The Eiffel Tower Incident Read online

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Original Title: Agatha Mistery: Omicidio sulla Tour Eiffel

  Original cover and illustrations by Stefano Turconi

  English language edition copyright © 2014 Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Original edition published by Istituto Geografico De Agostini S.p.A., Italy, © 2011 Atlantyca Dreamfarm s.r.l., Italy

  International Rights © Atlantyca S.p.A.—via Leopardi 8, 20123 Milano, Italia

  [email protected]—www.atlantyca.com

  Published in 2014 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Printed in the USA.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-698-16773-5

  Version_1

  Contents

  MAP

  COPYRIGHT

  TITLE PAGE

  FIFTH MISSION AGENTS

  DESTINATION

  OBJECTIVE

  DEDICATION

  PRELUDE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  SPECIAL EXCERPT FROM THE TREASURE OF THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE

  FIFTH MISSION

  Agents

  Agatha

  Twelve years old, an aspiring mystery writer; has a formidable memory

  Dash

  Agatha’s cousin and student at the private school Eye International Detective Academy

  Chandler

  Butler and former boxer with impeccable British style

  Watson

  Obnoxious Siberian cat with the nose of a bloodhound

  Gaston

  A bohemian painter living in a Paris attic

  DESTINATION

  Paris, France

  OBJECTIVE

  Track down the murderer of Russian diplomat Boris Renko, who was poisoned at one of the world's most famous monuments: the Eiffel Tower!

  Dedicated to Frida, who is with me through all my stories, both real and fictional

  Thanks to the hundreds of people, young and old, who have supported not just Agatha and Dash’s adventures, but all children’s detective stories. A special thanks to Monia Grisendi and Stefania Erlino (BiblioDays di Novellara), Emanuele Vietina (Lucca Comics and Games), and Ilaria Avanzi (Noir in Festival di Courmayeur). Without their help, none of this would have been possible.

  Waking up at eight in the morning was not at the top of Dashiell Mistery’s wish list. To keep from falling asleep on camera during a videoconference on Decoding, his last class before the holiday break, the Eye International student detective drank can after can of Coke. It gurgled and fizzed in his belly.

  But it wasn’t just the snooze-inducing lesson that made him squirm. Out of the window of his mother’s penthouse apartment, he could see a huge mass of dark clouds rolling toward central London. A blizzard was on the way. Dash peered at the thermometer outside the window and let out a gasp. “No way . . . it’s dropped five degrees!”

  It was sure to start snowing any minute.

  Dash grabbed his laptop to check the weather websites. Their headlines read "The Storm of the Year" and "One of the City’s Top Ten."

  “Ugh,” Dash grumbled. “I’ve been looking forward to a sweet vacation in Paris with my brother, Gaston. If I don’t make my move right away, I’ll be stuck at home until the storm is over.”

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the webcam so none of the other videoconference participants would suspect anything, Dash slowly moved his fingers over the keyboard.

  “Let’s roll out a few technical difficulties,” he mumbled, running a hand through his mop of black hair.

  He casually clicked the settings menu and launched a program named Electronic Tsunami.

  Almost instantaneously, a slight waviness appeared on-screen, followed by a flickering that distorted and fuzzed out his image.

  Within moments, the screen looked as though it had been inundated by a devastating tidal wave of static and distortion. The finicky Decoding professor noticed it first, interrupting her lesson. “What’s going on, Agent DM14?” she asked, irritated. Then her tone got more urgent. “Agent DM14? Are you still connected?”

  Dash began to simulate audio distortion, twisting the foam microphone cover between his fingers. “I’m . . . FRUSHHHHH . . . losing . . . FRUSHHHHH . . . the signal!” he said, doing his best to sound concerned. “It must be because of the . . . FRUSHHHH . . . storm!”

  Seconds later, the whole screen went black. He quickly shut down his computer and took off his earbuds. “I’m the man, Dash!” he cried, pumping his fists in a victory dance. “No one can fool them like Dash can!”

  He gulped down the last of his Coke and tossed the can on top of the teetering pile of trash on his desk. After pulling on his winter coat, hat, and gloves, he paused in front of an unusual cell phone hooked up to its charger.

  It was his EyeNet, a valuable high-tech gadget given to him by his detective school.

  The sleek device was a treasure trove of technological innovations that enabled the students of Eye International to carry out their investigative missions all around the world.

  He stood for a moment, one hand on his EyeNet. He rarely let it out of his sight, but he was heading off on a family vacation and didn’t want to think about school until after New Year’s Day. After a moment, he made up his mind. “You’ll be safe here . . . I wouldn’t want to drop you from the top of the Eiffel Tower!”

