Читать книгу The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle - Christopher Ward - Страница 17

I woke with a start as rain rattled the windows of the turret. The wind cracked and snapped like sheets flapping in the storm, but I felt oddly comforted by the sound and fell back to sleep right away. I dreamed about surveying Paris from the sky sitting on a giant hook that swung gently in the wind, until I was dropped down a chimney that turned into an endless tunnel, out of which I landed hard on the ground.

“You alright, Mac?” Rudee called out. He must have heard me tumble from my bed.

“Yeah, I’m okay, Rudee,” I answered groggily as I entered his room. He looked up a little sheepishly from burying his face in a bunch of flowers that he was putting in a tin can.

“From Sashay,” he grinned, “to thank me for my little gift. She is the cream of the cat parade, no?”

Hard to disagree, I thought. I tried to wash last night off me in the tiny bathroom and thought about what to tell Rudee. I didn’t have much of a chance, since he tapped on the door. “Hacks practice time. You coming?”

I didn’t want to spend any time without friends, so I threw on some clothes and chased Rudee, who was carrying an armload of sheet music and a shopping bag to the cab. As he pulled out of the lane, he eyed me in the rear view mirror. “You slept late, ma petite. Storm keep you awake?”

I could tell he was checking out the bruised-looking circles under my eyes. I really wanted to tell him about last night’s excursion to Les Halles and Shadowcorps, but he was acting so protective toward me that I felt guilty. He also seemed less morose than usual, even perky, as he chattered away like a magpie between rude gestures at anyone who risked sharing the road with us. “Last practice before the Bastille Day party.” Mention of the national celebration made me shudder, thinking of last night. “What did you think of Sashay’s dance, Mac? You know she is famous for taking the audience around the calendar to their childhood days when she performs. That’s why they call her the ‘Queen of Dreams.’”

I knew what he meant as I recalled my own reverie at the club.

“Bah, they won’t let me in there. Not that Sashay wants me dangling around anyway. Blag’s family owns the club, so I’m banned, and of course he can go whenever he wants.”

Madeleine cut in on a burst of static. “Bonjour, all my low rollers, ça va? Just a reminder to all of you that the Bastille Day party at CAFTA features our very own Hacks starting after the fireworks ... if there’s room on the stage for all that talent.”

Rudee positively glowed at this announcement.

“Free blue, white, and red earplugs at the door!” Madeleine cackled, and it sounded like more static.

Rudee laughed and waved at the radio. “We’ll show them. They’ll be dancing their shoes away.”

The practice was in a room above CAFTA that, as my dad would say, looked like a tornado had passed through it. Instruments, amplifiers, speakers, microphones, music stands, coffee cups, pastry wrappers, coats, and sheet music were scattered randomly. On the walls were posters of bands I’d never heard of like The Stereo Types, The Uncalled Four, and Colour Me CooCoo. I was sure I wasn’t missing much.

“It’s Mademoiselle Mac. She’s back,” said Mink Maynard from behind his drums.

Dizzy said “Hi” and gave me a knowing wink.

After a round of secret handshakes, Rudee introduced me to the brothers Maurice and Henri Rocquette on stand-up bass and banjo. They bowed and smiled, showing perfect teeth beneath tiny moustaches. Henri, the younger, had slicked-back grey hair, while Maurice, the older, had a shiny black dome that glistened like motor oil and featured a little hint of grey. Rudee handed out set lists and sheet music and from a shopping bag produced a collection of matching Hawaiian berets. “Part of the ‘Lighten Up’ campaign. What do you think?”

He tossed a beret to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to try it on. Since there were no extra chairs, I curled up on a mound of coats and watched the Hacks storm through their repertoire. They seemed to forget I was there as the laughter got louder. They took turns playing solos, and the best ones were greeted with “bravos” from the others. The endings of the songs were ragged at first, sounding at times like someone dropping an armload of dishes. Gradually they got better as they went along, then they were on to the next tune, Mink coolly counting each song in by clicking his sticks together over his head and calling out, “One two, you know what to do.” The song list included all their favourites, geared to keeping a party going, and there were a couple of heated moments while a sequence was arrived at.

“Nonono ... ‘Grasse Matinee’ can’t follow ‘Kiss My Sister.’ They’re in the same key!”

“Well, what about ‘Gâteaux To Go,’ then ‘Stinkbomb Serenade?”

“Are you crazy? They’ll be throwing things at us.” And so on.

