The Mona Lisa Mystery

by Pat Hutchins

  ‘Especially after all that trouble with the other bearded man on the boat,’ said Morgan thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps we’d better not tell him.’ He paused as the noise of the lift drowned his words. ‘Not yet, anyway,’ he added, as Jessica and Avril (clutching her bottle of tomato ketchup) stepped out of the lift. ‘Come on. We could spend all day trying to work it out. Let’s go in for breakfast. I’m hungry.’

  The three boys went into the restaurant and sat down, followed by Jessica and Avril.

  They watched the doctor closely, as the rest of Class 3 drifted in noisily discussing Jessica’s ghost. Mr Jones came through the door with a sleepy-looking Mr Coatsworth trailing behind him.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said brightly, smiling at the doctor before glancing round the tables where the children were sitting. ‘I hope you all slept well,’ he added, his eyes resting on Jessica.

  ‘Huh. Some hopes!’ snorted Avril.

  The door swung open again and Miss Parker walked in. She nodded to the doctor as she approached the table that Avril was sitting at. Then, noticing the sticky bottle of tomato ketchup, she changed direction and sat at the end of the other table.

  ‘I hope the noise didn’t disturb you last night?’ Mr Jones said. Miss Parker shook her head. ‘I did not hear any noise,’ she replied. ‘I slept like a branch.’

  ‘What noise?’ asked Mr Coatsworth, who had slept like a log.

  ‘Jessica had a bad dream,’ said Mr Jones, picking the huge breakfast menu up from the table and glancing at it. Then, remembering the supper the night before, he quickly put it down again.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Jessica stoutly. ‘I saw a ghost.’

  ‘We’ll have to tell Jessica about the waiter,’ Morgan whispered to Sacha and Matthew. ‘It’s not fair!’

  ‘Later!’ hissed Sacha, jerking his head towards the doctor. ‘When he’s not around.’

  ‘Well!’ said Mr Jones. ‘Let’s forget about ghosts and order our breakfast. We won’t want to be late setting off. We’ve got a lot to see today.’

  The manager bustled in carrying more menus and smiling at the children, followed by Henri carrying a tray of rolls and a large pot of coffee.

  ‘Bonjour, bonjour!’ cried the manager. ‘Would you like to look at my wonderful menus?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Mr Jones doubtfully. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell us what you’ve got.’

  ‘Oh!’ said the manager, disappointed. ‘A pity.’ He paused and studied the menu, as Henri banged the tray down in front of Mr Jones.

  ‘At my five-star hotel I had kidneys, three different types of fish, eggs – boiled, scrambled, fried – mushrooms, tomatoes, sausages …’ His wife shouted angrily from the kitchen, interrupting him. ‘Pardon!’ he said, hurrying back to the kitchen. ‘Bon appétit!’

  ‘I wish he wouldn’t keep telling us what he hasn’t got,’ muttered Avril, who had been looking forward to fried bread and sausages, smothered in ketchup.

  ‘The French don’t eat large breakfasts,’ said Mr Jones, passing around the rolls to the hungry children.

  ‘In this hotel,’ said Akbar, taking one, ‘they’re lucky to eat at all!’

  When the children had finished their breakfast, which didn’t take long, Mr Jones produced a typewritten sheet of paper from his pocket.

  ‘The itinerary,’ he said, holding it up. ‘Monday morning, the Eiffel Tower.’ He paused as the children cheered. ‘Then lunch. Monday afternoon, a boat ride on the Seine, then a visit to Notre Dame.’

  ‘Where the Hunchback comes from,’ breathed Jessica, as the rest of the children cheered again.

  ‘Tuesday,’ he continued, ‘morning, a stroll around Montmartre, taking in the Sacré Coeur, lunch. Afternoon, the Louvre. Wednesday,’ he went on, ‘all day at Versailles. Thursday morning, a bit of shopping, lunch, then back to Calais for the five o’clock ferry.’

  The manager, who had reappeared and was standing behind Mr Jones suddenly frowned. ‘Ah, non!’ he cried, shaking his head and pointing at the paper. ‘The Louvre is closed on Tuesdays.’

  ‘Impossible!’ cried Miss Parker, choking on the coffee she was drinking. ‘It can’t be,’ she gasped, as Mr Coatsworth thumped her on her back.

  ‘Ah! But I’m afraid it is so,’ said the manager in surprise. ‘It is always closed on Tuesdays.’

