“I waited for a while, hoping that she might come back to my arms. Then I heard a shout over my shoulder and the room erupted in chaos. I was so upset that I barely noticed. I paid the bill and left in the private elevator.”
“Can you think of anything else?” asked Agatha. “Did you notice anything unusual?”
He thought for a moment. “An ambulance with sirens blaring arrived at the front of the tower . . .” He shook his head. “That’s all. Do you have any news about my sweet Marlene? I’ve been calling her home phone and cell phone all day, but she doesn’t pick up. I’m afraid I’ve lost her forever!”
Agatha wanted to comfort him and promised she’d let him know if they heard anything about his lost love. Then they thanked him and left. She didn’t waste any time asking Dash if he’d found any traces of poison in the hotel room; she already knew his response. “Another dead end,” he sighed as they walked out of the Coeur Amoureux. The lilac lights of the sign flashed shadowy hearts on his coat.
“There’s still one red rose left, Miss Agatha,” Chandler tried to console her. “We’d better hurry.”
Strangely, Dash didn’t seem worried about their stalled investigation. He hunched over, rubbing his belly.
“What’s up, cousin?” Agatha asked him, concerned.
He clenched his teeth. “Hunger pangs. I skipped breakfast and lunch . . . I’ve had nothing but Coke all day long,” he moaned. “Could we pick up some fast food?”
It was almost seven o’clock, and Agatha felt the urge to make one final effort. “Come on, I’m sure we’re just minutes away from solving the crime,” she said in encouragement. “The third red rose lives just a few blocks away, on the Rue de Tintin!”
Dash adjusted his glasses. “You’re right, duty calls!” he cried, straightening up. He didn’t realize that “a few blocks” in an old city like Paris could become an exhausting maze.
It was eight o’clock, and the lights of Paris were dimmed by the swirling snow. The only point of reference was the brightly lit forged-iron tower rising up above the rooftops, its shape so familiar from postcards and souvenirs that it barely seemed real. A thousand-foot tower, designed by the visionary engineer Gustave Eiffel for the 1889 World’s Fair, which welcomed millions of tourists every year.
These tourists, however, did not include Agatha, Dash, and Chandler. They were trying to investigate a murder that took place in its second-floor restaurant without being able to set foot in the tower itself.
That fact could potentially compromise their mission.
Dash dragged his feet as though he had invisible chains around both ankles. “Are we at the Rue de Tintin yet?” the Eye International student whined every time they reached a corner.
After his hundredth complaint, his cousin pronounced the magic words: “Yes, Dash, this is the Rue de Tintin.”
Finally, some good news!
During their long slog through the snow, Dash had listened as Agatha and Chandler discussed the final red rose, Roxanne Pigafette. She was in her sixties, unmarried, and worked as a food critic for the Michelin Guide, the most important gastronomical guide in the world.
That particular detail made Dash’s mouth water. Surely such a gourmet would know how to cook, and given the hour, perhaps she was already cooking up something delicious . . .
The next news was far less hopeful. “The eighth floor?” he cried in desperation when they reached the right building. “I’ll never make it!”
“There’s no need to take the stairs this time,” Agatha reassured him, pointing at the petite elevator. “Get your glasses programmed. Madame Pigafette is preparing canapés, and she said over the intercom that she doesn’t have much time for us!”
At the word canapés, Dash vaulted into the elevator and pressed the button to close the door. Chandler managed to stick his foot inside just before the rest of the group was left behind.
“Forget anyone?” he asked quietly.
“Uh, oh, sorry about that,” said Dash. “I’m just starving!”
They rode up, squished one against the other, holding their breaths with anticipation. As they walked down the marble-tiled hall on the top floor, they spotted Madame Pigafette standing at the doorway of her luxurious apartment. She wore the same dress she’d had on the evening before: a black velvet sheath embroidered with red roses.
Was this where their investigation would end?
Was she the murderer of Boris Renko?
