“Can’t you see I’m busy?” His voice had an annoying whine to it. It was definitely not the voice on the tape sent by the Lilliputian Liberation Army.
“You wanted to see me,” I started to remind him. I never got to finish the explanation. Before the words were all out, there was the sound of police whistles, several indistinguishable shouts, and a growing clamor above us.
Suddenly the lights went out in the dungeon. For the first time I realized that the lighting had been electric and it occurred to me how out of context it was with the setting. Manuel pulled his arm free of me.
I lit my cigarette lighter. Manuel was unchaining the girls from the dungeon wall. Peggy was hissing in my ear:
“Come wi’ me, mon! It’s no wise to stay here. Follow, now!”
“But I have to talk to Manuel,” I reminded her.
“Will you no stop al-guin’?” Peggy was exasperated. “We no ha’ the time!” she insisted. “Just take my hand an’ come wi’ me.”
I did as she said. Instead of leaving the dungeons we seemed to move more deeply into their recesses. There was more commotion behind us, more police whistles, the sound of running feet, voices crying out, curses, a sudden scream.
Peggy had stopped now and was groping along the damp walls for something. I realized she needed some light to find whatever it was she was seeking. I fished out the cigarette lighter and the flame flared up again.
“It’s a bra’ bricht licht!” Peggy exclaimed happily.
A moment later she located the stone in the wall for which she’d been looking. When she pushed it a section of the wall swung back creakily, revealing a narrow rock passageway on the other side. Water was trickling from the ceiling of this passageway and the puddles on the floor were ankle deep.
We sloshed into them, closing the trick door behind us. None too soon, I judged. The running footsteps behind us were getting very close. And beams from the sort of flashlights used by gendarmes had been on the brink of ferreting us out.
Dully, the footsteps passed, still running on the other side of the trick door. The cops hadn’t spotted our hidden detour. We’d lucked out.
The passageway was longer than I’d thought at first. Mostly we felt our way down it. I didn’t want to use up the fluid in my lighter by keeping it burning all the time.
“How’d you know about this?” I asked Peggy.
“Our host showed it to me the first time I came to one o’ his sprees. The coppers spoilt tha’ one too.”
“Do you know where we are?” I wondered.
“ ’Neath the Seine. Makin’ for the right bank.”
Finally we reached the other end. I lit the lighter again for Peggy and she located a small boulder on a ledge running about chest high on the wall in front of us. I helped her move the rock. There was a small hole behind it. We crawled through and dropped down on the other side.
“Whew!” I gagged. “What a smell!”
Peggy held a handkerchief over her nose and led the way again.
We were up to our asses in something. It took me a moment to realize what it was. “Peggy,” I said, “We’re in the sewer!”
“Hoot, mon! Wha’ di’ you expect? The sparklin’ waters o’ Niagara?”
“Peggy! It’s getting deeper!”
“Aye.”
“Peggy! It’s up to my waist!”
“Aye.”
“It's up to my neck!”
“Aye.”
“It’s up to my mouth! What’ll I do?”
“Breathe through your nose!” she advised.
“It’s up to my nostrils!”
“Mine too, mon!”
“What’ll we do?” I wondered.
“Dinna make waves!”
Remember all those movies about the French Resistance Movement in Paris during World War Two? Remember they were always hiding out in the sewers? Remember how the sewers were supposed to have been a hiding place for the criminals of Paris for hundreds of years? Remember that the word “underworld” came from the fact that these criminals hid out in the maze of sewers?
The one thing never mentioned is the fact that sewers are filled with human excrement and other filth! I don’t blame those characters for robbing and killing! When you’re up to your nostrils in crap, it definitely doesn’t improve your disposition!
“Dinna make waves!” Peggy repeated.
I walked softly and carried a big sniff.
Finally we came to a ledge. I gave Peggy a boost up to it. Then I climbed up beside her. Through a tubular hole in the ceiling I could see the underside of a manhole cover. Together we managed to push it aside. We scrambled out into the welcome fresh air of the street above.
“Wow! You look awful!” I told Peggy, eyeing her in the lamplight.
“ ‘Oh, would some Pow’r the giftie gie us/ to see ourselves as ithers see us!’” she quoted. “Good-bye,” she added.
“Good-bye? What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“Home for a bath. You’d be wise to ha’ one yourself!” she advised me.
“But what about the Lilliputian Liberation Army? What about Alicia Alvarez? What should I tell President Dickson?”
"Wha’ are you ravin’ about, mon?” Peggy did indeed look at me as if she suspected my mind might have been unhinged by our sewer sojourn.
“Aren’t you from the Lilliputian Liberation Army?”
“I am not! I ha’ never even heard o’ the organization.”
“But then why did you pick me out on the staircase in front of Sacre Coeur? How did you know I was the Man from O.R.G.Y.?”
“The mon fro’ where?”
“Why did you pick me?” I demanded.
“You had the look o’ a fellow would appreciate a bonny time,” Peggy told me.
“And that’s all?”
“Did you no enjoy it then?” She sounded miffed.
“I loved it,” I assured. “It was a gas! A ball! Bonny! Particularly the sewer.”
“Good-bye to you then!” Peggy stalked off, her feelings hurt. “An’ good riddance!” she called back over her shoulder.
We had emerged on the right bank of the Seine. She crossed one of the bridges over the river and vanished in the direction of Montparnasse. The street was deserted, and so I strolled over to the Rue de Rivoli in search of a cab. Even though it was getting late, it was a main drag and I figured to catch one there. A cruising taxi pulled up alongside me in answer to my wave. “Mon Dieu!” He had caught a whiff of me through his half-opened window. He gunned his motor and was away before I could even get my hand on the door.
I really was a mess. Two more cabs slowed down enough to look at me and then sped off without stopping. The occasional window-shopping pedestrian still on the Rue de Rivoli gave me a wide berth and made haste to get upwind of me.
There was no choice. I would have to take the subway. I descended into the Metro stop adjacent to the Louvre.
You can see more reproductions of precious art in that kiosk than in most galleries on New York’s Fifty-seventh Street. But with me around, they didn’t get their rightful share of attention. The late-night subway riders waiting for the train to pull in there were soon huddled at the far end of the platform from the artwork and me.
Likewise, when the train came in and I boarded one of the cars, the other passengers made haste to change their seats to get as far away from my ripe aroma and revolting appearance as possible. At the first stop they got out in a body and scrambled back into adjacent cars. From then on I had the Metro car all to myself.
I disembarked at Place de Clichy and walked to the hotel. From the horrified expression on the desk clerk’s face, I could tell he didn’t think my presence in the lobby was doing the establishment’s image much good. It didn’t do the bouquet of the tiny old-fashioned elevator any good either. If they were wise they’d start fumigating right away. That’s what I thought to myself as I disembarked and entered my room. Dickson was waiting there.