Double Vision (11 page)

I put the mop away in the broom closet, and went back down to the Vault with Françoise to get my backpack. Meanwhile, my brain was going a gazillion miles an hour.

“We have to be missing something here,” I said to Françoise. “Your dad saved all the da Vinci collection and the Dangerous Double by hiding them, right? You don't just move a basement full of stuff without leaving a trail of some kind.”

“He could have used the bakery delivery van,” Françoise said. “But we have no idea where he took them.”

I tried to think like my dad. You'd give him a car with any problem, and he could figure it out. Listen and look for the clues, he'd always say. In this case, there was nothing to listen for, but when I looked around, I saw the big desk. “What's up with all these papers?”

Françoise shrugged. “They're just invoices for the bakery. Papa would come down here to do the books sometimes. I think he liked the quiet.”

After meeting Françoise's grandmother, I could imagine you might want to hide out in the Vault. “What else is here?”

Françoise opened one of the side drawers to show paper clips, pens, and a box of raisins—boring stuff, and nothing that could remotely be considered a clue. “Papa used to keep a small ledger of the collection with a picture of a dragon on the front, right here on his desk, but it's gone. He probably took it with him.” The big drawer had a small, pocket-size book:
Codes and Ciphers
.

“This is cool.” I flipped through the tiny book, looking at numbers, codes, boxes with dots in them.

“This was mine once,” Françoise said. “I'm surprised Papa had it. He gave it to me a few years ago. He loves codes and puzzles, just like Leonardo da Vinci did.” Thinking of her father, Françoise smiled. “Did you know that da Vinci wrote everything in mirror script?”

I didn't. “Why?”

“Nobody knows. He was left-handed, so some think it was so he wouldn't smudge his ink.”

“Da Vinci sounds like an odd guy.”

“Yeah. Odd but brilliant, like my father.” She took the codebook from me and slid it in the side pocket of her faded jeans. The bottom drawer just had a bunch of empty accounting ledgers in it, and a frustrated Françoise slammed it shut, shaking the desk. “It's hopeless.”

“I'm sorry, but I have to go.” Agent Stark was probably already waiting with a cab to take me to the airport. I hadn't even unpacked that suitcase or slept in my room. “I wish I could stay and help.”

“It's not your problem, really.” Françoise's head drooped.

I tossed my pack over my shoulder and followed her out of the Vault, feeling like a loser. I'd come all the way to France just to fail on day one. And I didn't even get to use any of my cool gadgets from Henry.

Upstairs, Grandma was serving customers in the bakery. Françoise gave me a forced smile. “Good luck dealing with your secret agent stuff. I have to go cancel all our deliveries now.”

“Why?”

“No Papa, so nobody to drive the van. Deliveries are half our business.”

Now I felt even worse, even if none of the Mégère troubles were my fault. I headed for the side door that led to the alleyway. Just over an hour earlier, Françoise Mégère had tried to kill me there with a stick.

Françoise walked over to the far end of the kitchen and pulled a big notebook from a drawer. She flipped it open and frowned. “Weird.”

“What?” I stood in the open doorway, feeling the cold November wind that was waiting for me outside.

“The order schedule makes no sense,” Françoise said, pointing at the page, then flipping to the next. “Who is this Hendricks customer? And look at these numbers! We're not going to deliver four hundred and twelve loaves of bread to anyone.”

I walked over and looked at the order book Françoise had been poring over. I couldn't read any of the scribbles that were in there, except for the number: 412. “What's up with the four hundred and twelve loaves of bread? Is that weird?”

“We can't fulfill that kind of order. And this customer I don't know—Hendricks isn't even a French name.”

412. I thought of the little codebook we found in the Vault. And I felt a lightning bolt of excitement. “Maybe …”

“What?”

“It's a code!”

“IT'S A MESSAGE FROM YOUR FATHER.”
Okay, so maybe I was letting my imagination run wild a little, but then why not? We were talking about an evil
Mona Lisa
painting, a Vault with a secret Leonardo da Vinci collection—a hidden code seemed to fit the mood, right?

Françoise frowned and went back to the order book. “This name shows up on more pages. And there's a different number with each one.”

“Let's write them down. See if we can get it,” I said.

Françoise dug into her pants pocket and tossed me the codebook. Then she ripped a blank page from the order book, took out a pen, and clicked it. “All right, let's get these numbers on paper.”

“Go back in the book. See when this name Hendricks first showed up.”

After a lot of flipping and scribbling, we had a bunch of numbers that followed the name Hendricks in different orders. Françoise stopped writing and stared at the page. “What does this mean, Papa?” she mumbled. After a while, she shook her head. “I don't know the name.”

“Could it be someone your dad works with?”

Françoise shook her head again. “And what are all these numbers?”

I flipped through the book, looking for the code, then I saw one that seemed to fit. “It's a book code. The numbers translate into letters.” I scanned the description. “The message is in the letters, and Hendricks tells us where to find them, I think.”

“There are three sets of numbers for each delivery, and all of them start with four one two. Each number after that is smaller.” Françoise bit her lip. “This is driving me nuts.”

“Your mom was American, right?”

Françoise nodded.

“Maybe she left a book behind written by someone named Hendricks?”

Suddenly, Françoise laughed. “There's this chef named Veronica Hendricks. Mom used to love her cooking show, and”—Françoise reached up to the top shelf—“we still have her book!” She pulled out an old hardcover with a brown-haired lady in an apron on the front. Her hair was that weird, flippy style from decades ago. The title was
Cooking in a Hurry
. “Right here. So now what?” Françoise looked at me.