To find out, they would need to use every trick of the trade and follow Agatha’s elaborate plan to perfection.
Her soft, wrinkled lips framed a greeting in English. “Good evening, my dears.”
“Good evening, Madame Pigafette,” replied Agatha.
Madame Pigafette hid a giggle behind her bony hand. “Please call me Roxanne,” she declared. “Madame sounds too old.”
Chandler gave a polite bow, tipping his cap, a gesture that caused a red flush to warm the food critic’s pale face.
Pleasantries finished, she led the three Londoners into her parlor. The room had the feel of another era, furnished in walnut and rich burgundy velvet.
Platters of triangular sandwiches, a bowl of colorful dip, and a bottle of fine champagne were arranged on a low table.
Dash was ravenous. But just as he lunged for the food, he was stopped by a nudge to the ribs. “Do wash your hands first, dear cousin,” said Agatha in a friendly voice. “We’ve been on the Metro, after all.”
Remembering his role, Dash sprang up from the couch. “Uh, oh, excuse me Madame . . . I mean, um, Roxanne,” he stammered, running his hands through his hair. “Where can I wash up?”
As soon as he left for the bathroom, Madame Pigafette dropped her voice, whispering to Chandler, “Detective, what a peculiar apprentice you have. Why on earth is he wearing dark glasses at night?”
The butler was caught off guard, but quickly invented a lie that Dash suffered from a rare form of chronic conjunctivitis.
“Oh, the poor dear!” the old woman said sympathetically. “But back to us. What would you like to know about the terrible tragedy at the Jules Verne?”
Agatha got straight to the point. “Are you aware of the impact an incident like last night’s homicide can have on a restaurant’s rating?” she asked.
Madame Pigafette stared back at Agatha in bewilderment, not understanding her point.
“What I’m asking is this,” the girl continued calmly. “After this tragedy, will the Jules Verne lose stars in the Michelin Guide?”
This was the factor on which the three investigators had based their suspicions. Roxanne Pigafette’s brother ran an elegant restaurant in the center of Paris, and was in constant competition with the Jules Verne. This famous food critic had an excellent motive to commit murder!
Until that point, their suspect had behaved with utmost courtesy, but Agatha’s question infuriated her. “What are you implying?” she shrieked. “Do you think I killed that Russian diplomat to help my brother’s restaurant?”
Her fiery reaction embarrassed Chandler, who reached for a sandwich.
“Stop!” Dash yelled from the doorway. “It’s laced with strychnine!”
Everybody turned toward him and immediately saw the bottle of poison he held in his hand.
“B-but . . . what is that?” Madame Pigafette asked in surprise.
Dash approached the group with long strides. “There are traces of strychnine scattered all across the kitchen floor, and I found this in the cupboard,” he announced. “I bet it’s the very same poison she used to dispatch Boris Renko!”
“Impossible, Dash,” Agatha interrupted, shaking her head in disappointment. “Can’t you see the label? It’s a cockroach poison. All that would do is give someone a stomachache!”
“My apartment’s infested with those horrid creatures,” confessed an embarrassed Madame Pigafett
e. “They come out of the drainpipes and run across my precious velvet. What else could I do?”
Like a dog with a bone, Dash insisted, “I’m sure you’re very accomplished when it comes to lethal substances. You were even about to poison us!” He pointed dramatically at the platter of sandwiches, but his voice caught in his throat when he realized that his glasses weren’t revealing so much as a trace of strychnine in the dishes on the table. Disappointed, he collapsed onto the sofa, while Agatha and Chandler did their best to apologize.
It was several minutes before they were able to calm the situation enough to continue their interrogation.
“Last night,” Madame Pigafette began to recount, “I arrived at the restaurant just after nine p.m. I left my coat in the cloakroom and went to the ladies’ room to freshen up. I had barely sat down at my table when an awful commotion broke out and the restaurant emptied, except for the staff, a most disagreeable man with a camera, and a few curious onlookers. I left as soon as I could, without even ordering an aperitif.”
