Free City of Light (City of Mystery) by Kim Wright

she had trained herself on ways to
approach men with stealth, the better to overwhelm them with the unexpected
gift of her beauty.
    “Eiffel,” she
continued, when it became clear Rayley was not capable of answer.  “It’s only
for his most select guests.  It’s on the third level at that point in a
building I believe engineers call the tippy-top.”  She laughed, showing small,
even teeth.
    “The elevators go
higher?”  It was a stupid question, since they clearly didn’t, but it was the
only thing he could think of to say.  If he ever managed to get back to London,
he would spend more time with the other detectives, Rayley vowed to himself. 
He would insist that they teach him how to talk to women.
    “Oh no,” she said. “You
ascend on foot.” She pointed to a spiral staircase near the center of the
platform, far away from where the photographers and journalists had clustered. 
They were determined to show the background of Paris in their shots and were
thus setting up along the guardrail.  They’d all seemed to simultaneously
realize they must perch their cameras on platforms in order to shoot above the
railing, a complication for which none of them had prepared, and everyone was
scrambling around looking for boards and boxes the workmen might have left
behind in order to create makeshift risers.  There was also the issue of having
a human in the foreground by the railing to create scale, so there appeared to
be a debate as to who might volunteer.  After a brief moment, the young
American woman agreed to serve as a model for them all and earned a round of
hearty, if somewhat glove-muffled, applause.
    Clever girl, Rayley
thought. She would have her picture in every paper of the civilized world
within the week.
    He turned back to
Isabel, whom he suspected might be joking, or trying to test just how gullible
he truly was. “How many people know of the existence of this apartment?” he
asked.
    “Very few. I
understand it’s beautifully outfitted, can you imagine?  Sofas trimmed in
velvet, cut crystal glasses on the shelf, and the most wonderful art.”
    Rayley was relieved
that his frantic newspaper reading frenzy of the last few days offered him the
chance, for once, to make a sensible response. “I understand he has quite the
collection.”
    “Of art?”
    “Among other
things.”
    They smiled as if
they were a pair of conspirators, and Rayley relaxed. That was a far better
attempt at this flirting business. For he knew that Gustave Eiffel, despite
playing the grieving widower and devoted papa, was also known to keep company
with the most glamorous women of Paris. 
    “He calls it his
aerie,” Isabel said.  “Accessible to his most select circle of friends.  But
the second level of the tower is open to all.”
    “Only to the mad,”
Rayley said.  He had read quite enough about the second platform, which was
said to have a view of the city that would stop the heart.
    “So shall we?”
    “What?”
    “Shall we climb?”
    “Oh, no. God no.”
    “But we have plenty
of time.” She made a slight gesture toward the journalists, photographers, and
engineers.  “They aren’t paying any attention to us at all.”
    “I don’t think we’re
supposed to leave the group,” Rayley said and was immediately shamed.  He
sounded like a nervous schoolboy.  “I don’t think the second level is open,” he
amended, although that remark sounded scarcely better.
    She laughed again. “None
of this is really open, is it?”
    “We’re here as
guests. So if we should be found-“
    “Fine, Detective. I’ll
go alone.”
    Oh God, Rayley
thought.   Ohgodohgodohgod.  Because, with a defiant glance at the others, who
were all literally focused on the American reporter, Isabel had begun to walk
toward the spiral staircase.  He had two options.  He could either go with her
or let her climb alone.  No, now that he considered, he supposed he had three. 
He could walk over to Brown and inform on