The Catacombs - First Snippet from Who Runs Paris?

The streets were empty Sunday morning. Paris was in church or bed. Nobody out to hear the scuttle beneath cobbled roads. Saints and Kings had trod those stones and worn them smooth, but beneath them existed another world: the catacombs.

Following the smell of smoke, Henri whistled, and listened to the shrill music bounce off the cavernous walls, leading him to the rendezvous point. There was still an hour before they were expected, but Henri was anxious to meet his partner early. He almost skipped through the Parisian Hades.

Soon the crackling of a flame enticed him, and the sharpening tune signaled the narrowing of the tunnel. He reached out to feel the damp walls close around him, turned West, and was stopped by the barrel of a gun between his brows.

In all of Paris, only a handful of people had authorisation to enter the catacombs. Henri wasn’t one of them. The man who stood before him, hidden in dimness and smoke, wasn’t one either.

“It’s quiet here,” said a voice so low it didn’t echo. A familiar, audible smile put Henri at ease. “Far from everything. Nobody would hear you die.”

“Would you really kill me for free, Dutch?”

All around and miles away, noises of the underground dispersed, soaked up into the stones. They were alone.

The barrel left Henri’s skin.

“How was prison?” he asked, following Dutch as he turned toward the thickening smoke.

“Boring, without you.” Dutch glanced behind out of habit, but nobody had been down here since they were children. Not even Henri had had any business in these ends of the catacombs, not since he’d used them to escape. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you again. Five years of nothing, then only one letter, asking me if I remembered playing hide and seek.”

“Thanks for being here,” said Henri, and punched him lightly in the arm. He prayed for some light, by which to see his old friend again.

“Didn’t make it to America, then?”

“Turns out there’s more to do here. Paris has changed a lot.”

They passed beneath a manhole cover and briefly paused. Wisps of smoke filtered out as light seeped in. Henri finally saw, if only for a moment, the square shoulders and crooked jaw he’d sorely missed. Dutch wore a blue suit similar to his, but while Henri’s own was tailored, this had clearly been stolen before the uniform had been burned. Henri wished he’d stolen something that fit better.

Never mind. His reputation spoke for both of them.

“Show me ‘round once we’re done with… whatever you called me here for.”

“It shouldn’t take long,” said Henri, handing him his letter.

Dutch held the letter up. Cold Sunday morning streaked through, shedding silver highlights over the creases under Dutch’s eyes. He squinted and struggled to make out the script.

“’Dear sir… Good God, Henri, what circles you running with these days?”

“Not the old ones.”

Dutch scowled and read silently, making a face at every line.

“Well, this is something,” he finished, combing ash out of his hair. He consciously straightened himself up after reading who it was from. “The Princess? Since when do you know… Are there still princesses in France?”

“It’s code. She’s as good as one, though. Has the money and land of royalty. More of a Princess than you are Dutch.”

“What’s she need us for, then? She cheaping out or something?”

Henri took the letter back and folded it into his jacket, overtaking him.

“We’ll see what she needs. Mind you — she’s got the respect of the underground and the Paris elite alike. Watch your mouth.”

“I’m only asking!”

“Just saying,” warned Henri, as they approached the exit. “She could set me up for a while. Maybe you, too. No more stealing suits, you’ll get one of your own.”

“I hate suits. Soon as we’re done I’m breaking back into prison.”

Henri stalled under a metal ladder.

“I thought it was boring without me.”

“Yeah, well… Practically ran the place after you left. Paris changed but my situation has as well. You’d know if you read my letters.”

“You can read?”

“I’m getting good, actually.”

Henri laughed. “Here’s a deal, Dutch: I’ll write you every day if you do this for me.”

“Aw.” Dutch rolled his head to the side affectionately. “The occasional gift would also be nice.”

Henri started up the ladder.

“Now you’re asking too much.”

Henri made a zipping motion on his lips and Dutch reluctantly stopped. He pressed his ear to the trapdoor. When he was satisfied the coast was clear, he wiggled the latch and pulled. It rattled open with a groan that echoed. Henri shook the rust flakes from his face and pushed it up.

