Alice-Miranda in Paris 7 (25 page)

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.

‘We’re supposed to get the children back to the green room,’ Mr Trout fussed.

Mr Lipp just shook his head and signalled to the group to sit down where they were.

The show continued with a procession of beautiful dresses, each one more gorgeous than the last.

Charlotte leaned closer to her sister. ‘Dux LaBelle is quite something. I think I’d wear every single one of those gowns so far – and you know usually there are only two or three things that you could ever see yourself in at these shows.’

Cecelia agreed.

The models continued to glide past the audience until finally the statement creation was unveiled, signifying the end of the show.

Cecelia joined in the applause and caught her sister’s eye. ‘So, what do you think Dux will be wearing today?’

‘Surely they can’t keep up the mask fiasco forever?’ said Charlotte.

‘Oh, I think they can – if the models are anything to go by.’ She gestured towards the stream of waifish women charging back onto the catwalk.

And then Dux appeared. He walked down the runway hand in hand with the model wearing the final gown, his head nodding in time with the music. He waved at the audience and even executed a few dance moves.

‘Gosh. Don’t you remember last year, he barely took a bow,’ Charlotte whispered to her sister.

‘Another year in the business seems to have done wonders for his confidence, that’s for sure,’ Cecelia agreed.

Dux turned to walk back along the runway, when out of nowhere a woman leapt onto the stage. She held her hands up like a policeman directing traffic. Unfortunately, several of the models weren’t paying a great deal of attention and there was a rather nasty collision further down the line, causing them to fall like dominoes.