Lost in Paris by Cindy Callaghan Page A

he said.
    â€œUnlikely,” I said.
    He craned his neck toward my royal blue bag. “The key?”
    â€œYeah. Any ideas what it might open?” I asked. “I want to get there first so that Murielle duPluie can do a story about us in first place!”
    â€œI have a few ideas,” he said. “It’s a game, so there might not be an actual lock.”
    â€œDuh.” Of course. “Lock is too obvious,” I said. “But what else could a key lead to?”
    â€œThat, my new singing friend, is the question. You need to think deep. You’re like a poet if you write lyrics. Musicians and poets think really deep. That’s why you know what I’m saying.” He strummed a chord. “Good luck.”
    â€œThanks,” I said, and walked toward the hotel door, even though I wasn’t entirely convinced that he knew what he was talking about.

13

    The old hotel lobby was cozy and dimly lit, but bustling with chaos tonight—infested with a sweaty lacrosse team and their parents. In a particularly dark corner Beef, Professor Camponi, and his nurse huddled around the key like it was a crystal ball and they were waiting for it to reveal its secrets.
    Professor Camponi scratched his chin and looked off in the distance, thinking deeply.
    Henri watched them too. “Do you think we can check the book of tricks and send them to get the ducks?”
    I grinned.
    â€œI think we can come up with something,” I said. My mind searched through all kinds of tricks my brothers had played on me. Like the time JTC sent me an invitation to MaryEllen Marini’s costume party, which might have been okay if I was actually invited to her party and it had been a costume party.
    â€œYou work here,” I said, still thinking through the details. “That’ll be a big help with this.”
    â€œIs that what the trick book says?” he asked.
    At some point I’d have to tell him again there wasn’t an actual book of tricks. But now that I thought about it, maybe there should be. “Do you have any royal blue paper?”
    â€œI think I can find some,” he said.
    I waited for him as he fetched the paper.
    Brigitte looked at her watch. “I need to bring Fifi and Sylvie home. I will leave you two in charge of the ducks, okay?”
    We agreed.
    Brigitte said, “I will pick you up in the morning after I go to the Cliquots. I have an important pet delivery to make for them.”
    â€œThat sounds good. My mom won’t let me out anymore tonight anyway,” I said. “Brigitte, thanks for takingme on this hunt. I know you have your job to do, but I wouldn’t be able to do it without you.”
    â€œThat is what big sisters are for,” she said. Then to Sylvie and Fifi she said in French, “Come on, precious babies, I’ll put you to bed.” She called as she left, “Bonne soirée!” A few seconds later I heard the bark of a horn as she drove away.
    â€œI have it,” Henri said about the paper.
    â€œIs there a place where we can work?” I asked.
    â€œI know a place. It is perfect.” Henri walked into a corner of the lobby and slipped behind a tree in a flower­pot. The wall was lined with dark woodwork and busy with elaborate oil paintings of royalty. He pushed in a piece of wood molding. That triggered a slim section of the wall to shift aside, providing a narrow entrance. Henri squeezed through it. After a quick glance behind me, when I saw the lacrosse team and parents all chatting and distracted, I did the same. It was totally Scooby Doo.
    The wooden door slid closed after me, and we were in pitch black. “I can’t see.”
    â€œUn moment.” Henri turned on a flashlight app on his phone and led the way through a narrow passageway.
    â€œWhat is this?”
    â€œHalls behind the walls. They lead to . . . you know . . . tubes under Paris.”
    â€œTunnels?”
    â€œ Oui.