I stared at the numbers again:

412-1-1

412-1-20

412-6-1

412-7-3

412-7-8

412-7-9

412-1-20

412-1-4

412-1-7

412-8-9

412-9-18

412-1-8

“Move to page four twelve,” I said. “Then the second number is the line, and the third is the letter, the codebook says.” Page 412 had this recipe:

GRILLED CHEESE AND BACON SANDWICHES

Ingredients for four sandwiches:

8 slices of white or wheat bread

16 slices of cheese

Bacon bits

2 tablespoons of butter

Butter the slices of bread, add cheese and bacon bits, and make a sandwich. Preheat skillet with one tablespoon of butter. Cook 4–5 minutes on each side, until light brown
.

Serve with soup on a busy night
.

“Sounds tasty,” I said.

“Never mind that,” said Françoise. “What is the message?”

READING THIS RECIPE MADE ME THINK
that Dad and I could write a cookbook, too. Grilled cheese sandwiches were a staple meal at the Baker house, especially when Mom was working double shifts.

“G … o. Then there's a number two,” Françoise mumbled.

“So ‘go to' is the first part.” I tried to look over her shoulder, but she just brushed me away. “What does it say?”

“Go to … the … o … l … d … a … r … c.”

“Huh?”

“There's only one old arc I can think of.” Françoise slammed the book shut and smiled. “He's telling me to go to the Arc de Triomphe.”

It was pretty obvious that Françoise would've been just fine if I didn't come along: she rushed out of the bakery without a word to her grandmother and hurried across Paris. I was glad I had my skateboard with me. This girl had really fast legs.

But somewhere around the fifth or sixth side street, she just … disappeared. I looked back, up and down some other alleyways, but Françoise was simply gone. What the heck? Did she find those flying shoes from the Vault or something? Whatever magic trick she used, since I'd basically just been following her, I had no idea where I was.

I was lost. In Paris, in the middle of the afternoon. And I know it's really uncool to admit this, but I actually missed Mom. She would have a detailed map of Paris in her purse, plus a snack for the road, and we would be on our way to the Arc de Triomphe, no problem. In fact, Mom would never just follow anyone without paying attention.

But there was no time to cry for my mommy—I had to find Françoise, and to do that, I had to get to the arc. I looked around. There was a little café, a store that looked like a pharmacy, and another bakery, but nothing I recognized. I could call Agent Stark and ask her to come get me. She'd give me one of her disapproving huffs, the kind that told me that she knew this was a bad idea. Me, in Paris. Impersonating super junior agent Benjamin Green.

And earlier, I'd told Agent Stark that I was on my way back to the Princesse. If I called her now, she'd just take me to the hotel to go home.

I dug into my pocket for my phone, and I pulled out the business card I forgot I had. And smiled. Because now I had a way to make it to the Arc de Triomphe after all.

Guillaume took up two parking spaces, one of them a handicapped one, and honked his horn. “Lincoln, yes?”

“That's me,” I said, a little impressed with myself for finding a better solution than calling Agent Stark and also for going back to being myself. “I need to go to the Arc de Triomphe,” I said, buckling my seat belt.

Guillaume laughed. “That's all?” And he kept laughing as he pulled into traffic, narrowly missing at least three cars. “It will take a while, so get comfortable, Lincoln.” Just a few minutes, a long, tree-lined lane and a sharp turn later, Guillaume slammed his brakes. “Here we are.” He laughed again.

“I was right around the corner?” Boy, did I feel like an idiot now.

“Yes. It's funny, no?”

“No.” Actually, it was kind of funny, so I laughed.

“You call me, and you will find your way, even if you are around the corner, okay?” Guillaume leaned back and laughed. I tried to hand him some euro bills, which he declined. “No, no, my friend. This one is for the house.”

He meant on the house, but I wasn't about to correct the guy, with him being so cool about this ridiculously short trip and all. I tucked my money away. “Well, thanks.”

“No problem.” Guillaume looked serious now. “You remember to call me when you need help.”

I could stand to have a friend who didn't try to run away from me all the time, so I agreed and got out.

You know those pictures of famous monuments you see in your history books? The real thing is nothing like them, let me tell you. This arc was at least 150 feet tall, from what I could tell. You could see from a distance that a bunch of stonemasons spent decades making it beautiful. A big traffic circle surrounded the monument. I was across the street, so I figured I'd pull out my skateboard and go find Françoise. Tell her how you're supposed to leave no man behind and all that.

I set my board on the pavement, watching the traffic zoom by. It was crazy—there was almost never a break in traffic.
Almost
never. If you paid attention, you could see there was a flow, with gaps just wide enough for a skateboarding Chicken Boy to make it across. And that big, wide traffic circle was just waiting to be skateboarded, let me tell you.

Concentrating on the traffic pattern, I stepped on my board. The second I was ready to ride, someone yelled “Stop!” and grabbed my backpack. A cop, no doubt about it. This French policeman had a dark-blue uniform and a round face with a very mean expression. “No skateboarding!”

“I'm just trying to get to the arc,” I said, pointing across the street. “That's not illegal is it?” Maybe this policeman was one of those skateboard haters.

The cop pulled me back onto the sidewalk. People were gawking at us, but he motioned for them to move along already. “You take the tunnel, young boy,” he said to me as he reached to take my skateboard. But I wasn't going to let him—it's a good board, my latest birthday present.