“In the short time you were in the restaurant,” asked Chandler, “did you notice anything strange?”
She paused to think, squinting her eyes. “The only thing that seemed out of place was the young woman holding the bathroom door open and peering out. I remember because when all the pandemonium broke out and everyone fled from the scene, she rushed toward the man who’d collapsed.”
“A young woman?” repeated Agatha, her ears pricking up. “Can you describe her?”
Madame Pigafette shook her head. “I don’t have a good memory for faces,” she admitted. “But she didn’t seem like a tourist. She looked like a chic Parisian dressed up for a date.”
Agatha drummed the end of her nose with one finger. “Chandler, would you please show her the photo of Marlene Dupont?” she asked.
The butler had stashed the photo in a pocket in the cat carrier, and had to fight off a lively Watson to retrieve it. Even Dash, who was wolfing down sandwiches, stretched his neck in curiosity.
“That’s her,” the old woman confirmed once the photo was in her hands. “No doubt about it.”
Exchanging triumphant looks, the three Londoners pulled on their coats in a hurry.
Roxanne Pigafette was confused by their sudden haste. “Would somebody please explain what’s going on?”
“Your testimony pointed the way to the culprit,” explained Agatha, running to the door. “Thank you so much, Madame. And bon appétit!”
As they rode back down in the elevator, Agatha asked Dash to check another Parisian address on the EyeNet Plus GPS. “It all ties up with a bow!” she exclaimed. “Marlene’s hat shop is on Lannes Boulevard—right across from the Russian embassy!”
Dash nearly jumped out of his skin with excitement as they rode on the near-empty Metro. “Can you fill me in one more time?” he asked Agatha. “I think I missed a few steps along the way.”
Chandler raised an eyebrow. “As did I, Miss Agatha.”
The girl leaned one elbow against the window, counting off the evidence with her free hand. “Let’s start with the first red flag,” she began. “Madame Pigafette recognized Marlene Dupont, but according to Marlene’s boyfriend, Marlene had already left of the Jules Verne in tears at that point.”
Dash was picking bits of green pistou sauce from between his teeth. “Go on, we’re all ears,” he prompted.
Agatha stood, tapping her index finger against her lip. “Do you remember what John Radcliffe said about Marlene’s behavior just before her hasty exit?”
“Not in so many words,” replied Chandler. “Could you please remind us?”
“He said Marlene was quiet and kept looking around the room anxiously. He thought she was upset by his marriage proposal, but suppose there was another motive: From her position in the restaurant, she would have been able to track Boris Renko’s every movement!”
Dash verified the positions of the relevant tables on the EyeNet Plus. “You always manage to nail it,” he noted. “But I don’t understand why she’d be keeping an eye on a Russian diplomat.”
“Because,” reasoned Agatha, “she wanted to know which wine he had ordered from the sommelier, so she could put the poison in the right glass!”
Her two companions stared at her in amazement.
“Listen closely,” she continued excitedly. “Do you know how a sommelier does his job in a fancy restaurant? The bottles of wine are kept in a separate area, and the sommelier brings wine to one table at a time.” She gave Dash a meaningful look.
“I get what you’re saying, but how did Marlene manage to put the poison into his glass?”
Agatha’s gaze lit up. “We have to admit, she was quite ingenious,” she continued. “Let’s go back to John Radcliffe’s story. He said that Marlene was so upset that she bumped into other guests as she left. Now, look carefully at the restaurant blueprints. To reach the exit—or the ladies’ room—Marlene would have had to pass next to the wine bar, which is where the glasses were, too . . .”
“She took advantage of the scene by distracting everyone, including the sommelier!” exclaimed Dash.
“And knowing which wine Mr. Renko had chosen, she slipped the strychnine into the glass that had been poured for him,” concluded Chandler.
Agatha winked. “All clear, dear colleagues?”
