Alice-Miranda in Paris 7

by Jacqueline Harvey

  ‘He’s Dux,’ Alice-Miranda answered on the boy’s behalf. ‘Dux LaBelle.’

  ‘What?’ the group looked at each other.

  Alice-Miranda and Fabien explained their suspicions about Claude as quickly as they could.

  ‘We have to call the police,’ said Sloane.

  ‘There’s no time. Uncle Claude said that there was a van coming this morning to collect a whole lot of old fabric from the basement storeroom.’

  ‘Is it really that big a deal?’ Sloane said. ‘I mean, it’s just some fabric.’

  Jacinta shot her friend an indignant look. ‘It’s not just some fabric, Sloane. It’s the world’s most expensive cloth and he stole it.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Sloane said. ‘It might be a coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t think so. There’s something I haven’t told you. My mother has a new job and she’s here writing stories for Fashion Week,’ Jacinta began.

  ‘See, I told you your mother might get a job one day,’ Sloane gloated.

  Jacinta ignored her. ‘She went to visit Dux LaBelle’s showroom earlier in the week and she met a man called Gilbert, but I think he’s the same person that you’re calling Claude.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

  Jacinta glanced up at Fabien. ‘Well, you said that your Uncle Claude is missing a finger and Mummy said that this man Gilbert was too. It would be a pretty strange coincidence to have two people connected to Dux who have missing fingers.’

  Fabien’s jaw dropped. He’d once heard his uncle answer the phone and say that his name was Gilbert. When he’d asked him about it, Claude had said that if it was good enough for Fabien to have an alias then why shouldn’t he have one too. He said that it was part of the game of being in fashion – like theatre. It was all a show. Fabien had thought it was a little strange at the time but so were a lot of things about his life.

  ‘It’s him for sure,’ Fabien confirmed. He told the children what he knew about his uncle’s other name.

  ‘But why was your mother writing a story about Dux?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘Well, he’s such a mystery – I mean, you’re such a mystery, Fabien. Mummy thought she could get the scoop and then she would really make a name for herself as a writer. But when she started to investigate, Mummy and I found an old photograph in a magazine with your uncle and Monsieur Fontaine. So she was trying to find out about the connection.’

  ‘And did she?’ Millie asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her again.’

  Fabien was growing impatient. ‘Please, we have to do something.’

  Suddenly the door flew open and Mr Plumpton appeared.

  ‘What are you lot doing in here? Mr Lipp’s up there having a fit because half the choir is missing. Come along now.’

  Alice-Miranda stepped forward and looked at the teacher beseechingly. ‘Mr Plumpton, we need your help. You see . . .’ And she explained the situation once more.

  ‘Oh my, but what about the show?’ exclaimed Mr Plumpton. ‘People will be expecting to see you, Dux – Fabien – whatever your name is.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea, sir.’ Alice-Miranda pulled on his shirtsleeve. The teacher leaned down and she whispered in Mr Plumpton’s ear.

  ‘Do you think he could pull it off?’ The teacher gave her a dubious look.

  ‘I’m sure he’d love it,’ she said. ‘He’s about the same size.’

  ‘What? Who?’ Millie asked.

  ‘I’ve got a limousine at the back door,’ said Fabien. ‘Come on.’

  Jacinta looked at her swaddled foot and pulled a face. ‘I’ll just slow you all down. I’ll stay and explain everything to Miss Grimm and the professor.’

  ‘All right. You, you, you and you,’ said Mr Plumpton, pointing at Jacinta, Sloane, Millie and Lucas, ‘head to the rehearsal and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. And I’ll be back in a minute. Give me that.’ He pointed at the mask in Fabien’s hand. ‘And the cape too. Hurry up, lad.’

  Fabien handed them both over to the Science teacher, who raced out of the room.

  ‘Don’t go without me,’ Josiah Plumpton called back.

