The Eiffel Tower Incident

by Steve Stevenson

  “May I get dressed now?” asked Chandler, still frozen in a fighting stance.

  “Oui, Monsieur Chandler!”

  The faithful servant touched his jaw with an enormous red glove, then disappeared into the bathroom to put on his spotless tuxedo. In the meantime, Dash was dragged by one arm to stand in front of the easel.

  “You see?” Gaston urged him. “I’ve already sketched Watson, Agatha, and Chandler. Now it’s your turn to pose!”

  “Um . . . I just got off the train, in a snowstorm . . . I wouldn’t mind having a hamburger first,” Dash replied. “Couldn’t you just paint me from memory?”

  Gaston glared at him with wounded artistic pride. “Memory? But you’ve changed so much since the last time I saw you, Dash! You’ve become . . . a young man!”

  “Here, this photo might help,” said Agatha. She glanced at the headline of the newspaper before stashing it inside her bag, then handed Gaston a recent photo of herself and Dash in the Mistery House gardens, adding, “Trust me, you don’t want to be around Dash when he’s hungry. And while you’re at work on your painting, we’ll go see the sights. I can’t wait to visit the Eiffel Tower!”

  Dash nodded, his expression indecipherable behind his dark glasses.

  Agatha called Chandler, and they all got wrapped up in winter layers. Dash kept grumbling that his coat hadn’t even dried off yet.

  As the three Londoners got ready to leave, Gaston stopped them with a request. “I’ve run out of cobalt blue. Do you think you could pick up another tube for me?”

  “You can count on us,” Agatha promised, her eyes sparkling. “We’re on the case.” The newspaper’s headline had given her a fresh jolt of energy.

  The threesome hurried along the icy sidewalk to the Saint-Germain-des-Prés Metro station. The wind whipped through the bare trees, and they turned up the collars of their warm jackets as the snow whirled all around them.

  It was definitely not the ideal day to admire the beauty of Paris.

  Watson poked his nose out of his carrying case, which Chandler was toting. He sniffed at the cold air, then immediately curled up inside where it was warm.

  Agatha led them into a traditional bistro, brightly lit and full of people. As soon as they sat down at one of the tables, she pulled the newspaper out of her bag, jabbing her finger at the front page. “A murder, Dash?” she asked bluntly. “What sort of mess have you gotten yourself into this time?”

  Startled, Chandler bolted upright in his chair and nearly knocked over a set of glasses.

  “I know, I know . . . I’ve ruined our winter vacation,” the young detective mumbled in distress. “But I promise I can explain everything!”

  Agatha smiled at him. “No worries about the vacation, dear cousin,” she reassured him. “But why has Eye International entrusted you with investigating such a serious crime? No offense, but you’re still a rookie.”

  She had a good point. Dash’s special assignments were usually limited to theft, fraud, and kidnapping, while homicide cases were given to Eye International’s most expert detectives.

  He looked around warily, then leaned across the table. “You want to know the truth?” he asked in a barely audible whisper.

  Agatha and Chandler nodded decisively, inviting him to explain.

  “I’m working on behalf of Agent UM60,” the boy revealed. “He injured his leg while waiting for the Eurostar, and I was the only agent within range that he could entrust with the top-secret documents pertaining to the case. It’s an extraordinary coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Dash failed to mention that the accident was the result of his own carelessness, and that the professor was in the hospital with his broken leg in traction. He instantly regretted this omission; Agatha had a talent for intuiting any sort of lie. To verify his story, he pulled a small, square device out of his pocket. “This is the EyeNet Plus that Agent UM60 lent me for the mission,” he boasted. “It’s a much more advanced model than mine.”

  “What about those geeky glasses with the flashing lights?” asked his cousin.

  “They have special multifunctional lenses used to collect information at crime scenes,” Dash said proudly. “The professor told me never to take them off, not even when I go to sleep!” He punctuated this last sentence with a nervous laugh. He had noticed that Agatha was stroking her small, upturned nose, as she always did when she had one of her incredible flashes of inspiration.