  ‘We’ll just have to do a bit of swapping around,’ said Mr Jones, looking at the itinerary again. ‘We can’t miss the Louvre.’ He glanced at Miss Parker, who was still looking agitated, as Mr Coatsworth mopped up the coffee that she’d spilled. ‘We’ll go this afternoon,’ he added, ‘and do the boat trip tomorrow.’

  Miss Parker bit her lip. ‘I think as I will be walking a lot this afternoon I had better miss the Eiffel Tower this morning.’ She looked down at her bandaged leg. ‘I did not get too much sleep with my leg last night.’

  ‘Perhaps the doctor would have a look at it for you,’ suggested Mr Coatsworth in concern.

  Miss Parker looked startled, then she smiled. ‘Ah, yes! Of course, the doctor.’ She glanced over to where the doctor was sitting. ‘I shall ask him,’ she murmured.

  ‘And then why not have a rest in your room?’ said Mr Jones, standing up. ‘I’m sure Mr Coatsworth wouldn’t mind helping me keep an eye on the children.’ Mr Coatsworth nodded, hoping Mr Jones didn’t expect him to go to the top of the Tower with them, as he didn’t have a head for heights.

  ‘So we’ll meet you at three o’clock at the main entrance to the Louvre,’ said Mr Coatsworth. ‘If your leg is better.’

  ‘It’s such a lovely day,’ said Mr Jones as they stepped out into the brilliant sunshine. ‘Why don’t we walk? It’s not far from here.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mr Coatsworth, as half the class, having spotted the Tower in the distance, were already heading in that direction anyway.

  ‘Come on, you lot!’ Mr Jones shouted, looking back at Morgan, Matthew and Sacha, who were still standing by the glass doors, staring into the hotel.

  ‘It’s a pity about Miss Parker’s leg,’ said Mr Coatsworth, as the three boys caught up with him and Mr Jones.

  ‘I expect she’ll feel better after a rest,’ said Mr Jones. ‘She’s in good hands.’

  ‘But is she?’ Sacha muttered to Morgan.

  ‘Is she what?’ asked Morgan vaguely.

  ‘In good hands,’ Sacha repeated. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he demanded, when Morgan didn’t reply.

  Morgan frowned. ‘Miss Parker,’ he said. ‘She said she didn’t get much sleep with her leg. But earlier she said she’d slept like a log, or rather a branch,’ he corrected himself.

  11. The Eiffel Tower

  They walked along the Rue Royale, through the Place de la Concorde, and when the children stopped on the Concorde bridge to wave at the boats crowded with tourists going up the Seine, Mr Jones told them the bridge was made from stones taken from the Bastille.

  The children became more and more excited as the huge iron girders of the Eiffel Tower loomed closer and closer. Even Matthew, Morgan and Sacha, who had been discussing the strange events at the hotel, stopped talking and gazed at it in awe.

  ‘It’s fantastic,’ said Morgan, shielding his eyes against the sun as he stopped to look up at the summit. ‘Come on!’ he added to Matthew and Sacha, who had stopped to admire it too. Then, pulling them along with him, he started running towards the monument.

  The children stood under the Tower and gazed up in wonder at the lacy framework.

  ‘What an amazing piece of engineering,’ Mr Jones said, when he and Mr Coatsworth had caught up with them. ‘Did you know that three hundred men were employed to build it?’

  ‘I wonder how many were left when it was finished,’ murmured Mr Coatsworth.

  Mr Jones smiled. ‘The incredible thing is, not one of them fell. They were chosen especially for their agility. It must have been like watching three hundred acrobats! Incredible!’ he repeated, not noticing Jessica who, spotting a group of people and wantin
g to know what the French guide was showing them, had slipped away.

  ‘Two million, five hundred thousand rivets were used,’ Mr Jones continued, ‘and the height can vary up to six inches, depending on the weather.’ He paused, as Jessica, squealing with excitement, came running towards him.

  ‘Someone did fall!’ she cried, pointing to where the guide had been standing. ‘And he’s buried there!’

  ‘Who fell?’ asked Mr Jones, as Jessica dragged him towards the spot, followed by Mr Coatsworth and the rest of Class 3.

  ‘Eiffel!’ Jessica pointed to a bronze plaque. ‘He fell. The French guide said so!’

  ‘Poor devil,’ muttered Mr Coatsworth.