  Sybilla Bouchard didn’t want to believe what Fabien had told her about the photograph she’d found on his drawing board. Thankfully he hadn’t recognised the young woman in the picture with the flowing red hair. But that had been such a long time ago. And how could she possibly ask Claude without stirring up painful old memories? She waited until Claude and Fabien left for the show, then went to her brother’s room. But there was nothing. Then she remembered the basement. Claude was always back and forth down there, although she didn’t much care to visit it herself. What secrets could it hold? He’d never told her that she couldn’t go down there; he just saved her the bother by bringing up the things she required.

  Sybilla realised that she would have to leave the house – in the daylight – if only to walk the few steps to the black door that led into the subterranean rooms. She opened the front door and checked left and right before closing it behind her and scurrying down the stairs to the level below. The door was locked but she knew her brother left a key out for the delivery man who came and went at odd times of the day and night. She felt around for it behind the loose grate and opened the lock. He was predictable – their father had used a similar hiding place for keys when they were children. The room was dark but didn’t smell damp as she expected it might.

  Sybilla closed the door behind her and felt about for a light switch. A single bulb cast a dull glow over the room. She had never seen so much fabric. There were shelves lining the room stacked high with coloured silks and cashmeres, acetate linings and just about any other cloth you could imagine. It was certainly more than they would need for years to come. She knew that her brother was keen to expand the business but this was outrageous. Sybilla poked about for a few minutes, wondering how they could afford to have so much stock – and such beautiful quality. Her heart beat like a drum inside her chest.

  There were several doors leading off the main room. She opened one and found another room with yet more fabric. She tried another room. This one was empty except for an old timber blanket box with a large padlock. Sybilla jangled the latch and looked around for something she could use to break it open. Her eyes came to rest on an old iron doorstop. Sybilla struggled to pick it up and then slammed it down as hard as she could on the padlock. It sprung open and she dropped the doorstop back onto the floor with a loud thud.

  Sybilla had no idea what sort of Pandora’s box she was about to open. She prised up the lid and stared. Surely her eyes were deceiving her. The box was full of photographs and sketches. Her hand dug deeper until she pulled out a bundle of letters that made her cry out loud. The bundle was tied neatly together with a ribbon, and she recognised her own handwriting on the top envelope.

  Sybilla’s legs collapsed underneath her. The fistful of letters she was holding spewed from her hands and scattered across the floor.

  Her mind was numb. How could her brother have done this to her – and to his nephew too?

  Fat tears formed in the corners of her eyes, then ran in rivers down her cheeks. She was sobbing so loudly she didn’t hear the door unlatch.

  The men hadn’t been expecting company. They had a routine: get in, clear out and go, then do it all over again in another few weeks’ time. As long as the woman didn’t see anything there was no need for anyone to get hurt. It would be a simple burglary.

  Sybilla didn’t hear the man behind her until a rough hessian bag was thrown over her head. As her hands and feet were bound and the door firmly closed, she began to wonder what her life had become.

  As Alice-Miranda, Sep and Fabien reached the back door of the Ritz, the older lad raced towards the limousine he had arrived in.

  A burly security guard intercepted him, shouting in French, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘It’s my limo,’ Fabien replied.

  ‘Nice try
, monsieur, but this limousine is for the designer, Dux LaBelle.’ The man shook his head and eyeballed Fabien.

  ‘But I . . .’ Fabien began.

  ‘No! Don’t.’ Alice-Miranda raced up and grabbed the boy’s arm. ‘We’ll find another way. Come on.’

  Josiah Plumpton charged out of the back door, puffing like a steam engine. ‘Hold up!’ he called.

  Alice-Miranda raced into the laneway with the boys and Mr Plumpton behind. There wasn’t a taxi in sight and as they neared the Rue de Rivoli the traffic was at a standstill.

  Alice-Miranda stopped. Sep and Fabien kept up but Mr Plumpton was struggling.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ called Sep. He pointed at a bank of bicycles.

  Alice-Miranda nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘NO!’ Mr Plumpton wheezed. The children stopped in their tracks. They weren’t used to him being so assertive. ‘Let’s take one of those.’ He pointed at the row of tiny electric cars.

  ‘Good thinking, sir,’ Alice-Miranda agreed.

