Читать книгу The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle - Christopher Ward - Страница 18

Rudee and I, with Dizzy following close behind, ran red lights from Montmartre to the Bastille. It came to me that the Bastille was today’s major destination for my school group. I closed my eyes a lot on the way and was very glad when we joined a growing cluster of cars near the square. This time we were relative latecomers, since a crush of locals had gathered to stare at the now-naked column. The number of news trucks told us that this was going to receive much more notice than the previous thefts. A barrier was being set up, and the square was being taped off. Rudee charged past and ripped through the tape.

We spotted the bowler hat and tailored black coat of Inspector Magritte near a small group of official-looking men. “Rudee, mademoiselle, monsieur.” He nodded solemnly as the three of us approached. “This is outrageous, of course.”

“Oui, but Magritte, have you any idea who is responsible?” demanded Rudee.

At this point the inspector made a little steeple with his fingers, sucked in his breath, and narrowed his eyes in deep contemplation. “I have some suspicions and a couple of theories, but no clues and precious few leads. I’m considering every possibility.”

Rudee looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, but he asked the obvious question instead. “But how? How do you lift a statue from the Place de la Bastille and erase it with people all around?”

“Right now we can only say when, mon ami,” answered Magritte as he nodded calmly and lit his pipe before continuing. “At a certain time every day in this part of the city, as the sun drops low on the boulevards, casting what I think of as a surreal glow over the city, the glare is such that it causes a few moments of blindness. Pedestrians stop and shield their eyes. It’s why there are so many late afternoon accidents in the Place de la Bastille, you see.”

I wanted to add that it might have something to do with the terrible drivers, but I didn’t want Rudee and Dizzy to take it personally.

“If you will excuse me, I wish to consult with my technicians; they’re dusting for fingerprints in the bistros surrounding the square.”

As Magritte departed, Dizzy was already impersonating him, steepling his fingers and saying, “I’m considering every possibility.”

Rudee was too disgusted to be amused. They were exchanging theories when I saw a small group of girls surrounding a woman waving her hands like she was fighting off a swarm of bees. Mademoiselle Lesage! I pushed through the group and put my arm over our sobbing tour guide’s shoulders. She looked up long enough to register who was consoling her as Penelope fired off a half-dozen photos.

“Ah, Mac, I thought we’d lost you. I am so distraught. The golden figure represents the spirit of freedom, and the Bastille is the most sacred of historical locations in all of Paris because of its connection to the Revolution....” At this, she broke down and was unable to continue.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Lesage, I share your moment of misery, but we must soldier on in these trying times.” Penelope gave a mock serious salute over Mademoiselle Lesage’s shoulder. “Perhaps it would be best for us to return to the residence to contemplate in solitude this devastating loss.”

Mme Lesage nodded sadly and half-heartedly gathered up the girls. Penelope came over and said quietly, “Well done, Mac. We’ll probably head for Café de Flore in St. Germain once Lesage is safely out of sight. We used the fire escape last night. Any chance of you joining us for a chocolate chaude? The clafouti is magnifique. No almonds in sight.”

“I’ll definitely try,” I replied, but Penelope wasn’t buying it. “Look, if you can cover for me, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“D’accord, ‘Mystery Girl,’ but this better be worth it, or you owe me a lifetime of tea parties, teen fashion shows, and pastry-making classes.”

I nodded reluctantly. “Maybe we’ll even play princesses like we used to,” she added with a little too much enthusiasm. “Just kidding. Okay, get out of here before Lesage retires that handkerchief.”

I eased back into the crowd, noticing lights and a TV camera, and made my way closer. I was stunned to see our favourite windblown reporter interviewing Luc Fiat. “But Monsieur Fiat, aren’t these symbols of all that is light and right with Paris? How will this affect the mayor’s campaign?”

He was slick, I had to give him that. With a little shrug and a patronizing smile, he oozed confidence. “You know, Louise ... and by the way, I love what you’ve done with your hair, it’s so natural and windblown ... we Parisians are not so easily disheartened. The sun will come up tomorrow, hopefully, and we will carry on as we have always done. Yes, it’s true, the loss of these beautiful golden symbols does take some of the glow from our hearts, but isn’t that what electric lights are for?”

He chuckled greasily, and Louise seemed uncertain how to take this. Fiat went on, “But, seriousement, you know the smiles will be just as warm and the fireworks just as bright on Bastille Day, won’t they? So, lighten up!”

She seemed glad to let the interview conclude naturally on this odd note and thanked him before returning to a recap of the crime for what was undoubtedly the hundredth time that evening.

Fiat stood with a frozen smile as she wrapped up. Suddenly his eyes caught mine when the camera lights switched off. “You ... la petite ... where do I know you from?”

I know I should’ve just smiled sweetly, and the moment would have passed, but I just couldn’t. Instead I held his oily gaze and said, “Califorrrniiiaaa,” before quickly slipping back into the crowd. Before I disappeared, I did see his perfectly waxed expression fail and change to something darker. I didn’t want to stick around to see what came next. I heard Rudee calling my name over the hubbub of the crowd and the growing chorus of car horns, and we hurried to the cab.

“I have to take Sashay to the club. Do you want to come, or should I get Dizzy to take you back to the church?”

I said I’d rather go with him, and we said goodbye to Dizzy. Sashay was watching out of her window when we pulled up, and soon we were speeding toward St. Germain. They wouldn’t listen to my repeated requests to assist Michelle, the cigarette girl, and I didn’t mention my little confrontation with Luc or Louche at La Bastille. I had to beg to go in with Sashay and promise to stay behind the curtains while I was there.

I met Michelle. She thanked me for subbing for her and offered to pay me. I said no thanks, the experience was good enough for me. We chatted throughout the evening when she came backstage to refill her tray. It seemed that the Shadows were drinking and smoking even more than usual. Michelle thought they were celebrating something, maybe somebody’s birthday. I had other suspicions but kept them to myself. The lights dimmed for Sashay’s show, and the strange, hypnotic music began to seep into the club, along with the dry ice. I was finding a space where I could watch through the curtains when a voice whispered from the darkness, “Hey, gamine, you’re blocking the way, move back here.”

“Excuse me,” I said, and was moving toward the voice that I thought must belong to the club manager when a pair of bony hands clamped my shoulders, lifting me up like I was weightless, and carried me quickly down a darkened hallway. I suppose I should have yelled or at least tried to kick my way free, but I was totally caught by surprise and I didn’t want to destroy the mood at the start of Sashay’s show. And yes, I was scared to death.