But Chief Olaf’s skin wasn’t the only flash of red that caught my eye. A beautiful red vintage Rolls-Royce limousine had pulled up in front of the hotel. The doorman went to talk to the chauffeur and then walked purposefully back through the lobby.
Devereux strutted over to greet him, apparently assuming that whatever important person had pulled up in the Rolls must be there for him, but the doorman walked right by him without a glance. We were just as surprised as everyone else when he approached and bowed to Joe and me instead.
“Pardon, messieurs,” he said. “A car has arrived to escort the Hardy boys to Monsieur Brune’s château.”
8
PARTY CRASHERS
JOE
SO THAT LITTLE GET-TOGETHER AT Cyril’s place he invited us to? Well, the “get-together” was an extravagant art-world party, and his “place” was a castle! Literally a castle!
Cyril’s château (that’s French for “castle”) was on a massive estate on the outskirts of Paris, and just about every inch of it was filled with French art. There was everything from pieces by lesser-known artists like Cosmonaute to huge pieces by Le Stylo and old masterworks that looked like they should be in the Louvre. A real-life Vincent van Gogh painting of a human skull hung right next to a Georges St. Denis photograph showing a sign for Paris’s famous catacombs—the ancient tunnels under the city where they kept the bones of millions of dead Parisians—only Ratatouille had altered the sign so it read LES RATACOMBES instead of LES CATACOMBES. A cartoon rat skull in a red beret had been stenciled beside it.
There was an eclectic mix of people to match the artwork. Bohemian artist types mingled with upper-crust collectors, while waitstaff in tuxedos served everyone fancy hors d’oeuvres. There were some familiar faces there as well. Ginormo Luc was stuffing his face at the buffet table, while Simone Lachance was huddled in a corner with the short redheaded guy we’d heard criticizing Le Stylo at her gallery. He had the same camera around his neck and was gesturing wildly with his hands. We were too far away to hear anything, but from the looks of it, they were arguing.
“I wonder what that’s all about,” I said, pointing the conversation out to Frank.
“I’d say we should sneak closer and get a listen, but I think an old friend of ours might object,” he cautioned.
I followed his eyes back to the buffet table, where Luc was now mad-dogging us over a half-eaten mutton chop. From the looks of him, he would have been happy to chomp down on us instead.
I quickly turned away and took in the rest of the crowd. “Recognize anyone else?”
“Nope,” Frank replied. “Not even Cyril.”
Frank was right: our host was nowhere to be seen. I looked down one of the long hallways branching off the main hall where everyone seemed to be congregating.
“Up for a self-guided tour?” I asked.
“I’ve always wanted to explore a European castle.” Frank smiled. “And I don’t see any ‘Do Not Enter’ signs.”
“Not that that’s ever stopped us before,” I reminded him. “Lead the way, bro.”
The corridor was lined with old paintings and statues on pedestals, and it seemed to go on forever. Just when I started to think maybe it actually did, a smaller hallway veered off to the left, and this one had a door at the end of it.
Giving a glance behind us to make sure we were alone, Frank headed right for it. After listening for a second to see if he could hear anything on the other side, he slowly turned the knob and cracked the door.
“Forget the Louvre,” I gasped. “This is my kind of treasure.”
We were staring into a garage the size of an airplane hangar, filled with some of the coolest vehicles I had ever seen in person. The garage wasn’t just the size of an airplane hangar, though: it actually had an airplane in it. As well as a helicopter and a superexpensive assortment of gliders, race cars, motorcycles, off-road vehicles, and classic cars.
I eagerly followed Frank inside.
“Wow, it must be nice to be super rich,” he observed, looking from the gleaming vehicles to the framed photographs on the wall of Cyril on adventures all around the world. Hang gliding over the Grand Canyon, free-climbing a rock face in the Andes, BASE jumping from a skyscraper in Dubai, diving with great white sharks.
“That was in the Neptune Islands off the coast of Australia,” a smooth voice said from behind us.
