Mysteries of the Great City

By Charles Rutheiser

Jim Morrison isn't dead; he's alive and well in Paris in the summer of 1985. At least, that's what Teddy and Helen, two young American travelers, are told by a friendly stranger named Natasha who invites them to a party at the singer's house. To get there, they must play a game called Mysteries of the Great City that belongs to Desi Falba. Falba is a drug dealer on the run from both the cops and his boss, the mobster Arthur Venable. When they find Desi, they learn that he's already promised the game to a group of shady characters led by a gruff woman named Loïe. Natasha brokers a deal for the two groups to play the game together.

The ensuing scavenger hunt, refereed by a team of mysterious judges, takes the players through the dark corners and bright shadows of the City of Light, from the seedy dives of Pigalle and a gritty banlieue to the set of a movie being filmed by the auteur Voltan Tchemnck and the Baroque mansions of the Île St. Louis. Among other things, they hunt for an old man in a wheelchair, a bracelet made of hair, and an intricate wooden box that they must steal from a bizarre private collection. The game goes well, at first, then takes an ominous turn as the players are stalked by thugs who inflict casualties and force them to escape into the Zone of the Underneath, a subterranean network of abandoned quarries. Both curious marvels and new dangers lie below and spark growing tensions amongst the survivors who learn, much too late for some, that people are not always what they seem and that the game is not a game, but a very serious, and even stranger, business...

This gothic neo-noir thriller is Charles Rutheiser's debut novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350933352

Book preview

Prologue

The tunnel has the dimensions of a coffin chiseled out of rock several stories below ground. For the young man crawling forward on his belly, it feels even worse than that sounds. Among his many neuroses and phobias is a fear, bordering on hysterical terror, of small, confined spaces and this tight squeeze is a laboratory for a master class in claustrophobia. The rough edges of the ceiling tear at his clothing and there isn’t enough room to turn his head, something that he desperately wants to do, as he knows that somewhere behind him are people who want to kill him, or worse. When he thinks about these people, about their hands grabbing his ankles suddenly and dragging him backwards to his doom, he starts to hyperventilate, which is a big problem because there isn’t much air down here to begin with and his lungs are already burning.

Best not to think, then, just keep moving.

At least he’s not alone. His girlfriend—or soon to be ex-girlfriend if he lives to break up with her, yet again—is several body lengths ahead of him. Right behind her is a woman whom they met only a short while before. They don’t know much about her, except that she’s probably not who she says she is. The woman insisted on bringing her satchel with her and has gotten stuck a few times because of that damn thing, but he’s been able to push her through, even though his left hand, wrapped in a makeshift bandage, has swollen to the size of a grapefruit and is probably broken. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt anymore.

As he crawls forward, his bandage snags on something projecting from the left side of the tunnel. He struggles to free himself. In the beam of his headlamp, he sees that the obstruction has the pitted chrome and black sticky tape of a bicycle handle. Before the young man can wrap his head around why such an odd thing should be down there in the tunnel, he’s distracted by an ominous liquid rumbling sound from up ahead, like the flushing of a giant toilet. With desperate effort, he succeeds in tearing his hand free, only to see a wall of chocolate-colored water rushing toward him. The foaming torrent reaches him in an instant. He lunges across his body to grab the handle with his uninjured hand, banging his headlamp against the ceiling in the process. The bulb flickers for a moment, then goes out with a short, sharp sizzle. 

The darkness is total: inky, velvety, all embracing. It is by no means a positive development, but at least it spares him the traumatizing sight of the water rising over his hands, then higher and higher still. This is the stuff that nightmares are made of, the young man thinks, except that he’s fairly sure that he’s not sleeping. 

A song starts to play in his mind’s ear, one in which the singer sings about how subterranean currents of water displace everything in their path. But the line in the song that his mind keeps coming back to, like a skipped record, revolves around the notion of how one manages to find oneself in such a ridiculous predicament to begin with.  

It’s a very good question, the young man thinks, although he doubts that he’ll have time to remember the answer before he drowns.

One

The immigration officials at London’s Heathrow Airport take their job as guardians of the realm very seriously. One of them, a ramrod-straight fellow with a regimental mustache and deep curving scar on his cheek that speak of a previous career at the sharp end of Her Majesty’s armed forces, eyes the sleepy-eyed, shaggy-haired young man standing in front of him with professional suspicion. The officer pages slowly through the passport he’s just been handed to where a student visa has been affixed. It says:

Name: Theodore Samuel Ansky

Date of birth: 28 October 1961

Sponsoring institution: Department of History,

Prince Albert’s University

Smudged and fogged by jet lag, Theodore Ansky smiles awkwardly at the officer, who asks him what he will be studying at one of the country’s most august institutions of higher education. The history of travel and exploration, he says. The officer narrows his eyes and scowls. Sensing that some additional information might prove helpful, the young man adds that he’s writing his dissertation on Sir Richard Burton. Not the actor, mind you, but the Victorian era explorer and linguist. This isn’t exactly true, Burton is only one of the many 19th century personages he’s researching and is likely to be featured in less than a chapter, perhaps even only a footnote or two. But the officer’s scar reminds him of that which marked Burton’s face in the many paintings, lithographs and photos he’s seen. Mention of the name has a salutary effect. The officer’s scowl softens into something approximating the slightest of smiles. He nods and stamps the passport with the date—5 January 1985.