  He left the EyeNet back on its charger, grabbed his bags, and closed the door, locking it with three different keys. His mother’s apartment was not far from St. Pancras railway station, where he would board the “Chunnel train”—the Eurostar that ran through a tunnel under the English Channel. It could reach speeds of more than a hundred and eighty miles an hour, and it would take just two and a half hours to reach the French capital. It was the kind of technological advance that sent shivers of excitement up Dash’s spine.

  “I’ll get to Gaston’s in time for lunch,” he said as he walked across the street, ignoring the first white flakes dancing through the air. “It’s so much better than having to take a plane!”

  His thoughts drifted to his beloved cousin Agatha, who had left for Paris at dawn along with her butler, Chandler, and Watson the cat. They were probably already sitting in Gaston’s studio in Paris with Agatha boring them all silly, rambling about French culture and art.

  Lost in thought, Dash arrived at St. Pancras in plenty of time. The next train for Paris was leaving in half an hour. As he entered the railway station, he stared at the huge metal arches, the mirrored walkways, and the sleek high-speed trains sitting on the tracks. It looked like a futuristic spaceport.

 
“Wow!” he exclaimed, excited.

  A voice from behind froze him in his tracks. “Agent DM14? What are you doing here?” Dash didn’t have to turn around to know who that squeaky voice belonged to. It was his Practical Investigations professor, code name UM60.

  What was the professor doing at St. Pancras station? Had he come to punish Dash for his hasty escape from Decoding class?

  Flushing red with embarrassment, Dash began to stammer an apology. “Uh, oh, so sorry about the videoconference. I promise it won’t ever happen again!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, detective,” Agent UM60 replied dryly. “And I don’t really care. I have far more important things on my mind!”

  The boy let out a sigh of relief. For the first time, he gathered the courage to turn and face his professor. He had to lower his gaze significantly, since Agent UM60 was about half his height.

  Since he was used to seeing his professor on a computer screen, Dash had never realized how much the little man looked like a penguin with a bowler hat on his head. He had to stifle a laugh.

  “Something wrong, Agent DM14?” the professor asked, bristling.

  “Uh, no . . . hee-hee . . . I swear.”

  “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “I see you’ve got your briefcase with you . . . are you going somewhere?” asked Dash, doing his best to distract him.

  “I should think that is obvious,” Agent UM60 sniffed. “I’m taking the next train to Paris. I’ve got a very important case to solve, detective.” He reached up to smooth his waxed mustache.

  Dash could hardly contain his laughter. To cover it, he grabbed the professor’s briefcase. He barely had time to blurt, “Let me help you with that,” before he took off like a rocket across the platform.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t noticed the strong chain from the briefcase to his teacher’s wrist.

  And so, with a violent jerk and a scream of pain, detective Dashiell Mistery began one of the longest days of his life—and the most dangerous case of his young career.

  Twelve-year-old Agatha had known for a long time that every member of the Mistery family was a little eccentric. She recalled Christmas dinners at her grandparents’ mansion, the long table heaped high with exotic foods, surrounded by chattering aunts and uncles, cousins and distant relatives. Her family was spread out all over the world, and since every Mistery had an unusual job and spoke the language of whatever country in which they lived, family gatherings always turned into lively, international affairs that the United Nations would have envied.

  The most eccentric of all was Dash’s father, Edgar Allan Mistery. He was constantly changing professions as he pursued his countless and varied passions. He had taught himself so many languages that he was no longer able to count them. Above all, he married and divorced with great carelessness. His most recent marriage, to a Norwegian speed-skating champion, had produced a little blond girl named Ilse. Dash was the middle child, born in London while Edgar was working as a landscape designer to Her Royal Highness, the Queen of England. His eldest son, Gaston, had been born in Paris, when Edgar was a celebrity dog groomer in the Ville Lumière.

  Gaston was now twenty years old, an art student at the prestigious Academie Belle Époque. He spent most of his days in an attic studio overlooking the churchyard of Notre Dame. Gaston was tall and thin, with an explosion of curly hair and a jacket perpetually smeared with different colored paints.

  “Don’t touch your nose, cousin,” Gaston told Agatha. She was perched on an armchair that had been angled against the window to catch the north light. “Stay just like that a bit longer. I want to capture all of your wit, ma cherie!”

  Agatha suppressed a smile. It was typical of Gaston to scatter his sentences with French exclamations and terms of endearment. But she wasn’t feeling especially witty at the moment, since she was chilled to the bone. An arctic wind rattled the windows, and the woodstove in Gaston’s living room couldn’t compete.

  Watson, her fluffy Siberian cat, had found himself a cozy spot right in front of the fire.

  “So you really want to be a writer?” asked Gaston after a moment. He stepped back from his easel, clutching a stub of charcoal between his long fingers.

  “It’s all right to speak now?”

  “Oui, but of course!” her cousin excused himself. “Your sketch is finished!”

