Dan and the Caverns of Bone (9 page)

‘But, Daniel, she is round and doughy, like an unbaked loaf. I cannot imagine she could dress up as the tall and ghastly figure we saw this night.'

I arch the eyebrow.

Si blinks at me for a moment. Then his eyes go big as cracked billiard balls when he gets it.

The porter doesn't see us behind the curtain, but we can see him as he stalks along the corridor. It's breakfast time the next day, the last full day of our school trip. The rest of the class are stuffing their faces with shrapnel toast and brown orange juice, but me, I'm on the prowl.

And as ever, Si is at my side.

‘He is certainly tall enough, Daniel.'

‘Too right,' I say, watching the porter turn a corner ‘And look at that Frankenstein walk. He's our man, I reckon.'

‘But how do you suppose he gains access to the catacombs? I hardly think he knocks on Lucifane's door and asks to borrow their secret tunnel.'

‘Course not.' I dart out of hiding and pad down the corridor now the porter's out of sight. ‘There must be a way in from the cellar of this place too.'

Si says nothing, but I can tell he's not convinced.

We reach the corner and peek round. There's only one flickery bulb and no window. There's also no sign of the porter, but at the end of the corridor is a door, and that door is ajar. And I can see steps going down.

‘Okay, Si – time to get busy. Go and watch him.'

‘To what end?'

‘In case he does something that proves he's the nutcase who's running round the catacombs dressed as the Grim Reaper.'

‘Is this really a useful employment of my talents?' Si sniffs. ‘Watching a hotel porter count his onions?'

‘Only one of us is invisible, remember? And it's not me. Now hurry up – I've got to check something too.'

Si drifts down the corridor on a wisp of offended ectoplasm, while I slip back upstairs. I'm on my way to Reception, to see if the newspaper the fat sudoku-loving receptionist reads is the same as the one I found in the catacombs. Oh, yes – I take this detective lark seriously.

Only, when I reach the lobby, something else stops me in my tracks.

Brian is sitting at a small corner table. He's scribbling furiously.

‘Hi, Bri,' I say, hoping for a cheery response.

‘Leave me alone.'

Okay.

Well, not
okay
, but understandable, I suppose.

‘What's all that?' I ask, strolling over and eyeing the papers.

‘Baz's homework. There's at least three months' worth.' Then he adds, bitterly, ‘He was kind enough to bring it all with him.'

‘But that's your fancy origami paper,' I point out. ‘For your planes.'

‘I won't be making any of those again, will I?'

He shoots me an accusing look. ‘Not after what happened in the catacombs. Frenchy made that quite clear.'

I'm pretty narked off at this, and I'm about to tell Brian he shouldn't be such a doormat, but I stop myself. Baz is about twice his size, and Phelps is a tyrannical toad. There's really nothing Brian can do, is there?

I've let him down.

But at least I won't make it worse by giving him a lecture.

I walk over to the reception desk to collect my clue, but the fat woman isn't there. I glance around for a newspaper. There isn't one. There is, however, a cheap gossip magazine, open at the crossword. A
crossword
?

Of sudoku, there is no sign.

Crapsticks.

I wander into the dining room, feeling deflated.

‘Ah,
bonjour
, Monsieur Dyer,' says Frenchy, his mouth full of cake. ‘Finally crawled out of bed, then. Here.' And he gives me a doorstopper book of French comprehension and grammar exercises. ‘Something for you to do while we're all eating ice-cream at the Eiffel Tower. Chapters 1 to 38, please. And I'll be
testing you on it on the train home, so I suggest you get cracking.'

I slump down at a table, the book crashing onto the empty plate before me. I open the basket where the rock-like bread rolls are kept. There's only one left.

‘Hur hur hur,' goes Baz from the table next to mine, as he tucks into an enormous plate of food. ‘And when I've finished all this, I'll go and work off the calories by giving that little twerp Brian a good slapping, hur hur.'

The kids around him laugh along.

Then the girl called Tanya says something that catches my attention.

‘Ooh, look, sir, it's the catacombs on the telly.'

We all look up at the blocky prehistoric television that teeters above us on a bracket. There is brown packing tape holding its speaker in.

‘Well, this is interesting, class.' Frenchy squints up at the screen as he concentrates on translation. ‘Apparently the catacombs have just been closed after a serious incident yesterday.'

Laughter, and lots of pointing at me.

‘No, something even more serious than that,' Frenchy goes on. ‘A French celebrity was exploring
the catacombs last night – unofficially – when he came face to face with, was
attacked
by… hold on, I'm not sure I understood that…'

‘What?
What?
' Everyone is goggling at Phelps now. He's not used to being the centre of genuine attention, and seems to be enjoying it.

