. The boys have been avoiding me ever since. I tried to return to the hideout. I know its general location, but the room itself is well hidden. At times I can feel them watching me, but I cannot draw them out. Madame Beauregard believes they might emerge if we offered the right bait—perhaps the chance to rescue a pretty girl.”
Betty had heard enough to get her blood boiling. She had never allowed herself to get upset when Madame Beauregard corrected her manners. Nor had she resented being ordered about like a trained monkey. But this was an insult Betty couldn’t ignore.
“So that’s why you brought me to Paris? To play a damsel in distress? To be bait?” she growled at Amelia Beauregard. “You think I can help you find the Darkness Dwellers because I’m pretty? What is this, the nineteenth century? For your information, I happen to know more about subterranean tunnels and underground worlds than most people on Earth. I’m also a master of disguise, and I have a red belt in karate. But you wouldn’t know any of that because you never bothered to ask. All you knew about me until this minute is that I’m pretty.”
Madame Beauregard had not anticipated such a dramatic response. “Miss Bent, I …”
“Please. Allow me to finish. We researched your background, Madame. We know about your friend Gordon. If you’re trying to clear his name, that’s all fine and dandy. But you should have told me what you were planning before we left New York City. Instead, you decided to spring it on me over breakfast at some fancy restaurant where you didn’t think I’d make a scene.”
“Yes, I …”
“You paid my way to Paris, and I don’t want to be in your debt. And as it turns out, I’m not going to be quite as busy here as I originally thought. So I am going to help you, Madame Beauregard. Yes, I’ll go to the catacombs. Tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make that phone call.”
THE FISHBEIN GUIDE TO … TELEPHONE ETIQUETTE
A smartphone is the most essential tool an adventurer can possess. It will allow you to call for reinforcements, plot your next move, and document suspicious activities. But a phone is also a tool that can easily be turned against you.
Here are a few frightening facts to consider …
Yes, We Are Listening
Politeness aside, there’s a very good reason to avoid using your phone in public places. (These include restaurants, stores, movie theaters, and police stations.) Someone is bound to be listening. Eavesdropping on private conversations happens to be a favorite pastime of mine. You wouldn’t believe some of the juicy tidbits I’ve picked up over the years—and on several occasions, those tidbits have concerned people I know. So whenever you need to place a call, search for a private spot.
Yes, Those Photos Will End Up on the Internet
Unless you’re willing to change your name and move to a country without Internet access, never, ever let anyone take incriminating photos of you. Not your boyfriend, your best friend, or your sweet baby sister. One little argument, and those photos will be posted where the whole world can see them. For eternity. And that will be the end of your glorious future in politics, investment banking, detective work, or crime.
Yes, You Should Be Paying Attention
If you’re busy talking or texting, you’re probably not aware of what’s happening around you. You might not realize that you’re being followed by someone who really wants a new smartphone. That the person you’ve been staking out has just emerged from hiding. That the cherry blossoms are particularly lovely this spring. Or that there’s an open manhole two steps in fron
t of you.
Yes, It’s Your Duty to Call for Help
If you see someone in trouble, immediately call for help. Do not assume that someone else will take care of it. The other witnesses are probably assuming the very same thing. And yes, it is your business.
Yes, You Will Lose Your Phone at Some Point
Keep your phone password protected. Or be prepared to have your e-mails, texts, and photos shared with the world.
Chapter 22
A Declaration of War
NEW YORK: THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 19
A mouse scurried across my path as I made my way toward the well-lit living room at the end of the hall. I could hear my mother tapping at the computer. For months, she had been slaving away on a scholarly work entitled Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know. I’d thought it sounded like something worth reading until my mother informed me it was all about poetry. As I approached her desk, she was too immersed to hear my footsteps, so I decided to clear my throat.
My mother screamed and put her hand to her heart, as if that were the only way to keep it inside her chest. “Ananka!” she gasped once she’d caught her breath. “I thought you went to bed hours ago! It’s three o’clock in the morning!”
The truth was, I’d never even gotten under the covers. I had come home with Iris’s warning burning a hole through my brain and locked myself away in my room to suffer in silence. I was mortified, heartbroken, guilt-ridden, and furious. I raged against fate, love, and cute little blond girls who refuse to mind their own business. When my phone rang, I considered hurling it against the wall on the other side of the room. My shame only grew when I saw who was calling.
And yet it felt surprisingly good to hear Betty Bent’s voice. It was eight a.m. on her second day in Paris, and the Irregulars’ emissary had big news to report. The previous afternoon, she’d sent a note announcing her arrival in France to the boy who’d e-mailed Kiki’s request for the cure. Hours later, Betty had finally received word from the mysterious French kid. Kiki was free and no longer needed the tonic. He gave no explanation, but the very next morning, Betty watched Livia Galatzina and her favorite henchman rush from a restaurant in a state of sheer panic. Somehow, Kiki had managed to twist their knickers into a bunch. Betty planned to wait one more day in case Kiki changed her mind about the hair-growing formula. But on Friday she had to focus on a brand-new assignment. Amelia Beauregard wanted to send Betty down to the catacombs underneath Paris to search for Gordon Grant’s body.
The report wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped to hear. Even if Kiki had managed to outwit her relatives, another Irregular might have fallen into a trap. I didn’t like the idea of Betty trudging through dark passages, searching for a man who had betrayed his own country—a man who might not even be dead.
The time had come for me to focus on my duties. I took an oath to stay away from Kaspar. I’d focus on my work and try to forget my heartbreak. I would find some way to help Betty Bent—and pray that she never discovered just how close I’d come to betraying her.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I told my mother. “Thought I’d come look for a book.”
“Well, we certainly have plenty of those,” she remarked. “Any subject in particular?”