They nodded, admiring her cleverness.
“But that’s not the end of the story,” Agatha went on. “We still don’t know why, instead of just leaving the restaurant, Marlene hid in the bathroom and watched her plan unfold, while her boyfriend walked out with his tail between his legs. This makes me think that the whole thing was planned with utmost precision: the booking at the Jules Verne, the alibi she gave to John Radcliffe, who didn’t even know he’d been tricked, and her knowledge of Mr. Renko’s movements.” She paused, lost in thought. “The only thing that escapes me for now is the motive for murder,” she added, tapping her nose. “I’ll need your help to figure that out.”
“Wait,” interrupted Dash. “Before we start examining possible motives, why are we going to Lannes Boulevard?”
“Because Marlene is hiding in her shop, obviously,” his cousin explained. “Her boyfriend didn’t look for her there, for one simple reason: It’s Sunday. The shop would be closed.”
“And where does the Russian embassy come into all of this?” asked the butler, starting to sweat with the effort of keeping up with Agatha’s lightning-fast reconstruction of events.
Agatha gave him a little smile. “Don’t you think it’s strange that a Russian diplomat was the victim, and Marlene’s shop is right across from the Russian embassy? That’s probably how she was able to keep an eye on him, study his daily habits, and pick the right moment to strike!”
“Then maybe her motive is related to some sort of espionage,” he replied. “Maybe something that happened a long time ago.”
“Excellent theory,” Agatha complimented him. Then her eyes widened as an idea struck. “Can you repeat that last sentence, Chandler?”
“I said, maybe her motive goes back to something that happened in the world of espionage a long time ago,” repeated the butler.
Agatha let out a squeal of elation. “Dash, run a global search on the EyeNet for a spy called Marlene Dupont!”
Dash obeyed instantly. He knew they were nearing their destination, so he typed as fast as he could. “Nothing,” he whispered bitterly.
“Do you think you could hack into the Russian embassy’s database?”
“Normally I wouldn’t be able to dream of it,” he said with a grin. “But this is Agent UM60’s EyeNet Plus, and it can work miracles.”
He hunched over the device, concentrating hard. After a few attempts, he punched a victorious fist in the air. “I’m inside their archives, Agatha,” he crowed. “What should I search for?”
“Try Marlene Dupon
t again.”
“Nothing!”
Agatha realized there was only one stop left before they reached Lannes Boulevard. They needed to come up with a new angle, but nothing came to mind. At the last minute, she proposed, “Try red rose!”
Dash threw himself into the search. The moments crept by as in a slow-motion film.
The doors opened as the loudspeaker advised them that they’d arrived at their stop. They hurried outside and were faced with a wall of white tiles. The station was empty and the cold was so intense that the hairs on the backs of their necks stood up.
“Well?” asked Agatha, on tenterhooks.
Even Chandler tried to peek at Dash’s EyeNet.
“Red rose didn’t bring up a thing!” said Dash in despair.
Agatha punched her fist into the palm of her other hand. “This is a huge problem,” she observed. “If we can’t find a link between Marlene and the victim, we’ll never figure out her motive to murder him.”
Chandler was dead silent. Dash scratched his head nervously. Agatha bit her fingernails.
“Unless . . .” she started.
The other two were hanging on every word.
“But of course!” Agatha exploded, her voice echoing through the empty station. “Mr. Renko’s emergency call to Eye International was in English, but his native language is Russian!”
“So what?” asked Dash. “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“It was a coded message for Agent UM60 to interpret!”
“I still don’t get it,” replied Dash.
“Red rose!” exclaimed Agatha. “Try translating it on a Cyrillic keyboard.”
He looked at her blankly.
“The Russian alphabet!” she said. “Try it!”
Dash lowered his head, clicking open an auto-translation program.
After a few moments, the screen flashed with two words in the Cyrillic alphabet;
The Eiffel Tower Incident Page 4