Peril in Paris (Taylor and Rose Secret Agents)

by Katherine Woodfine

  Anna had not used a telephone very often, but there had been one in the Count and Countess’s private sitting room, and sometimes they had been allowed to put through a call to Grandfather in Elffburg. If this was a telephone number, it was a funny-looking one, she thought. There was something not quite right about the spaces in between the numbers. Really it wasn’t quite like a telephone number at all, but more like something else she’d seen recently, back in the schoolroom at Wilderstein Castle. She searched her memory: black-and-white print danced before her eyes; she heard Alex’s voice. The velvet cloak with its tarnished paper stars was lying on the arm of the chair beside her: she reached out and slid the edge of it between her fingers thoughtfully.

  It wasn’t a telephone number, she realised. It was a line reference. Alex didn’t mean 111189. He meant I.II.189. The line reference for a Shakespeare play, and surely T could only mean The Tempest, the play they’d performed together before they left Wilderstein Castle.  The Tempest: Act I, Scene II, Line 189. Anna’s thoughts raced: it was the scene they’d acted out together: Alex as Prospero the magician and exiled Duke of Milan had summoned Anna as Ariel, his servant. Line 189: Approach, my Ariel, come.

  Even as she murmured the line aloud, she saw the bright red air-balloon moving slowly across the blue sky printed with the words GRAND AERIAL TOUR OF EUROPE.

  She gasped aloud. Lil had been wrong, she saw at once. Alex’s message had not been a telephone number at all. He’d been trying to send them somewhere else altogether – to the Aerial Tour. But if his kidnappers were taking Alex to an airfield then they could be planning to fly him out of the country, she realised in a sickening flash. And meanwhile Lil was on a wild goose chase, following up a telephone number that had nothing to do with anything; Captain Forsyth was nowhere to be found; and Anna was here all alone, and time was running out.

  Her knees felt weak. There was nothing she could do, she thought desperately. There was no way that she could help. She was quite alone, and Lil had told her to stay in the hotel suite, and under no circumstances to open the door to anyone, no matter what. But then she saw the red balloon soaring overhead, and she thought of Alex’s message: Ariel, come. It wasn’t just a clue to the Aerial Tour – it was an instruction to herself.  Come, Alex had said. He’d left a message asking for her help. She was his sister; she would not let him down.

  She turned away from the window. The books M. Martin had left for them were still lying on the table: the title The Bravest Girl in the Fifth seemed to sing out to her. She had to try, she thought, growing more and more resolute by the minute. If she could even find out where Alex was, or learn who the Countess was working with, or where they planned to take him! If she could even get some of the evidence that she remembered Lil had said was so important! That gave her an idea, and she sprinted through into Lil’s room, Würstchen following at her heels, obviously considering this part of a very good game. The attaché case was lying unlocked on a table and she grabbed it, pausing only to scribble a quick message to Lil, which she left lying on the bed. Swiftly, she fastened her pocket handkerchief to Würstchen’s collar as a makeshift lead.

  ‘Hang on, Alex,’ she murmured under her breath. ‘We’re coming!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Issy-les-Moulineux Airfield, Paris

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are delighted to welcome you to the first Grand Aerial Tour of Europe! Mesdames et messieurs, bienvenus … ’

  The music rang in Anna’s ears, growing louder and louder, as she pushed her way with difficulty through the crowds. She’d never been among so many people in her life before: even on her visits to Elffburg, she’d been standing apart, waving down at the crowd from the palace balcony or the window of the royal carriage. Now she was amongst them, they were no longer a pleasant blur of smiling faces, but a jostling mass of elbows and shoulders. People jumped out at her from the crowd for a moment – a group of aviation enthusiasts with field-glasses and notebooks; a photographer wielding a large camera and tripod; an exasperated nursemaid dragging a small wailing child by the hand. There was a festival atmosphere in the air: red, white and blue bunting was strung up everywhere; a band was playing a jolly tune; the planes themselves had been gaily decorated with their nations’ flags; and a great banner reading GRAND AERIAL TOUR could be seen fluttering high against the blue sky.