  Luckily for Dash, the waitress arrived to take their order on her notepad.

  “Do you have any preferences?” asked Agatha, the only one in the group who spoke French. “If not, I suggest a traditional Parisian lunch.”

  They had no objections, so Agatha ordered an “assortiment de fromages” and returned her attention to the investigation.

  “All right, my dear colleagues,” she began. “The details in the newspaper are very intriguing. I can summarize them in three short points. Are you ready?”

  The others were all ears.

  “First point: the victim is Boris Renko, a sixty-year-old Russian diplomat who was working at the embassy in Paris.”

  Dash punched the name into his device, instantly scanning Eye International’s vast database.

  “Found him!” he exclaimed, beaming. “Go on, cousin!”

  “Second point: the crime took place in the famous Jules Verne restaurant, on the second level of the Eiffel Tower, more than four hundred feet above the ground. Unfortunately, the French police have cordoned off the whole area, and the restaurant will remain closed while they investigate.”

  “Which means, alas, that we can say good-bye to tracking down any clues at the scene of the crime,” said Chandler. “They won’t let us near it.”

  Agatha regretfully agreed. “Hopefully, Dash can access lots of information about the Jules Verne on his EyeNet Plus. Otherwise we’re doomed.”

  Dash wasted no time. “I’ve got detailed blueprints, a complete list of staff members, and the names of the hundred and twenty guests who had reservations last night,” he said enthusiastically. “My professor already started a search!”

  “Excellent,” said Agatha happily. “Bookmark it all now. We can access his files when we need further details.”

  “What is the third point, Miss Agatha?” the butler prompted.

  “Let’s have a taste of this first,” replied his young mistress, hungrily eyeing the large cheese board the waitress had just set down in the middle of their table. The service had been very fast, maybe because the bistro was full of tourists seeking refuge from the cold and the whole staff was working.

  Dash sniffed suspiciously. “What is that smell?” he asked with a grimace. “I think something’s gone bad.”

  “French cheeses are some of the world’s most unique,” Agatha explained as she smeared some soft Brie on a slice of crusty baguette. “Taste them, Dash, they’re exquisite!”

  He cut off a small corner of Camembert, a specialty from Normandy with a crusty white rind, and started to chew. A moment later, his face turned green. “This cheese is moldy!” he squealed in disgust. “Do they all taste like stinky socks?”

  “A bit of mold just adds to the flavor; isn’t that right, Chandler?” Agatha teased.

  The butler was devouring a big slice of Roquefort, a particularly odorous sheep cheese striped with veins of blue mold. “It’s delicious, Miss Agatha,” he agreed.

  “If you like your cheese rotten,” Dash grumbled, crossing his arms. His stomach growled loudly, but he sat through the whole meal without touching another bite. “Where were we?” he snapped when the waitress took the empty cheese board away.

  Agatha wiped her mouth with a napkin and checked the newspaper. “Right here,” she said, dropping her voice. “The thing that bothers me most is the way that Boris Renko was murdered.”

  “The newspaper says he was poisoned, righ
t?”

  “That’s right, Dash, but the police determined the cause of death a few hours after it happened!”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Agatha pushed back her hair and began to think. After a moment, she clasped her hands together and said, “Let’s try to reconstruct the facts.” She held up the press photo on the front page, which showed a man sprawled on the floor between the elegant tables at the Jules Verne. “This was taken at nine fifteen p.m., when Mr. Renko, who was dining alone, suddenly fainted. At first, the restaurant’s owners thought he was simply unwell and called an ambulance. However, at about eleven thirty p.m., he was pronounced dead at the hospital. The police discovered traces of poison in his wine and immediately arrested the sommelier who had been serving him.”

  “So they’ve already caught the culprit?” Dash’s voice was hopeful. He was always in a hurry to wrap up an investigation. “Case closed!”