We nearly jumped. Cyril had managed to sneak up behind us again!
“They wanted me to stay in the cage, but anyone can do that,” he continued. “Great whites aren’t the villains everyone makes them out to be. It was a powerful experience. And frightening.”
I could see Frank shudder. We were both big on shark conservation, but we’d had underwater run-ins with our finned friends on a previous case, and I don’t think either of us wanted to repeat the experience.
“We didn’t know anyone at the party and thought it would be okay if we looked around,” Frank said, trying to hide the fact that we’d been snooping. “Your house is amazing!”
Cyril laughed. “Well, I know all the people at the party, and I don’t blame you for wanting to get away from them. I was doing the same thing. Everyone expects me to throw these lavish get-togethers, but to be honest, most of the people here bore me.” He clapped us both on the shoulder. “Present company excluded.”
Cyril caught me eyeing a superslick black dune buggy and grinned like a big kid. “Do you like my toys?”
“I like your definition of toy,” I said.
“Would you like to take it for a spin?” he asked, a gleam in his eye as he walked over to the dune buggy and hit a concealed switch on the dash, releasing a hidden compartment with a key.
“For real?” Frank asked for both of us, since I was too excited to do anything except stand there with my mouth open.
“Unless you’d rather stand around making small talk with a bunch of boring art snobs,” he said.
“Count me in!” I finally blurted. “For the driving part, I mean. Not the small talk part.”
The little dune buggy was one of the coolest cars I’d ever seen. It basically looked like a mini Batmobile! It was about the size of Inspector Devereux’s funky little two-seat European car, but that’s where the similarity stopped. The buggy was elevated off the ground on big, fat off-road wheels that extended away from the body, giving it the appearance of a beast about to pounce. The whole thing was painted black, and every piece of metal was cut at sharp, aerodynamic angles. It even had a large, mean-looking propeller on the back like on an airboat. The whole thing was so sleek it could probably pass for a normal car as it zoomed down the street. But a close inspection made you think you were looking at something from the future.
“I bet this thing is fast!” I gushed.
“It’s a Sky Ranger prototype,” Cyril said as the engine roared to life. The name Sky Ranger rang a bell, like maybe I’d read about it on one of the auto or tech blogs I follow, but I couldn’t quite place it.
“Totally street legal, with a max speed of a hundred eighty-five kilometers per hour on the ground,” he continued.
“That’s a hundred fifteen miles per hour!” Frank exclaimed.
By “on the ground,” I figured Cyril meant a French way of saying maybe the road versus the racetrack. I was about to ask when I was interrupted by a high-pitched whining noise coming from somewhere down the road. It was a different tone from the one we had in America, but the sound was still unmistakable. Sirens.
Cyril closed his eyes, his smile vanishing as the sirens grew louder and flashing blue lights appeared through the garage’s huge glass door. There was a procession of five police cars led by Inspector Devereux’s funny-looking little French auto.
Cyril turned the Sky Ranger’s engine off. “I suspect we’ll have to save our ride for another time.”
He walked over to the wall, hit the button to open the garage door, and stepped out confidently to meet the police. Guests were already pouring out of the house to see what
was going on.
“Bonsoir, Inspecteur,” he greeted Devereux in French, then turned to the man who stepped out of the passenger seat beside him. “Monsieur.”
“Inspector Livingston of Interpol’s art crimes division,” the man announced with a British accent. Interpol was Europe’s international police force. Devereux had called in the big guns.
“I did not see your names on the guest list,” Cyril said, switching to English. “But there is, of course, plenty of food for you and your officers if you are hungry.”
“We have uncovered evidence incriminating you in this morning’s theft.” Devereux made sure to shout loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear. “We need you to come down to the station immediately.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow? As you can see, I am entertaining at the moment.” Cyril gestured to the gawking crowd. It looked like the whole party had come out to watch the spectacle.
“Justice does not wait for a rich man’s parties,” Devereux sneered.