  ‘Oh!’ Jessica added, shuddering. ‘Perhaps it was his ghost I saw last night!’

  ‘Jessica,’ said Mr Jones, ‘Eiffel is pronounced Eefell in French. The guide didn’t say “He fell”, he said “Eefell”. He wasn’t showing anyone Eiffel’s tombstone, he was showing them his plaque.’

  ‘Maybe it was his ghost I saw last night,’ Avril repeated sarcastically as the children studied the plaque, while Mr Jones, followed by Mr Coatsworth who was looking rather nervous, joined the line for tickets into the Tower. She dug Jessica with her elbow. ‘I keep telling you, you didn’t see no ghost. There ain’t such things. It’s all in your imagination.’

  ‘She did see something,’ Morgan interrupted, ‘but it wasn’t a ghost.’

  The children listened open-mouthed as he, Sacha and Matthew told them about the button, the room number and the telephone conversations.

  Jessica wanted to tell Mr Jones, but the rest of the children persuaded her not to until they’d discovered just what the doctor was up to.

  Akbar was all for sneaking back to the hotel to spy on the doctor, but changed his mind when he saw Mr Jones coming towards them holding entrance tickets to the Tower. Mr Coatsworth was trailing behind him, eyeing the monument apprehensively.

  ‘I thought you’d want to go right to the top,’ said Mr Jones cheerfully as Mr Coatsworth winced. ‘It’s such a clear day, the view should be magnificent.’ Class 3 followed Mr Jones up the stairs to the lift, overtaking Mr Coatsworth who was lagging behind.

  ‘Come on, Mr Coatsworth,’ Avril shouted as Mr Jones ushered the children into the lift.

  Mr Coatsworth reluctantly stepped forward and into the lift. He clung to the side of it, his eyes tightly closed, as the metal cage slowly rose upwards.

  The roar of the traffic melted away as the lift ascended, and soon the children were looking down at rooftops, and then at the Seine and the tiny boats dotted along it drifting under the bridges.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Jessica sighed, shaking Mr Coatsworth’s arm.

  Mr Coatsworth cautiously opened one eye. ‘Wonderful,’ he murmured, then quickly closed the eye.

  ‘I wonder how many bodies are floating down it,’ Jessica said thoughtfully.

  ‘Here we are!’ said Mr Jones as the lift swayed, then came to a standstill. Mr Coatsworth sighed in relief as they got out, but his face fell when he saw Mr Jones heading towards another lift.

  ‘Now to the top,’ said Mr Jones, as Class 3 trooped into the lift. ‘This is where the view really gets magnificent.’

  ‘It’s looking a bit full,’ said Mr Coatsworth. ‘Perhaps I’d better wait here for you.’

  ‘It ain’t full,’ said Avril, tugging at his arm. ‘There’s stacks of room.’ And catching him off balance, she dragged him into the lift.

  ‘Just think,’ said Mr Jones as the lift stopped and the children surged out on to the top platform, ‘we’re now eight hundred and ninety-eight feet above the ground.’

  Mr Coatsworth groaned, and closed his eyes again as the children crowded to the edge of the Tower and gazed in awe at Paris, which was spread out before them like a huge map.

  ‘The oscillation at the top,’ continued Mr Jones, ‘never exceeds five inches.’

  ‘Please, Sir,’ said Akbar, ‘what does oscillation mean?’

  ‘If something is oscillating,’ Mr Jones replied, ‘it means it’s swaying. Well, as I was saying, the bit right at the top there never oscillates more than five inches, even in a gale.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Matthew, glancing at Mr Coatsworth who had turned very pale. ‘Mr Coatsworth is …’

  ‘Is what?’ Mr Jones asked, gazing at the summit.

  ‘Oscillating more than five inches,’ said Matthew.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Jones in concern, as Mr Coatsworth sank slowly on to a bench. ‘Are you all right?’

  Mr Coatsworth smiled weakly. ‘I don’t have much of a head for heights,’ he replied, licking his dry lips. ‘My mouth’s a bit parched, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll get you a strong cup of coffee,’ said Mr Jones, noticing a refreshment stand behind them. ‘That should put you right.’