  It seemed the last place that she could imagine the Countess would take Alex, and as she staggered through the throng, she began to wonder if she’d got it all horribly wrong, but just the same she fought onwards. She couldn’t give up now.

  The cab journey had been difficult enough: she’d barely been able to understand the driver’s accent, and she hadn’t even been sure exactly where the air race was taking place. Thankfully he’d seemed to understand when she said she wanted to see the launch of the air race, and had brought her straight here, and now that she saw the crowds, she understood why. Clearly half of Paris had turned out to see the planes set off.

  She was very glad that she’d brought Lil’s attaché case with her. She’d forgotten all about money to pay for the cab – after all, she’d never had to carry money before – but just in time she’d remembered the roll of bank notes she’d seen inside. She had hardly known how to pay, fumbling with the notes, but the cab driver had picked out what he wanted, and now – here she was.

  She’d had to steel herself to plunge into the crowd, picking up Würstchen and tucking him under her arm, so he wouldn’t be trampled underfoot. Now, a wave of panic rushed over her. The airfield seemed so vast and hot and crowded, and if Alex was here, then he could be almost anywhere. A crowd of schoolboys pushed past, almost knocking her over, and she felt suddenly very lost and frightened. Where should she go? What should she do?

  Strangely it was the Countess’s voice that suddenly came to her, though this time her words were rather different.  A princess should not be afraid, Anna thought to herself.  You are an ambassador for your country wherever you go. You must never forget that. Then Grandfather saying: Look after each other.

  Anna pulled herself taller. She remembered the green-and-white flag of Arnovia, flying from the turrets of Wilderstein Castle, and the snowy peaks of the mountains in the distance. She thought of the oil paintings of her ancestors, and the Countess’s stories about the brave Arnovian kings of the past. This was not the time to be weak and helpless. This was the time to fight.

  She could see no Arnovian flags here, but there was a German flag flying high above one of the sheds, beside an open expanse where an aeroplane was already being pushed across the grass. The Countess had been working with the Germans, hadn’t she? Filling herself with thoughts of King Otto the Wise, leading his people bravely into battle, Anna tucked Würstchen more securely under her arm, and set out towards it.

  Sophie made her way swiftly through the crowds, Tilly close behind her. They’d left the hotel without any trouble, but she felt nervous and keyed up, looking all around her. The whole airfield was alive with people waiting to see the start of the race, and they had to swerve to avoid a group of rowdy boys, and then again to avoid colliding with a girl carrying a little dog. Thank heavens she’d left the fancy gowns and hats behind in the hotel suite, choosing instead a simple blouse and skirt in which she could move quickly and easily. She was not Miss Celia Blaxland any longer. Her cover might be blown, but at least now she could be herself again – Sophie Taylor, detective and secret agent.

  Now, she took in the grassy field where the aircraft would take off, and beside it a row of hangars where the final preparations to the machines were being made. Standing tall above everything was a platform for the race officials, strung with coloured flags and bedecked with a banner bearing the words GRAND AERIAL TOUR. She could just make out the figure of Sir Chester Norton alongside several other gentlemen, surveying the field below and consulting their pocket watches, and not far away from them, the ever-present Roberta Russell, with notebook ready in hand. Sophie ducked quickly away behind
a refreshment tent before Miss Russell’s sharp eyes picked her out in the crowd.

  The race was clearly about to begin: the first plane was already being wheeled out on to the flat expanse of grass by a team of mechanics in greasy overalls. It was the Italian plane, Sophie saw, recognising the flag fluttering from its tail. From inside, Signor Rossi grinned and waved at the crowd. It seemed quite impossible that such a frail, spidery contraption of wires and struts could go anywhere, never mind up into the sky. Its wings looked impossibly fragile, made only of linen fabric stretched over a delicate wooden frame. And yet, all at once, it was roaring into life – the propeller was spinning – and the pilot was waving – and the men were pushing it forward – and it was away, teetering slowly but surely over the ground and then rising up into the air, the flag flickering wildly. The watching crowd burst into wild applause, and to delight them still more, Rossi performed a bold swoop towards the race officials, turning in the nick of time to gasps from the crowds, and then sailed down over the spectators, low enough to make the plumes on the ladies’ hats flutter. The crowd cheered louder, waving flags and handkerchiefs joyfully in the air.