‘Well, they're saying he was attacked by Death. As in, the Grim Reaper. And according to what they're saying now, this isn't the first time someone has reported this in recent months, and… Good Lord, people are missing, and at least one body has been found! Apparently, there have been rumours for a long time, but the police are only just taking it seriously.'

On the screen now a crazed man in a pot-holing helmet is waving his arms and shouting about something. The interviewer can hardly get a word in. Then the screen is filled with the beaky nose of Commander Lavache.

His left eye is covered by a surgical patch.

There's a new round of laughter from my class, and a few cries of ‘
Brain
Cabbidge – what an idiot!'

Although Frenchy doesn't translate what he says, when Lavache speaks it's clear that he is a very unhappy man indeed. His good eye glares thunder
and twitchy damnation out at us, before his face vanishes from the screen.

‘Well, class,' Frenchy concludes, ‘all I can say is, we're very lucky to have visited the catacombs yesterday, because they've just been closed down indefinitely. They are advising everyone to keep away from them. The official line is there's a murderer on the loose. But there are plenty who believe that Death himself really is haunting Paris.'

I tune out of the chatter that follows. All I'm thinking of is Luci and the fact that, even if the police close the catacombs, her cellar opens straight into them.

I'm just lifting the single remaining roll to my mouth – well, I've got to eat something, haven't I? – when Simon reappears from spying on the porter. I give him the eyebrow.

‘Zooks!' he says. ‘So much for your theory. All the man did was rip open a few bags of frozen bread rolls and pour them into baskets. I'm sorry to say he was picking his nose at the time.'

I lower my hand and put the roll back where I found it.

But then something catches my eye. I look at the grubby window and see the Sunglasses Kid peering in
from the street outside. He spots me, and something about his fringe and chin tells me there have been developments. He points at the squat next door and vanishes.

I get up and walk out. In the lobby I almost lift Brian off of his chair.

‘What are you doing?' he squeaks, making a grab for the homework. I knock it out of his hands.

‘Leave it,' I say. ‘Come on, we're going out for breakfast.'

‘What are we doing on the roof?'

‘Trust me, Bri. And don't fall off.'

We drop down through the skylight of the squat. In the big room that's the heart of the place, the first thing I notice is that there's a huge flat-screen TV propped against the wall, obscuring the light from the stately windows. A bundle of cables snakes out
of one of those windows and head off to the hotel next door. On the screen is more news coverage of the story that Death himself is lurking beneath the pavements of Paris. In front of the screen sit the Goths and emo kids of the squat, passing round a carrier bag full of odd-shaped and reject croissants.

‘Is it my imagination, or are there fewer than yesterday?' I ask Si.

‘I believe you are right,' Simon says. ‘And indeed, I cannot see Lucifane here.'

With a jolt I realise it's true. The Sunglasses Kid appears in the doorway behind me and slides over.

‘Bri, this is the Sunglasses Kid. Sunglasses Kid, this is Bri.' The kid shrugs a greeting. Brian squeaks back. That's the formalities taken care of.

‘Where's Luci?' I ask.

The kid snaps both index fingers at me like I'm the man with the question on everybody's lips. I throw out a shrug to ask what the answer might be, and get a double digit downward point in reply.

The cellar!

And now I'm running, taking those steps three at a time, and sliding down the banister on the last straight with a shriek of leather from the coat. And the cellar door is open.

And all the stuff that was urgently heaped against it last night has been pulled to one side.

I point into the dark doorway and raise the eyebrow at the kid. Well, I want to make
absolutely sure
before I go running down into the dark to where some psycho is lurking, don't I? But the kid nods.

‘On her own?' I ask.

*Snap* – the finger says it all.

‘Daniel, you cannot.' Simon is hopping from one foot to another. ‘You don't know what's down there.'

‘Cool it, Si – it's just the porter from the hotel.'

‘Yesterday you thought it was a rat,' he says.

‘Things have changed since then, Si. Luci's down there on her own. I'm going after her.'

‘Um…' Brian has finally caught up with us. ‘Does that go where I think it goes?'

‘Stick with me, Bri, and you'll be fine,' I reply, adjusting the coat.

‘You said that before.'

‘Yeah, well, like I said – things have changed. And now a friend of mine is in danger.'

We reach the bottom of the rough stone steps. The Sunglasses Kid isn't with us – his shrug as he handed over a skull candle made it clear he wasn't the suicidal type. So it's just me and Bri and Si, and a whole world of shadow down in the caverns of bone.

‘Turn up your ghostlight, Si – I can't see a thing.'

‘Very well, Daniel. But this is madness. How will we ever find Lucifane in this place? We must go back.'

But before I can reply, I stub my toe on a lump of rock and my ‘ooph!' of pain blows the candle skull out.

Darkness.

‘Oh, great.'

Then, suddenly, light. Blazing at me.

‘Wouldn't it be easier to use a torch?' says Bri, and I see he's got one on his keyring, which is just what I would have expected from him.