Passport to Danger (12 page)

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; wall 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.

“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
V
s 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.

“Monsieur Ravel,” Frank said, “I am calling as a representative from Victoire. You do not need to know my name. We know everything about you. We know you are the Le Stade saboteur and that the authorities also know this. We also know that you are close to being captured by undercover agents.”

Joe gave his brother the thumbs up sign, and Frank continued. “If you join our cause and work underground as a computer expert for Victoire, we will protect you and hide you from the authorities. We have many safe havens for you to use. You need to make your decision quickly. I am telling you that you have little time left as a free man unless you join with us. Meet with me; you will not be sorry.”

“Le parc des Buttes-Chaumont in one half hour,” Jacques said in a low voice. “The bridge on the west side.” Then he hung up.

The Hardys scrambled for their guidebooks. “Here it is,” Joe said. “It's in an old quarry.” They studied the book for a few minutes. “Come on,” Joe urged. “We have to beat him there if we can.”

They packed up and left the apartment. The Metro stopped right next to the park. Located in a gigantic excavated gypsum quarry, Parc Buttes-Chaumont was one of the largest parks in Paris. The surrounding neighborhood was called
Carrières d'Amérique
—American Quarries—because so much of the stone from there went to the United States.

Now Buttes-Chaumont was a canyon with patches of woods, steep cliffs, waterfalls, and caves. Two suspension footbridges swung high above a lake, connecting the outer edge of the park with a tall island butte in the middle of the water. Once the Hardys arrived, they hid in the lush trees near the west bridge.

The moon, having emerged from the clouds, was still nearly full and a bright yellow-white color. It was dark in the surrounding canyon, but the suspension footbridge and the small lake far below could be seen in the light.

The Hardys waited for fifteen minutes, then a half hour, then ten minutes more. “He should have been here by now,” Frank whispered. “He's late.”

“He's here,” Joe said. “He's here somewhere. I just know it. He's probably hidden in the trees like us, waiting until he sees the Victoire guy.”