  Mr Plumpton inserted his credit card into the self-serve podium and within a few seconds he was in the car. Sep and Alice-Miranda squeezed into the back seat and Fabien wedged himself into the front.

  A moment later the little car was speeding through the traffic, weaving between the other cars. At one stage Mr Plumpton took to the footpath, dodging pedestrians who were diving out of the way.

  ‘Look out, sir, it’s a one-way street,’ shouted Sep. He held his breath as the teacher sped down the cobbled lane.

  From a side street a police siren began to wail.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ the Science teacher said. ‘Perhaps we should pull over and let the police go past.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. It’s us they’re after.’ Sep looked around and saw the policeman shaking his fist.

  ‘Oh, oh, but I’ve never been in trouble in my life!’ Mr Plumpton looked as if he was about to pass out.

  ‘It’s just up there, around the corner.’ Fabien pointed at a laneway that ran off the main road. The trouble was, Mr Plumpton had to negotiate four lanes of traffic from one side to the other. The teacher wove the little car in and out of the passing vehicles. Only once did Sep close his eyes, quite sure they were about to end up in the back of a garbage truck.

  Alice-Miranda looked at her teacher in shock and admiration. ‘Where did you learn to drive like that?’

  ‘I once took an advanced driver course, just for fun,’ Mr Plumpton replied. ‘I never realised it would come in so handy.’ He skidded the car to a halt outside l’Hôtel Lulu, with the police car, its siren wailing, right behind him. The officer leapt from the vehicle and was stunned when the stout little man and three children emerged from the tiny car.

  Fabien was the first to speak. ‘Please, I can explain everything.’ He launched into rapid French.

  After some questions and snorts of disbelief, the police officer shooed Fabien away and turned to Mr Plumpton.

  Fabien raced to the front door of the townhouse. He tried the handle but it was locked. He rang the bell and waited for his mother to come but she didn’t.

  The policeman was busy trying to work out what to do with Mr Plumpton. At least the Science teacher had a reasonable grasp of French and was doing his best to explain what was going on.

  Alice-Miranda scurried down the stairs to the basement door. She was surprised to find it ajar. ‘Sep, Fabien, come here,’ she called. ‘The door’s open.’

  Alice-Miranda pushed her way inside with the two boys close behind her. The first room was empty. Not a scrap of material anywhere. The doors leading off the room were open, except for one.

  ‘Have a look in there.’ She pointed towards one of the open doors. Fabien raced ahead and emerged shaking his head.

  ‘Everything is gone,’ he said.

  Alice-Miranda put her finger to her lips. ‘Shh. Can you hear something?’

  ‘It’s coming from in there.’ Sep pointed at the closed door.

  Alice-Miranda tried the handle. It was locked. Fabien looked around for a key but found none.

  ‘Stand back,’ he instructed, before kicking the door with all his might. It sprang open. ‘Mama!’ Fabien cried and ran towards the woman.

  He untied her hands and feet while Alice-Miranda carefully undid the knot that secured the hessian bag over her head.

  ‘Mama, oh Mama.’ Fabien hugged her tightly.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘You are meant to be at your show!’

  ‘It’s a long story, Mama, but we have to get back there to make sure that Uncle Claude is arrested. He’s a thief.’

  ‘And a liar,’ Sybilla added. She looked at Alice-Miranda and Sep. ‘You are the children who came to the door this week?’ she said tentatively in English.

  ‘Oui, madame. It’s a long story. We can tell you on the way back to the Ritz,’ said Alice-Miranda. She looked at the envelopes strewn all over the floor. ‘Do you need all of this?’

  ‘Oui.’ It would be used as evidence against her brother, Sybilla thought sadly as Fabien helped her to her feet.

  Sep and Alice-Miranda set about picking up the papers and putting them back into the trunk.

  ‘But Mama, you can’t go out. You’re not well.’

  ‘Fabien, I am perfectly healthy, except for the medicine your uncle has been feeding me.’

  The boy gulped. ‘But Uncle Claude said that you were sick. He said you have agoraphobia and paranoia and that you needed the medicine to calm your nerves.’