“The liberation of Paris at the end of World War II and Hitler’s plans to destroy the city.”
My mother took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She could work for hours without so much as a potty break, but just a few seconds with me could leave her exhausted. “You know, Ananka, you should try to start your homework at a more reasonable hour.”
“It’s not homework,” I said. I didn’t bother to add that I hadn’t done any homework in over a week.
My mother looked briefly puzzled, then her energy seemed to surge. “Would this have something to do with Amelia Beauregard?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I teased.
“The books on WWII are in the bunker, of course,” she said, referring to the guest room that contained the fabled Fishbein collection of military literature. “But there are always a few new titles on your father’s bedside table.”
And that’s where I found it. A hefty tome published by an obscure academic press, with a title far too long and dull to repeat. My father, dozing beneath a heap of books, cracked open an eye.
“I haven’t gotten to that one yet, but I don’t think it has any aliens or giant squid,” he said.
“I know.”
“Then your taste must be improving.” He closed his eye again. “Let me know if you’d like to discuss.”
It was a sweet offer, but I doubt my father would have wanted to discuss how close I came to dying of boredom before I finally managed to locate the following passage:
Paris faced new dangers in the days leading up to the city’s liberation. In the summer of 1944, it was widely reported that Hitler intended to destroy the French capital should German troops prove unable to maintain control. A small French and American task force was sent into the Paris catacombs to intercept and decode sabotage plans. Four of France’s finest agents, an American cryptographer, and an American engineer worked tirelessly for several weeks, listening for evidence that attacks had been ordered. Just two days before the German retreat, all contact was lost with the team in the tunnels. It wasn’t until the war ended that investigators began to search for the missing spies. What they discovered in the catacombs shocked even the most battle-hardened officers. Over five miles of subterranean tunnels had been rigged with explosives. Had the bombs been detonated, much of Paris would have collapsed.
Six spies had been stationed in the catacombs, but only five bodies were discovered. The American engineer had been felled by a single bullet. Three of the French agents appeared to have been ambushed and slaughtered. Two were found murdered in their beds. The third had been strangled as he sat at his desk. The remaining French spy had escaped the carnage, only to die of dehydration before he found a way to the streets above.
The sixth man’s body was never recovered, and he has remained at the center of a mystery for over sixty years. Gordon Grant was the team’s leader. A brilliant American cryptographer who had won praise for his work cracking enemy codes, he had bravely volunteered for the mission. His superiors remained convinced of his innocence until the bullet that killed the American engineer was traced to Gordon Grant’s gun.
Though his guilt remains unproven, it is now widely believed that Gordon Grant murdered four of his colleagues. There had been rumors suggesting the young man was hiding a terrible secret during the weeks before his disappearance. At least one close acquaintance was convinced that Grant had been engaged in an illicit love affair, perhaps with a German spy.
The truth may not remain hidden forever. The French spy who died wandering the catacombs was found in possession of an unusual envelope. The document within contained a coded letter written in Gordon Grant’s hand. For sixty years, the message was kept secret by the US military. It has only recently been declassified, and this book is the first to publish it. Perhaps someday soon, the code will be broken.
A short message followed. I counted one hundred fifty-nine characters. A jumble of letters that made no sense. Ripping a page from the book would have been an unforgivable offense, so I pulled a pencil from my desk drawer and diligently started to copy down the code.
BVYRB WEITW EEROY ORKRI EYHIR
DAWGO DEPUE EVUTM VDUMD TGOHI
IOTVO BBBVU CUORS SRASE LTEEH
HREVN UYEUU REERV OAMKS NYTUE
LONNT IFTVE NSSNE EOHTI NAGAL
HONHL AZNDR TNETI BRRSM EHOER
OHWDE TESE
Since Principal Wickham had named me her protégé, I had really been making an effort to stay awake in class. But let’s be honest, if you’ve been up all night thinking about spies, slaughters, and sabotage, there’s nothing like a physics lecture to send you straight to dreamland.
“Ananka. Ananka!” My physics instructor, Mr. Schiffer, was poking me with a piece of chalk, leaving little white polka dots on the sleev
e of my black sweater.
“The second law of thermodynamics!” I blurted out, and my classmates tittered. I twisted around to see a room filled with zombies.
“Nice try, Ananka,” Mr. Schiffer said. “You’re exactly three weeks behind the rest of the class. Now go to the principal’s office.”
“Please,” I begged, wiping the drool from my chin. “I had a rough night. I promise I’ll stay awake.” Principal Wickham may have been my mentor, but she never hesitated to sentence me to after-school detention, and I’d already texted Oona and Iris to meet me at four.
“I’ve given up trying to punish you,” said Mr. Schiffer, waving a note in the air. “But apparently Principal Wickham believes that you might not be hopeless. She’s the one who requested your presence.”
Still groggy, I made a pit stop at the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Standing at the sink, I could hear the sound of weeping coming from one of the stalls. I squatted down and caught sight of an extra-large pair of ladylike pumps. The stall’s occupant was applying bandages to the backs of her heels, which were raw and bloody from rubbing against the shoes’ stiff leather.
“You okay in there?” I asked. “You want me to get a first-aid kit? Or maybe some morphine? Those wounds look pretty nasty.”
“No, thank you,” came the polite reply. Then the sobbing commenced once more.
“You sure?” I tried again, but the only response I received was the sound of a nose being blown.
Suit yourself, I thought, my sympathy exhausted. That’s what you get for letting traitor-loving Amelia Beauregard turn you into the walking dead.
I pushed through the door and headed toward the dimly lit, reputedly haunted section of the building that housed the principal’s office. When I arrived, her assistant glanced up at me and then returned to her typing. She shook her head as if to say, You’ve done it again. But the only words that left her mouth were, “Go right inside, Ananka. They’re waiting for you.”