  “The fingerprints on the wineglass do implicate the sommelier,” Agatha said. “But I have the distinct feeling he’s innocent. It would have been pretty stupid on his part to leave such an obvious clue . . . and he had to touch the glass when he set it down in front of his customer,” she mused, tapping her nose with one finger. “I propose a different scenario . . .”

  “What?” Dash and Chandler asked in chorus.

  She bit her bottom lip and explained. “It’s far more likely the assassin was one of the guests at the restaurant. He or she could have slipped the lethal substance into Mr. Renko’s glass, then calmly walked out of the restaurant. No one even realized it was a homicide until eleven thirty p.m.!”

  Agatha’s version seemed plausible, but there was still one big problem.

  “How are we going to interview more than a hundred suspects, Miss?” Chandler asked, sounding worried.

  Dash put his face in his hands. “Just tracking all of them down will take ages,” he groaned. “And some of them probably left Paris before the storm hit!”

  Agatha pointed at the EyeNet Plus on the table. “Didn’t you say your professor had already started to work on the case?” she suggested. “Check and see if there’s anything useful.”

  He grabbed the device and frantically began to type. “Uh-oh . . . so many passwords . . . the security’s very complex,” he muttered. “I can’t access the main menu . . . Wait, no, here it is. Got it!”

  A moment later, Dash raised his head, beaming. “My dear colleagues, we’ve hit the jackpot,” he announced solemnly. “This audio file should lead us straight to the culprit!”

  The three investigators took turns using the EyeNet’s earbuds to replay the recording of Boris Renko’s last, brief phone call: a distress call made to Eye International at 9:15 p.m. on the previous evening.

  Dash listened first. He looked disappointed.

  Next came Chandler, who raised an eyebrow without saying a word.

  Finally it was Agatha’s turn. She listened twice, then quietly repeated the two words of Renko’s recording: “Red rose.”

  What could it mean?

  The chatter of tourists in the bistro seemed even louder in the silence that fell over their table. Each of them tried to understand what the victim might have been trying to say with those fateful last words.

  “Maybe it’s a brand of wine,” Dash guessed. “The poisoned wine that killed Mr. Renko!”

  They quickly checked the information supplied by the EyeNet. The cellar of the Jules Verne stocked a selection of red and white wines, carefully chosen to appeal to the most refined palates. Though most of the names were in French, there was nothing to do with a red rose.

  The butler put forth his own theory. “Could it be a gift he received from the murderer?” he asked. “Suppose he approached Mr. Renko’s table with a rose, and used the moment of distraction to slip the poison into his wineglass.”

  “Impossible.” Dash shook his head. “The restaurant staff would have found the rose at the scene and handed it to the police as evidence.”

  Agatha nodded. She was busily browsing through the pages of the newspaper.

  “Got any brilliant ideas?” asked Dash hopefully. “We’re just stumbling around in the dark!”

  She stroked her nose. “Red rose could mean anything,” she declared. “Our task is to narrow the field of possibilities.”

  “The restaurant’s surveillance camera!” Dash cried, excited. “We’d be able to look for any red rose on the crime scene!”

  Chandler cleared his throat. “I don’t wish to disappoint you, Master Dash,” he said politely, “but I’m sure the Paris police have impounded that video footage by now.”

  Once again, Agatha nodded, this time with a knowing smile indicating that something had clicked into place.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” Dash protested. “Tell us what ace you’ve got up your sleeve!”

  Agatha pulled out one of the inside pages of the newspaper, placing it next to the front page. “What do these two photos have in common?”

  “The victim,” said Dash. “Both show Boris Renko stretched out on the ground, but they’re taken from two different angles.”

  “Look closer!”

  “Ugh, I hate riddles,” he muttered.

  It was Chandler who figured out what his young mistress was after. “The same agency sold both photographs to Le Figaro.”