  ‘What?’ Sybilla’s face contorted. ‘That’s why you think I didn’t leave the house all this time and why I didn’t let you out either? You think I’m afraid of open spaces?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s the only thing that made any sense.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fabien. That is a lie and there is so much you don’t know. But there is no time to explain now. We must get to the Ritz.’ Sybilla turned and snatched up one of the letters. ‘This will be enough.’

  The group ran out onto the street. With Mr Plumpton’s help, Alice-Miranda convinced the policeman to take Fabien and his mother to the Ritz. Mr Plumpton would drive Alice-Miranda and Sep behind them.

  In the police car, Sybilla explained to her son that she had been wrongfully accused of theft and fraud many years before. The reason she didn’t leave the house was that there was still a warrant for her arrest. Fabian understood now why they had entered France on a private boat and avoided security and customs. Sybilla hadn’t wanted to come back to Paris in the first place but Claude had convinced her that he had a plan to clear her name.

  Now she doubted that was true at all. His plan was to make money and use Fabien’s talent as a designer and her skills as a dressmaker. All her life she had protected him, except that terrible day when he was just a little boy. She hadn’t realised that his finger was in the bicycle chain when she had pushed off. She could still remember the screaming. And then their parents were killed in an accident and she vowed that it was her responsibility to always look after her little brother.

  Fabien was confused. His uncle didn’t need to steal. He had a thriving rug business.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe that your uncle has ever sold a rug in his life,’ Sybilla said. ‘He steals designs and fabric and sells them on the black market.’

  ‘But why did he want me to be a designer?’ Fabien asked his mother.

  ‘Money and power, I suspect, and of course you are a huge talent,’ said Sybilla. ‘How could I have been so blind?’ Tears slid down her cheeks. ‘All this time I have been hunted for something I knew I didn’t do. And it was him, my own brother.’

  Fabien reached across and slipped his hand into his mother’s.

  ‘Madame,’ the policeman in the driver’s seat finally spoke. ‘I have called for back-up. We will arrest Monsieur Bouchard soon,’ he assured her.

  Meanwhile, back at the Ritz, the show was about to start. The room was brimming with characters,
mostly female and mostly hidden behind oversized sunglasses and red lipstick. The combined height of their heels would have built a ladder to the moon. Cecelia Highton-Smith and her sister craned their necks to see the children, who were partially hidden behind a pylon and several oversized potted palms.

  Jacinta had hobbled up the corridor, intent on finding her mother and making sure that Claude did not speak with Dux before the show. But she had been intercepted by Mr Lipp and sent straight to her position in the choir. When she tried to object and tell him she had to see her mother, he immediately cut her off and said that he was not going to put up with any more nonsense – from anyone. Clearly the last-minute changes to their performance space had done nothing for his mood.

  The lights dimmed and Mr Trout began his extravagant introduction. Mr Lipp stood in front of the children and waved his arms about. The children launched into their medley of show tunes, complete with actions.

  ‘Can you see Alice-Miranda?’ Cecelia asked her sister.

  Charlotte shook her head and frowned.

  Cecelia wondered where she was. Millie and Jacinta were there.

  Morrie, Gerda and Lucinda Finkelstein were sitting a few rows further back.

  ‘I wish we could see Alice-Miranda,’ Lucinda whispered to her mother.

  ‘Never mind, Lucinda. I’m just excited to be here,’ Gerda told her daughter. She turned to her husband. ‘Why haven’t we ever done this before, Morrie?’

  Morrie Finkelstein shrugged. Probably because they’d never been to Paris before.

  The children’s performance was pitch perfect. Mr Lipp looked as if he was about to burst a blood vessel with his intense conducting. A flourish of notes signified the end of the show and the audience responded enthusiastically. Contrary to the running sheet, there was no time at all for the group to exit the room before a soundtrack boomed from the speakers and the first model strutted onto the runway. She wore a stunning beaded gown in fuchsia pink. Her face was hidden behind an intricate mask with plumes of feathers rising from the centre, which made her look at least seven feet tall.