Baggage claim is the usual slow-motion rugby riot. A scrum of haggard travelers jockey for position long before the buzzer buzzes, the red light strobes and the carousel starts to move like an arthritic mechanical snake with Parkinson’s. The first bags don’t appear for another five minutes. Then suitcases come and people go until the young Mr. Ansky, clutching his two crumpled yellow claim tickets, remains the sole survivor. At long last, his backpack pops out through the fringed curtain. Surely, his guitar case will be next. But the conveyor belt grinds abruptly to a halt. The buzzer buzzes twice and the red light winks out. Theodore Ansky stares at the belt for a few moments, as if he can start it moving again with the sheer force of his mind. Not being endowed with telekinetic powers, however, he joins a long queue of frustrated fellow travelers at the lost luggage department.

While waiting his turn, Theodore observes the conversational gambits employed by others whose bags have also been sent to limbo. Expressions of pique and righteous outrage, especially when made by fellow Americans, do not garner a scintilla of sympathy from the fussy, prematurely middle-aged matron lording over the counter. In fact, more often than not such actions result in their claim ticket being tossed discretely into the garbage bin instead of being entered into the computer. Theodore resolves to take a different tact.

Good morning, ma’am, he says cheerfully. One of my bags didn’t make it.

I’m sorry to hear that, sir, the woman says while not sounding sorry at all. Can you describe your luggage?

It was a guitar case.

Pardon? She holds up the crumpled ticket like a kindergarten teacher lecturing an especially dim student. Yellow tickets are for a suitcase, sir, not a guitar case.

Theodore shrugs apologetically. That’s what they gave me when I checked in at JFK.

The woman grunts and shakes her head. Claim cheques for musical instruments are green, she says while pointing to a small pistachio-colored piece of cardboard.

But…I don’t have one of those. Is there a problem?

The woman’s eyes say there is indeed a problem of the first order, but her mouth does nothing of the sort. She hands him a thick sheaf of forms. Fill these out and we’ll get it sorted. Pleasure. The woman blinks, then looks over his shoulder and bellows at the next hapless traveler: Next!

Two

In the midst of morning rush hour in the London Underground, Theodore Ansky discovers that the Tube is more than just a metaphor. The rounded tops of the narrow cars fit into the arch of the tunnel like shells in a shotgun packed tightly with people rather than double-ought buckshot. When the doors open, there doesn’t appear to be any space for Theodore, let alone his backpack. However, without explicitly acknowledging the new arrival, the crowd adjusts and embraces him so tightly that he needn’t hold onto anything as the train accelerates, shudders, shakes and winds its way through the constricted bowels of London. With their dark clothes and darker expressions, his fellow passengers appear to be on their way to a funeral. No one acknowledges his existence except for one greasy-haired character with ghastly teeth who stares at him with bad intent. Theodore, who tries to avoid confrontation whenever he can, looks away. Then the lights go out and when they come on again a few seconds later, the man is no longer there. Théo spins around, half expecting to find his dodgy nemesis leering over his shoulder, but he’s nowhere in sight.

The train decelerates quickly and comes to a jarring stop. The doors open and Theodore is ejected onto the platform by a solid stream of people exiting the car. The doors close before he can get back on but thankfully, this appears to be his station. He forsakes the crowded lift for the stairs, not realizing he’s at the bottom of a corkscrew that is the equivalent of at least ten stories below ground. He’s winded and soaked with sweat by the time he reaches the street, where a curtain of cold rain rakes down, peppered, every now and then, by a pellet of hail so substantial that his first thought is that someone is throwing stones at him. The low slate-colored sky sucks all the life out of the scene: even the whites, yellows and reds of the hoardings along the High Street are dull and muted, as if he’s standing at the bottom of a muddy stream. He fishes a scrap of paper from his pocket and catches a quick glimpse of the handwritten map he’s been provided before rain turns the paper into a Rorschach ink blot. Thankfully, Theodore has a good sense of direction; nothing disturbs him more than not knowing where he’s going or, worse yet, feeling lost. The rain begins to pick up and Theodore is chilled to the bone by the time he arrives in front of his destination, a sooty-brick house on a narrow, crooked lane not far from the Charles Dickens Museum. An elderly woman with a confused but kindly face responds to his knock. Mrs. Farley? he asks.

You must be the new boarder that the Prof sent us. The woman’s eyes are bright, her smile sincere. Mr. Ansky is it?

You can call me Ted.

Do come in, Mr. Ansky.

The house is in cluttered, pungent disrepair, full of curious Victorian knick-knacks and many cats. In the parlor, two ancient gents watch a news program on the telly. Prime Minister Thatcher has just announced that she will attend US President Reagan’s inauguration for his second term.

Mrs. Farley leads him upstairs to his room: a low-ceilinged, poorly lit cavern under the eaves, wallpapered with images of griffins and other fantastic beasts. Ted observes that, between