  Mr Coatsworth stared straight ahead with glazed eyes, hardly daring to drink the coffee that Mr Jones had given him in case the slightest movement should bring the Tower toppling down. Declining the invitation to go to the summit, he sat bolt upright, waiting, while Mr Jones took the children up the stairs to show them the room where Eiffel himself had lived.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Jones, glancing at his watch as he came back down the stairs, followed by the children, ‘one thirty already. Would you believe it? Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.’

  Mr Coatsworth risked a gloomy nod.

  ‘We’d better go and have some lunch if we’re to be at the Louvre by three,’ Mr Jones continued. ‘We don’t want to keep Miss Parker waiting. We could go to that little place just by the entrance to the Tower,’ he added. ‘It looked quite pleasant.’

  The children didn’t want to leave, but as they were feeling hungry, they followed him to the lifts.

  Mr Coatsworth, keeping well away from the edge, carefully inched his way behind them. The first lift wasn’t crowded, but when they got out at the second stage, to get the lift to the first stage, there was quite a queue. Morgan, who wanted to see the lift arriving, climbed on to the handrail so he could see over the heads of the people in front.

  ‘Crikey!’ he exclaimed, waving at two figures at the front of the line. ‘It’s Polly and Peter!’

  ‘Who are they?’ Sacha asked, seeing the figures turn and wave back.

  ‘Polly and Peter Oxley,’ Morgan replied. ‘They live in my street. They must be on holiday,’ he added as the lift arrived, the doors opened and Polly and Peter stepped in, still waving.

  ‘We thought you’d be here,’ Polly shouted, squeezing to the front of the lift which was gradually filling up, ‘when we saw your headmistress.’

  ‘Where? In the hospital?’ Morgan shouted back in surprise, as Class 3 edged closer to the lift. A uniformed man stepped forward just as Polly replied and, speaking to Mr Jones in French, hooked a rope in front of them.

  ‘Friends of yours, Morgan?’ Mr Jones asked, not hearing Polly’s reply as he’d been listening to the French guard telling them to wait for the next lift as that one was full.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ said Morgan slowly. ‘And they just said they’d seen Miss Barker.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mr Jones, as the lift gates shut. ‘In the hospital?’

  ‘No,’ said Morgan. ‘In Paris.’

  12. Bent on Revenge

  ‘They must have been mistaken,’ Mr Jones said as they sat in the pavement café eating their lunch. ‘They probably saw someone who looked like her. Miss Barker couldn’t possibly be in Paris.’

  ‘How do they know her anyway?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Their mother and Miss Barker are old school friends,’ Morgan replied, gazing at the crowd of people milling around the Tower, hoping to see Polly and Peter again. ‘They see a lot of her.’ He shook his head, ignoring Jessica, who kept punctuating the conversation with screams and groans, putting children with weak stomachs off their food as she vividly described a fiendish doctor’s gruesome method of dealing with patients he didn’t like.

  ‘They mus
t have seen someone who looked like Miss Barker,’ he agreed, frowning thoughtfully as Avril (having discovered the bottle of ketchup in her jacket pocket) calmly tipped it over her food at the same time that Jessica reached the gory climax of her story.

  ‘Talking of Miss Barker,’ said Mr Jones, ‘we mustn’t forget we’re meeting Miss Parker at three o’clock. I’ll settle the bill, then we’d better be off.’ He signalled for the waiter, who was looking in dismay at all the half-eaten plates of food on Avril and Jessica’s table.

  ‘It was an excellent meal,’ said Mr Jones, smiling at the waiter as he brought the bill.

  ‘Goodness, what a surly fellow,’ he murmured, as the waiter sniffed disdainfully and stalked away.

  Class 3 followed Mr Jones and Mr Coatsworth away from the restaurant. Morgan, who was still searching for Polly and Peter, turned to have one last look at the Tower’s forecourt. He stopped and shielded his eyes against the sun.

  ‘It can’t be,’ he muttered.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Matthew, running back with Sacha to where Morgan was standing.

  ‘Over there!’ said Morgan, pointing.

  ‘The balloon seller?’ asked Sacha.

  ‘No,’ said Morgan. ‘In front of him.’

  Jessica, who had noticed the three boys gazing towards the Tower, ran back too.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried, her eyes widening when she saw the small figure stumbling towards them. She backed slowly away, then turned and raced off again.

  ‘Come on!’ Matthew whispered, nudging Morgan and Sacha, who were staring in amazement at the advancing figure. ‘Let’s go!’

  The man shouted hoarsely as the three boys ran to catch up with the rest of Class 3.