  But Sophie was staring through a gap in the crowds to someone else, someone who was standing at the door of one of the hangars. It was the grey man – Ziegler’s spy. His grey jacket and grey hat were gone now; and so was his smart evening attire. He was wearing mechanic’s overalls, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. Dr Muller’s vague, polite expression was gone too: now the man’s gaze was piercing as he looked disdainfully over the crowds gathering to watch the planes take off, the band playing, the striped refreshment tents serving ices and lemonade.

  ‘I’m going after him – he might have the notebook. You stay here and watch for Herr Grün and his plane,’ she said to Tilly, but before she had been able to take a step towards the grey man, she heard a voice calling out: ‘Miss Blaxland! Good day to you, Miss Blaxland!’

  Dr Bernard was making his way towards them through the crowd, dressed in a straw boater and neat white flannels, his moustache more beautifully waxed than ever. ‘What happened to you last night? You disappeared! I was terribly worried! Miss Russell said –’ he began and then faltered, looking at her, clearly confused.

  Sophie realised how very different she must look from the girl he had dined with the previous night, in her ordinary blouse and skirt, her hair twisted up into a simple knot. But there was no time to explain it now. The grey man was already disappearing down the side of the hangar. She couldn’t lose him: she must follow.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Bernard, but I have to go,’ she said, and before he could reply, she sprinted away through the crowds.

  Anna watched from the shadows as the mechanic disappeared from the doorway, down the side of the German hangar. This was her chance: now, she dared to creep in through the open door, into the big lofty space full of rattling sounds, the air thick with a pungent chemical smell of engine oil and smoke.

  Another mechanic caught sight of her and yelled out in German: ‘Hey, you – no children here! Get out!’

  She darted quickly out of his sightline. She was shaking – no one had ever yelled at her like that in her life – but she did not leave the hangar. She had to find out if Alex was here. Peering from behind an oil drum, she saw that the plane seemed to be ready: the pilot was climbing up into the front seat.

  ‘It’s time! Open the doors!’

  Anna heard the music outside swell, and the crowd cheering. One of the mechanics pulled the big door wide, letting light flood in. The others were helping to push the aeroplane out into the field: seated inside it, the pilot smiled and waved to the crowd. Anna craned her neck to look, but there was no passenger. The plane had only one seat. The German pilot was alone, and there was no sign of Alex anywhere.

  Sophie darted down the narrow passage between two of the big hangars. She’d been certain she saw the grey man go this way, but it soon turned out to be a dead end, leading her only to a space behind the hangars where a few empty crates had been stacked. She paused to catch her breath, and then a voice spoke:

  ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’

  He appeared as if out of nowhere, standing before her, blocking her exit. She stepped back, the sudden movement knocking a couple of crates to the ground. It was the grey man, and he was holding a heavy spanner in his hand.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, I’m so terribly sorry! I just wanted to have a closer look at the aeroplanes. I think I must have taken a wrong turn,’ she fluttered, opening her eyes very wide as though she was no more than an innocent young lady who had wandered mistakenly away from the crowds.

  But the grey man only laughed. ‘That won’t work on me now. You may have taken me in once but not again.  Once bitten, twice shy – that’s the English expression, isn’t it?’ He took a step forward. ‘I know who you are. I know who you work for. I know you’re the one who tricked me out of those code books at Victoria station.’

  Sophie glanced around her, desperately hoping for a way out, or at least a weapon. She might know how to throw a punch, but she knew she would be no match for the grey man – at least not with that big spanner held menacingly in his hand.

