The elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower was quite expensive, but I was more than happy to pay. I wanted to see the view. The elevator was crammed with tourists of all nationalities: a group of Japanese people armed with long camera lenses, some loud Americans, and even one quaint Scottish fellow wearing a kilt. He was standing so close to me that I could smell his foul breath.
The hairs on the back of my neck started to tingle. Could it be him? At that moment the doors opened and we all piled out onto the second level of the tower.
I had to think fast. I’d heard that real Scotsmen never wear underwear beneath their kilts, so I decided to test the theory. As the “Scotsman” walked out of the elevator, I nimbly tripped him with one foot.
He went flying!
And there it was: he wore boxer shorts under his kilt. He was a fake – Scurvy Scabscratch in yet another disguise!
There was not a moment to lose. I leapt over his sprawled form and dived into a throng of tourists. I found a staircase in a corner with a sign above it that read “Sortie / Exit”. Down I went. The view across Paris would have to wait for another day. I was not going to let myself be caught by Scurvy Scabscratch!
The winding stairs felt never-ending. I had just rounded the second turn when I heard determined footsteps behind me. I looked up, straight into the unpleasant sight of two hairy thighs covered by flapping Scottish tartan. I pounded down the stairs two by two, passing a few people heading up, until I made it down to the first level. There was a restaurant on one side. I ducked through a door, into a kitchen, then I ran across a dining area, going as fast as my legs could carry me. Startled diners stopped eating as I rushed past. I found another set of stairs and dashed down, convinced I’d managed to give Scabscratch the slip.
But I was wrong! The next moment I felt his sour, heavy breath on my neck. A giant hand grabbed my shoulder. I was plucked from the stairs as if I were a feather. “Where’s that mangy mutt of yours?” Scabscratch hissed through jagged, yellow teeth.
The smell of garlic almost overwhelmed me. I tried to kick him but it was all in vain. I squirmed and wriggled like a fish on a hook.
“I asked you a question, brat!” He shook me so hard that my teeth clattered. “And where is the Silver Tulip? We know you have it!”
I cried “Help!” and “Put me down! Put me down!” as loud as I could, but Scabscratch just clamped one of his huge, hammy hands over my mouth.
“Shut your trap,” he threatened, “or you’ll regret it. I’m warning you. Now, move!” He shunted me down the stairs, still clutching my collar. A nice old gentlemen came huffing and puffing up the stairs. He greeted us politely in French, and Scabscratch grinned back sweetly while he twisted my arm viciously behind my back.
I was petrified. How was I going to get out of this? I knew I had to keep calm and think. Slowly, I counted to ten. “Think, Alex!” I told myself.
I cleared my throat. “How did you know to find me here?” I asked, hoping to buy some time.
“Piece of cake,” he snorted. “I just hung around here at the tower. Little boys like you can’t come to Paris without seeing the Eiffel Tower, now can they? I knew you’d pitch up sooner or later!”
I could kick myself for falling so easily into his trap. William would not be impressed. But where was he now, when I needed him? Thinking of him gave me an idea.
“Wait!” I cried. “I was supposed to meet my dog up at the restaurant!”
Scabscratch stopped in his tracks. He lifted me by the scruff of my neck until he could look me straight in the eye. I put on an innocent face. He hesitated, glancing up towards the restaurant.
As soon as he looked away from me, I took my chance.
I kicked with all my might. My foot found the tender spot on his shin, just below the knee. His legs buckled; he howled in pain and dropped me.
I tumbled down a couple of stairs, then picked myself up and ran as fast as I could.