  Agatha jumped to her feet, rubbing her hands together to bring back the circulation. “I adore writing,” she said, adding shyly, “But I still have a lot to learn!”

  “What sort of books do you prefer?”

  “Mystery stories, full of twists and turns . . .”

  “You mean detective novels?”

  Agatha burst out laughing. “Yes, especially stories with bumbling detectives who can’t find the culprit without an unexpected stroke of luck,” she said, smiling at the thought of her hapless cousin Dash, who had been her companion through innumerable adventures.

  It was almost noon, and he would be arriving any minute. Knowing Dash, he’d spend the whole day complaining about the snowstorm.

  “When was the last time you saw your brother?” she asked Gaston.

  Gaston turned to look for something, digging among the piles of paintings and sketches stacked everywhere. He stopped to stroke his bohemian sideburns, then reached into a pile and pulled out a dusty frame. “Here it is!” he exclaimed with satisfaction, dusting it off with one sleeve. “The last time he came to visit, Dash looked like a plucked chicken!”

  He handed the picture to Agatha, who let out a giggle. Her cousin had a buzz cut, chubby cheeks, and a sulky expression. With a touch of irony, Gaston had drawn him with chicken feet instead of shoes.

  “What a grouch he was as a ten-year-old,” she commented cheerfully. “Not much has changed!”

  Gaston looked at the picture, stunned. “How did you know he was ten years old?”

  Agatha shrugged. “The date is written right here at the bottom.”

  “Mais oui, how silly of me!” Gaston laughed. Then he winked, adding, “I’ve heard that you don’t miss a thing, ma petite Agatha!”

  Just then, Watson’s ears pricked up at the sound of heavy footsteps in the bedroom. When the door creaked open to reveal Chandler’s imposing profile, the cat put his head down and went back to sleep.

  “May I please keep the robe on?” Chandler asked politely. “I don’t want to catch a nasty cold . . .”

  The young artist spun around happily. “I’ve never painted a boxer so strong and muscular,” he exclaimed with delight. “It will be extraordinaire!”

  “Do you really think so, Master Gaston?” asked Chandler, dubiously contemplating the red boxing gloves he had been asked to wear for the group portrait.

  Agatha came to his rescue. “It won’t take him long,” she said, turning to her cousin. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Oui, just a few minutes,” the painter confirmed. “A quick life drawing.”

  Chandler hunched forward, crossing the room. He positioned himself next to the armchair and reluctantly removed the robe so he was posing in just his boxing shorts.

  “Now raise your fists, puff out your chest, and look tough,” Gaston coached him.

  The big man obeyed without complaint. In his role as jack-of-all-trades for Agatha and her parents, he was used to finding himself in all kinds of bizarre situations.

  An eerie silence fell over the studio as Gaston went to work. The young girl leaned against the windowsill, staring out at the rooftops of Paris. Christmas lights twinkled everywhere, and people walked fast on the sidewalks below, hunching their shoulders against the harsh wind. Beyond, she could see Notre Dame, resplendent in its Gothic glory. The sight filled her imagination with scenes for a novel set in Paris during the cathedral’s construction. The plot would be full of crimes and conspiracies.

&nb
sp; Struck by inspiration, Agatha pulled her trusty notebook out of her bag to jot down some notes. She would have liked to consult a history book, but there was nothing in Gaston’s studio but canvases, tubes of paint, brushes, and other painting paraphernalia.

  She picked up her favorite pen and began to write with the utmost concentration.

  Everyone was so immersed in his or her work that it took them a while to notice an insistent knocking at the door.

  “Let me in, I’m frozen solid!” shouted Dash Mistery, in tones of despair.

  Gaston rushed to the door, unlocked it, and greeted his brother with a warm hug.

  But Dash was his usual self. “I’ve been ringing your doorbell for the past half hour!” His whining could be heard all the way to the living room. “Are you all deaf?”

  “Pardon, the bell is broken!” replied Gaston, leading him into the room.

  “The elevator, too?”

  “Six flights of stairs is hardly a formidable workout!”

  As Dash shook the snow off his jacket, he caught sight of Chandler, dressed like a boxer ready to step into the ring.

  “Hey!” he cried. “Are you crazy? It’s freezing, and you’re wearing shorts?”

  Agatha shot back, “What about you? Why are you wearing sunglasses on such a dark day?”

  The young detective had peeled off his snow-covered jacket, gloves, and hat, but he was still wearing a pair of dark glasses with light-emitting diodes, or LEDs, on the frames.

  “Um, oh, these old things?” he mumbled. “Patience, cousin, I can’t explain everything right this minute . . .” He pursed his lips, handing her a copy of the daily paper, Le Figaro, with a significant look.

  “I’m painting a family portrait,” Gaston explained. “Are you ready to pose?”