Two men emerged from an empty gatehouse onto a limestone-lined courtyard, trimmed with neat hedges and marble statues of dancers in various petrified poses. An electric gate behind them hummed with a threatening voltage.

Nobody saw them. Henri’s nose wrinkled when he saw Dutch’s suit in the daylight.

“Oh,” said Dutch, scanning the grand faux-gothic building, which sprawled either side like a palace. “They finished building this?”

White blocks, pillars and gold trimmings were a marked contrast to the dusky tunnels they’d been crawling through, and in the brightening morning, the sight was blinding. Dutch squinted, lips still parted in awe.

“Madame Rachman’s Ballet School,” said Henri. “Of course, ballet’s not her only business. Walk behind me.” He led the way down the untouched driveway, but Dutch wasn’t following.

“I don’t like that,” he protested.

“Too bad. You work for me; I work for her. That’s the food chain.”

“Yes, sir,” Dutch hissed, and spat on the ground, watching for a reaction, but Henri was busy rehearsing their entrance in his head.

Meeting the Princess was beyond a big deal; the prospect of working for her even more daunting. He didn’t mention the consequences of making a mistake to Dutch. Since he got out, he’d been fine by himself. In this line of work, every ally carried in ten more enemies. But for this job he couldn’t dream of working alone, and Dutch was the only man he’d trust with a gun to his head.

Madame Rachman was old, rich, never introduced herself, and was always seated when meeting guests. This much Henri knew. This much everyone knew, even those who did business with her. So when they were showed in through ornate double doors, and she stood tall by a mirror, Henri’s script fled his mind.

Twelve ballerinas, like identical swans, held their heads bowed low in her presence, and took no notice of their entrance. Every so often, one would bear a pale neck and watch the intruders, then report back in whispers. None of them seemed happy to be here, or used to such small audiences.

Dutch elbowed him in the ribs, and Henri realised he’d been staring.

“Good morning,” he said at last, suddenly feeling so insignificant. Even his tailored suit stuck out in the glamorous drawing room. The wide mirror behind the Princess showed his less than proper companion, staring at everything with no shame.

“Have you ever killed someone, Monsieur?” asked the Princess, heavy wrinkles hardly shifting as she enunciated, her words full of balance.

“No, Madame.”

“I have,” cut in Dutch, putting his hand up like a school child. She, and her ballerinas, shifted their attention to him. Henri’s blood ran cold at the collective giggle from the swans. Dutch held up three fingers.

“Who are you?” asked the Princess, unimpressed at his impropriety, but too tired or desperate to call him out.

“He works for me,” said Henri, a dozen defences running through his head, but he could barely open his mouth before she moved on from him.

“Have you ever killed a policeman?” she asked Dutch.

“Just one.”

“One is enough.”

Dutch stepped up, past Henri, taking centre-stage.

She waved her hand, and a swan fluttered toward her, and pulled an armchair from behind the mirror. She didn’t wait to help the old woman tremble into the seat.

She went on, “Many men like you are unwilling to do as I ask. They take my money and run. That is fine. Money is not an issue; it’s time that now evades me. Time and strength.” She took hold of an ornate walking stick propped against the mirror, but remembered her company, and replaced it. “But not strength of will. Here is the job: one of my girls has been disgraced, and therefore I have been disgraced. I cannot hire an officer. They are our clientele.” She held her head high. The girls all did the same.

“You want us to kill a cop, then,” said Dutch.

“No, but bring him to us. We will take care of the rest,” she said. “Nobody knows pain better than a dancer.”

The Princess’s head had been slowly tilting to the side as she spoke, almost falling asleep, but carrying it off really like she were investigating Dutch. A new face in her roster, Henri tried to guess at everything that would be discussed once they were gone. But the ballerinas in the corner were silent now, each shifting from foot to aching foot. With every shallow breath restrained by a corset, and light step on re-sprained ankles, they recited every colour of pain their revenge would take.

“Go now,” said the Princess, with a dismissive wave. The ballerinas began closing in around her, urging distance between her and the men. As they turned to leave, however, Madame Rachman cleared her throat. Everything stopped.

“We have a performance tonight,” she said, her eyes trained only on Dutch, who only minutes ago meant nothing to her. “He will be there. So will you.”