“Am I under arrest, then?” Cyril asked calmly.
Devereux bristled.
“Not formally, sir,” Inspector Livingston said respectfully.
“Yet,” Devereux interjected. “But we can get a warrant easily enough if you refuse to cooperate.”
Devereux nodded to one of the uniformed officers, who opened the back of his police car for Cyril to get in. Cyril didn’t budge.
“I am always happy to cooperate with the police, Inspector,” Cyril said smiling as if he weren’t the least bit flustered. “But, seeing as I am still a free man, I think I’d prefer to drive myself . . . that is, if it’s okay with you, of course.”
“That should be fine, sir,” Livingston agreed, as Devereux stood there stewing.
Cyril turned and called out to his guests as he walked back into the garage. “My apologies. I must leave early, but please feel free to stay and enjoy the refreshments in my absence.”
Cyril put his hand on the Sky Ranger’s roof and turned back to Devereux. “Do try to keep up, Inspector.”
He hopped in without waiting for a reply, gunned the engine, and peeled out in a black buggy blur, leaving Devereux behind coughing up a cloud of dust.
9
FAMOUS LAST WORDS
FRANK
HAND OVER YOUR PHONES,” CHIEF Olaf barked as we walked back into the hotel later that night.
“Bonsoir to you, too, Chief,” Joe said cheerily.
“Give ’em here,” he demanded. “I don’t want you boys mixed up with this Cyril Brune character until this Le Stylo business is sorted.”
“What’s Cyril Brune have to do with our phones?” I asked.
“Your father’s flight isn’t getting in until tomorrow at the earliest, and he’d never forgive me if I let you boys get arrested . . . or worse. So I’m going to install a GPS tracking app on your phones so I know where you are at all times.” He held out his hand.
“You want us to let you spy on us?!” Joe asked, looking as flabbergasted as I felt. This was a new low, treating us like little kids.
“You’re still minors and your father left you in my care, so unless you want to spend the rest of your vacation in your rooms . . .” He looked down at his open cell phone–less palms.
We both groaned. Then we gave him our phones.
“Can you at least tell us what happened?” Joe asked. “Is Cyril under arrest?”
The chief sighed, but he must have felt bad about installing spyware on our phones, because he answered, “They had to let him go.”
Joe and I both smiled. Staying objective is critical to being a good detective, but it was hard not to like Cyril, and I was really hoping he wasn’t our crook.
“But that doesn’t mean he’s innocent,” Chief Olaf reminded us. “It just means they didn’t have enough to charge him. But he visited the Mona Lisa exhibit yesterday, and they think he’s the one who planted the projector. There were too many people and the camera angle was wrong to catch him doing it, but it sure looks suspicious.”
The chief was right: it didn’t prove anything, but it didn’t look good, either. He saw our expressions sink and grumbled something to himself before continuing.
“If it makes you feel any better, your friend had a plausible excuse for being there. He’s on some big art conservancy board and goes to the Louvre once a week, at least, so him visiting the Mona Lisa isn’t all that unusual.”
“I don’t know how the law works over here, but all this sounds pretty circumstantial,” I said, perking up. “It strengthens the case against him as a suspect, sure, but it doesn’t prove anything.”
“And the Mona Lisa gets, like, a hundred thousand visitors a day, right?” Joe added. “That’s a lot of other people who could have planted the projector too.”
“Which is exactly why they had to let him go. Word is Devereux was so mad he nearly threw a temper tantrum.” The chief grinned. “They say he’s been trying to catch Le Stylo for years and hates being shown up.”
The image of Chief Inspector Devereux throwing a hissy fit made my brother and me grin as well.
“Devereux has a stakeout watching Cyril’s houseboat, but apparently the only place he’s gone since leaving the station is straight to sleep,” Chief Olaf continued before adding, “Which is exactly what you boys need to do.”
“Aw, Chief,” Joe whined.
“Will you at least call our room to tell us if there are any new developments?” I pleaded.