  “Well done, Chandler,” Agatha congratulated him. “So we can assume they were both taken by the same photographer. When my mother goes to get her hair done, I always skim through the gossip magazines. If my memory serves me correctly, agencies buy photos from the paparazzi who specialize in getting the hottest scoops.”

  “But paparazzi go after celebrities,” said Dash, skimming the list of restaurant guests. “What was a professional photographer doing at the Jules Verne last night?”

  “Let’s ask him ourselves!” declared Agatha. She sprang into action, phoning the agency for the photographer’s contact information. Dash ran it through a search engine and found his address. They paid for their lunch and stepped out to face the snowstorm with renewed courage.

  The Metro train was packed with travelers, but Chandler shouldered his way inside. As it pulled out of the underground station, Agatha became pensive. “We need a plan,” she reflected aloud. “Those photos were bought for a huge sum of money.”

  “Uh-oh; I’ve only got a handful of change in my pocket,” Dash mumbled, readjusting his glasses.

  Agatha turned to stare at him. “What did you say those souped-up goggles could do?” she asked.

  Chandler petted Watson as they whispered among themselves.

  Just before three in the afternoon, they entered a secluded back alley in Montmartre, a hilly district full of musicians and all sorts of artists. They found the photographer’s name on the wrought-iron gate, and pressed the intercom button without hesitation.

  “Bonjour, monsieur, we’re from the Times of London, and we’d like exclusive rights to any remaining photos from the Jules Verne restaurant,” said Agatha in perfect French.

  “Sixth floor,” croaked a hoarse voice. “Second door on the left.”

  As they climbed the narrow staircase, Dash panted, “Isn’t there one working elevator in the whole of Paris?”

  “Focus,” replied his cousin. “It’s imperative that we don’t make any mistakes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Dash, making a mock military salute.

  The apartment door stood open. It was dark inside, and the air was so thick with cigar smoke that it almost seemed to be coming out of the furniture.

  “May we come in?” asked Agatha.

  “I’m in the darkroom!” answered the same gravelly voice. “Don’t turn on the lights!”

  They stumbled through the musty foyer and felt their way down the hallway. In a small room at the very end, lit only by a red light, stood an elderly man with
thinning hair and a protruding belly. He had deep bags under his eyes and continued to develop his photos without any regard for his guests, swishing them through a stop bath with tongs.

  “Sorry to break it to you, but the best photos of Renko are already sold,” he warned them from a haze of cigar fumes. “I scored some big bucks on that gig!”

  Agatha joined him next the trays of developing chemicals. “We’d like to see the rest anyway,” she said politely. “Who knows, maybe we’ll find one that hasn’t been seen yet . . .”

  He pointed at a pile of prints. “Good luck,” he said with a croaking laugh. “I can always use some more cash!”

  While Dash looked through the photos with Chandler’s help, Agatha used her formidable interrogation skills to question the photographer. “Nice to see someone who hasn’t gone digital yet,” she flattered. “I’ve always preferred classic black-and-white prints. So what brought you to the Jules Verne last night?”

  “Got a tip from a source,” he said, chewing his cigar butt. “He told me a famous TV star was gonna be dining out with her new flame, so I put my camera in a strategic position and activated the automatic shutter release.”

  “Let me guess. Your TV star never showed up.”

  He peered at a strip of negatives, holding it up to the red light. “You got it,” he said, nodding. “If that Russian guy hadn’t croaked, the whole night would’ve been a big bust.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “I was too far away, but I heard someone shout when the Russki collapsed,” the photographer rasped. “Soon as I heard it, I swiveled that way with my camera, but some security goon pulled me out of there before I got many shots. Still, it was better than nothing—the agency paid me a good chunk of change for those shots of the stiff on the rug.”

  Agatha couldn’t stand such insensitive behavior—the poor man had died, after all. She cast an eye over at Chandler and Dash, who flashed a discreet thumbs-up.