  ‘Those code books were the property of the British Navy!’ she flashed back, stalling for time. ‘And they aren’t the only secret codes you and your bosses are trying to get your hands on, are they? I saw you and Grün snooping at Blaxland’s apartment. I know what you were looking for.’

  The grey man stepped back and stared at her for a moment. ‘That was you ?’ he demanded. Then he gave a short laugh. ‘So! The British were behind it after all. Well, Blaxland must have known he was taking a risk, working for the other side. But I cannot believe your Bureau would send the likes of you to kill him.’

  It was Sophie’s turn to stare. ‘Me? Kill the Professor?’ she asked in astonishment. ‘What do you mean? You were the ones who killed him. You murdered him – and took his research notebook – and now your pilot is going to fly it out of the country to hand it over to the Fraternitas Draconum. I know that’s who you and Ziegler are working for.’

  ‘The Fraternitas ?’ the grey man spat out in disgust. ‘We do not work for the Fraternitas ! What ridiculous new scheme is this? As if it was not enough that your people are trying to smear us by associating us with this preposterous kidnap plot, now you say we are working for the dragons too? We do not have the notebook. It was not us who killed the Professor. Your own people killed him, no doubt because you learned that he was also working for us.’

  Sophie’s eyes widened. So the Professor had been working for Ziegler! She heard Mme Delacroix’s voice again: It was all because of the money … It got him mixed up with the wrong people … He was working for them both. Suddenly in a rush of understanding, it all made sense – the Professor’s debts, the money left behind in the cash-box at his apartment. The Professor’s love of gambling had got him into financial trouble. His work for the Secret Service Bureau hadn’t been enough to cover his debts, so he’d offered his special skills to the German secret service too. Perhaps he’d even been passing on British secrets to Ziegler behind the Bureau’s back! She knew the Germans would pay him well for that, which explained the stack of cash in his apartment. But if all that was true, then why would Ziegler have sent his men to kill him? Because he hadn’t, she realised with a gasp.

  ‘You were at the apartment to investigate the Professor’s murder,’ she said.

  ‘Of course we were! And who did we find at the scene of the crime – you. No doubt covering your own agency’s tracks.’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie incredulously. ‘No. I was doing exactly the same thing that you were. I was investigating his murder too.  We were both there for the same reason. The Bureau had no idea that he was also working for you.  It wasn’t us who killed him. ’

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ the grey man snapped back. ‘If it wasn’t the Bureau who killed him and took his secret notes, then who was it?’

  ‘It w
as the Fraternitas Draconum, ’ said Sophie. Dimly she was aware of the whir of an engine and the roar of the crowd, as the next plane made ready for take-off. She could see it quite clearly now. Professor Blaxland might have been working for Ziegler, but the Germans had no more to do with his murder than the British Secret Service Bureau. It was the Fraternitas Draconum who had murdered the Professor, knowing he had the information they wanted so badly. Just as they’d murdered her father and her mother, all those years ago.

  Above them, the announcer’s voice boomed out: ‘Good luck to Herr Grün of Berlin! Bonne chance, Herr Grün !’ She could hear the sound of the German plane rising into the air, but that did not matter now – she knew that Grün did not have the Professor’s precious notebook.

  The grey man was frowning at her, still holding the spanner. ‘The Fraternitas …’ he repeated, almost disbelievingly. ‘Could it be?’ He stared at Sophie. ‘We already suspect they are behind the Arnovian kidnap plot – the ones who are pulling the strings … but this too?’ He muttered a few angry words in German under his breath.

  Now it was Sophie’s turn to stare. The Fraternitas Draconum were behind the attempted kidnap of the Arnovian prince and princess that had been all over the newspapers? But of course – that made sense too – it was so like one of the Baron’s schemes to stir up trouble in Europe!

  ‘You believe they are the ones who have the Professor’s research?’ demanded the grey man.

  ‘I know they are – they must be,’ said Sophie. She had no idea whether the grey man knew anything about the Professor’s research – about the dragon paintings and the secret papers and the hidden powerful weapon – but she knew from his furious face that he was no friend to the Fraternitas Draconum.