The chief sighed again. “Some of the IPAD guys are pretty tied into the department here, so if he goes anywhere, we’ll all hear about it. Now, it’s been a long day, and it’s time for all of us to turn in.”
We took back our bugged phones and trudged to the room. Not like either of us were about to get any sleep after the day we’d had. The jet lag had our internal clocks all wonky and the case had our minds wired.
“I sure would like to get a look at that houseboat,” I sighed, lying in my twin bed staring at the ceiling.
“I was hoping you would say that,” Joe said, hopping out of bed and laying his phone on the table. “And as long as we leave our phones in the room, the chief won’t know the difference.”
I grinned. “He’s got enough on his mind. We wouldn’t want him to worry.”
A twenty-minute midnight stroll along the Seine later and we were standing on the Pont Alexandre III, one of the most famous bridges in all of Paris. Docked on the Left Bank beneath the ornate lanterns and statues of golden-winged horses was Cyril’s houseboat—a beautiful fifty-foot, two-story dark wood floating home.
“Cyril really does have the best toys.” Joe sighed longingly as he pulled out a pair of binoculars from his bag.
I nodded. “Looks like the lights are out on this one, though.”
“Yeah, not much to see as far as the case goes. The only thing I can tell is that Inspector Devereux’s detectives have weak stakeout skills.” Joe handed me the binoculars and pointed to a car parked on the other side of the bridge right beneath a streetlight. It was easy to see two policemen inside guzzling coffee and chowing down on pastries.
“I guess some things really are the same in every country,” he quipped.
“If Cyril is Le Stylo, he’d be way too smart to do anything suspicious with them right there,” I noted. Watching the houseboat sway gently in the calm Seine waters was finally making me sleepy. “Maybe we should call it a night.” I handed him the binoculars back.
Joe yawned in agreement and looked around at the scene one last time.
We had just started to turn back when . . .
“Hey, what’s that?” Joe pointed to a ring of bubbles floating to the surface by the houseboat.
“Huh, les poissons, maybe?” I suggested. That’s French for “fish.”
“Then what’s that?” Joe pointed to the houseboat’s roof . . . where a small black drone suddenly whirred into the air and took off down the Seine, chasing after the bubbles!
“I don’t know how you say
it in French, but that’s a spy drone!” I said as we both started running along the Left Bank in pursuit of the tiny helicopter with its four swirling rotors.
The French cops in the car across the street were too occupied with their pâtisseries to notice, so it was up to us. Only the drone was moving way faster than we could keep up with. At least not on foot.
Which is why it’s a good thing Cyril left his supersweet Sky Ranger buggy parked a block down the street. I saw it before Joe did and started to slow down.
“Hey, the drone’s going to get away . . . ,” Joe started to complain until he saw the buggy for himself. “Ohhhh.”
A big grin spread across his face. “Cyril did offer to let us take it for a spin.”
“And we do know where the key is,” I added.
We both hopped in without a second thought, Joe in the driver’s seat and me riding shotgun. Joe popped open the secret compartment with the key, cranked the engine, and . . .
“Follow that drone!” I shouted.
And we were off!
“This is awesome!” Joe hollered, the wind whipping in our faces as we zipped down the street hugging the Left Bank.
Normally I’m a little more cautious than my brother about things like driving “borrowed” cars in a foreign country without a license, but . . .
“Whoo-hoo!” I shouted.
. . . this was just way too much fun!
The drone was flying right over the river, so it was easy to follow. I couldn’t help taking my eyes off it to check out the buggy’s sleek dashboard. It was a lot more streamlined than a normal car, with a handful of cool James Bond spy-car-looking buttons. It was the big red one right in the middle of the console that caught my eye.
My finger was in motion before I could stop myself, my mouth uttering the five famous last words you never want to hear while racing around in a stolen super-high-tech Batmobile-looking prototype car: “What does this button do?”
A Con Artist in Paris Page 4