It all culminated with an almost unrecognizable version of the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise,” a very difficult song to disguise. My mind wandered as a long jam rambled on into the afternoon. Rudee and Dizzy were standing over me smiling when I came to as the others packed up their instruments. “I thought you California girls were partypoppers,” said Rudee.

“Music for dreams ... so it seems,” called Mink from behind his hi-hat.

“Nice to meet you, Henri, Maurice,” I said.

“Enchanté,” they replied as they headed for the stairs carrying their instruments.

“Hey, Rudee, let’s grab a bite at Le Losange,” said Dizzy. “I’m tired of the food at CAFTA, and we’ll be seeing plenty of it at the party.”

“Sounds good, Diz,” said Rudee, who was polishing the chrome of his organ stand.

“Mac, you want to ride in style for a change?” asked Dizzy.

I looked at Rudee, who grinned. “Go bohemian, little one, you’ll appreciate the higherlife after that.”

As we walked toward the cab, Dizzy put his pork pie back on and tossed the Hawaiian beret into the trash. “Lighten up, mon derriere,” he chortled.

The engine sputtered and coughed as he looked over at me. “Not that it’s any of my business what you were up to in Les Halles in the middle of the night, Mac, but I figured we’d at least better have our stories straight. Rudee’s my best friend, and he really cares about you. Since you arrived in Paris, he feels responsible for you.”

I felt terrible knowing how last night’s outing would affect my friend and protector. We wound our way up the hill to Montmartre. Dizzy pointed out an impossibly narrow brick building shaped like a lookout tower and identified it as Madeleine’s office before stopping in front of the Sacre Coeur church.

“Dizzy, I know it was stupid, but I had to find out what I could. You know Paris is getting darker, not lighter, and I think I know who’s behind it. Did Rudee tell you about what I overheard at the club?”

He nodded, and I went on to tell him the story of my late night visit to Shadowcorps. His eyes widened, and he pursed his lips. “Whew, this is serious stuff. Let’s go. Rudee will be waiting; he has to know.” I didn’t like it, but I knew he was right.

Le Losange was a vaguely diamond-shaped brasserie on a busy corner. Rudee was already in a red vinyl booth by the window and waved us over. We all settled in and gave our orders to a waiter in a red apron that touched the tops of his shoes. He had an if-you-want-to-be-so-foolish tone as he noted our requests. I asked for ketchup on my green beans to see if smoke would come out of his ears, but he just ignored me.

I could only delay the inevitable for so long. Rudee told us through mouthfuls of oozing crêpe that he’d been to see Inspector Magritte about the domed church theft and told him about what I’d overheard at the Moulin D’Or. Apparently Magritte had a large map of Paris on his wall with pictures of the church from all angles, and a magnet of the missing cross that he moved around the map and some spaghetti-like scribbles.

“He took notes,” Rudee related, “and seemed genuinely concerned. I could tell his hat was elsewhere, though, because he was distracted by a leak in the ceiling of his office that had just extinguished his pipe. When I left, he had opened his umbrella and was drawing more noodles on his map.”

All of this just made me impatient, and with Dizzy’s encouragement, I told Rudee about my visit to Shadowcorps. His expression went from surprise to shock to horror. “You climbed a ladder for five storeys and squeezed through a grate in the gutter in Les Halles?”

At this point his face was in his hands, and he seemed to be mumbling a prayer in some weird language. He looked up at me and put on his most serious expression. “Mac, I’m not going to go behind the back burner with you on this one.”

I couldn’t help it, and neither could Dizzy. We both erupted in laughter at once. Dizzy, unfortunately, had a mouthful of tarte tatin which wound up decorating the red vinyl beside Rudee.

“What?” Rudee asked indignantly, but I could see that he was trying not to smile. “Go ahead and laugh your heads till Thursday. I’m just glad Dizzy was at that cab stand.”

A television set over the bar was showing pictures of the golden-topped monument in Place De La Bastille as we left the restaurant. It all seemed like preparation for the national holiday, until someone at the bar said in a shocked voice, “Mon Dieu, non!”

We stopped and turned in time to see the windblown reporter, mike in hand, breathlessly recounting the daring theft of the statue from the top of the column. She referred to “Another outlandish crime against the state and all that Parisians hold sacred. We ask not only ‘why’ was this beautiful work stolen, but ‘how.’”

The camera pulled back to show the size of the square and the crush of cars swirling around it. In the background of the shot, I couldn’t help but notice the ominous silhouette of a construction crane.