The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  “Oui?”

  “Magritte,” said Rudee with an equally serious look as he flashed something from his pocket. The guard, eyeing us suspiciously, allowed this odd group to pass. He couldn’t resist a glance of admiration at Sashay as she whisked past in a lavender breeze.

  “What did you show him?” I asked.

  Rudee grinned slyly and showed me a business card with a picture of a man in a suit and bowler hat with an apple in front of his face. Okay, weird, I thought, but ...

  “The Belgian artist, Rene Magritte’s self-portrait. Only Inspector Magritte’s closest friends have one,” Rudee said proudly. “Here, Mac, you squeeze on to this one.”

  Magritte was in full contemplation, hands clasped behind his back, when we got to the third floor of the D’Orsay. Small groups of officials, police, and museum employees hovered, nervously whispering amongst themselves. I looked around in awe at an entire room dedicated to the paintings of the Dutch genius, Vincent Van Gogh. Starry Night, the couple sleeping in the hay, the self-portraits — I’d seen them all in books, but seeing them in front of my eyes was something else. Magritte stood motionless in front of one of the most famous of all the works, Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles, a painting of his humble little room with its table and chairs, a pitcher, a towel, and the bed with its red blanket and ... hey, I’d never noticed that before.

  Dizzy, Rudee, and Sashay seemed befuddled as Magritte arched an eyebrow, steepled his fingers, and slowly leaned in toward the canvas.

  “Isn’t that cute, there’s a little chocolate on the pillow,” I exclaimed a bit too loudly, realizing in that moment that there should not be a chocolate on the pillow of the bed of Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles. Definitely not.

  Magritte closed his eyes and nodded rhythmically. “Oui, Mademoiselle Mac, un petit chocolat....”

  I leaned in next to Magritte for a closer look. “In the shape of an earlobe,” I whispered, slowly making the connection with the legendary tale of the artist cutting off a piece of his own ear in a fit of madness.

  Dizzy, Rudee, and Sashay stood, mouths agape, like children waiting for a little Christmas bonbon to be deposited on their tongues.

  Six

  By the dim light in the cool of the ancient wine cellar, a trim, grey-haired man in his mid-sixties navigated his way past rack upon rack of some of the finest vintage wines in the country. They were arranged by the glorious regions of France and the individual vineyards that had produced the grapes, from the Loire, Alsace, and the mighty B’s, Bordeaux, Burgundy, and Beaujolais. Pausing to be sure he was alone, he shifted a crate of Rhone Rosé, now filled with empty bottles, to one side. What appeared to be a wall of ancient brick concealed something else, and as he pressed just the right spot, the bricks swivelled just enough to allow him to slip around them and into a darkened room. Replacing the brick facade, he left behind the dusty and dank wine cellar and entered a cool room with a tomb-like silence. If there was any smell, it was the slight odour of paint and chemicals that greeted the nose. The lights revealed an immaculate, tastefully decorated apartment that could easily have been found overlooking the Champs des Mars in the seventh arrondissement of Paris, where in fact the furnishings had, until very recently, been found. He carefully hung up his spotless, white, double-breasted jacket and poured himself a tiny drink from a bottle on a mahogany side table, put on a favourite recording of Eric Satie, and settled into his customary Louis XVI armchair.

  The TV reception wasn’t the best, but given the location, what could one expect? The news report was crystal clear, though: a Christmas Day discovery by a Portuguese concierge named Maria at the Musée D’Orsay revealed that the Van Gogh masterpiece, Bedroom in Arles, had been altered, or more likely replaced by an almost identical copy, save for one crucial detail, which the police were not at liberty to discuss. The camera found a reporter with perfectly windswept hair holding a microphone in front of a stern-looking man in a bowler hat and suit.

  “Inspector Magritte, all of Paris and art lovers around the world want to know what is happening to our treasured masterpieces. First the Mona Lisa, and now the Van Gogh bedroom. Do you have any clues?”

  “Merci, Louise. It’s too early to say, but never too soon for concern,” he said mystifyingly.

  The reporter nodded, pretending to understand, as Magritte continued. “An offence against artistic expression, whether it be an alteration to the Mona Lisa or singing the ‘Marseillaise’ out of tune must not be taken lightly.”

  “Mon Dieu, they are even more stupid than I could have imagined,” said the grey-haired man, peering in disbelief at his television.

  “But Inspector, what methods of detection do the police have in these situations?”

  Magritte appeared to be deep in thought as an awkward silence followed. “Louise, we must rise above the landscape of uncertainty and soar beyond the horizon of doubt on the wings of the possible.”

  “Good heavens, this is utter madness.” The little man could no longer remain seated and fought back laughter as he stepped closer to the screen in disbelief.

  Louise’s bewildered expression was obvious and Magritte seemed to take pity on her. “Considering that Van Gogh used colours as feelings, perhaps we must apply an emotional logic to our investigation, non?”

  Switching off his TV and downing the last drops of his drink, the man snorted, muttering to himself. “Fools. They look but they don’t see. I must bring this closer to home for Monsieur Magritte.”

  Refreshing his drink, he made his way into a large workroom and flicked a switch that flooded the room with light, revealing canvases of various sizes on easels, all carefully draped with cloth. Everywhere were the artist’s tools: brushes, palettes, sponges, glazes, knives, and varnish. He slipped on a smock and beret and removed the cloth from a small canvas. On a nearby easel sat a photograph of an almost identical work, both depicting an old pair of boots that strangely morphed into a pair of bare feet. The photo and the painting were stunningly alike, with one strange exception. He smiled at his handiwork, took a sip, and began humming a little tune as he picked up a brush and palette.

  Seven

  “That was a little too close,” said Dizzy, pulling his cab out of the airport drop-off zone and heading back toward the city.

  “Rudee’s face looked like a hothouse tomato when he picked up the luggage,” I said. “How much can Sashay’s suitcase of scarves weigh?”

  “Oh, I imagine Rudee is smuggling beets aboard. You can’t see him going a whole week without the king of vegetables, can you?”

  “No, I suppose not,” I said, curling my nose at the memory of Rudee’s pungent lunchtime favourite.

  “Sooo,” said Dizzy slowly, “I took the liberty of suggesting a day trip to Versailles for your parents tomorrow.” I was immediately suspicious. “This just happens to coordinate nicely with the rally training session at CAFTA.”

  “Ah, so the Christmas festivities are over so soon,” I said.

  “I’m sure there will be lots of buche de Noël served with the hot cider tomorrow,” said Dizzy with a smile.

  The thought of those weighty chocolate logs made me sleepy and happy. “I love how they put the sugar on top to look like snow.”

  Dizzy glanced at me with a grin and I knew he was thinking what a child I was. So what, it was Christmas. Bring on the chocolate, whipped cream, and fizzy sodas!

  The next morning, the parents headed to Versailles to discover the gaudy palace of the sun king, Louis XIV, while I went to a café in Montmartre to get together with a bunch of cabbies to learn as much as possible about road rallying in one go. Maurice and Henri Rocquette, the brothers who played in Rudee’s band, The Hacks, were bringing things to order, never an easy task at the Café Taxi, where arm wrestling, card playing, and impromptu singing, sometimes all at once, were the norm.

  “Attention, my fellow Parisiennes and winners of last year’s taxi rally challenge….” Maurice paused, grinning, to allow the inevitable roar of approval. �
�Yes, we know the rules, the opponents, and what’s at stake, but this year there will be new drivers and navigators.”

  At this point Henri jumped in. “And substituting for Rudee Daroo, who of course is on his honeymoon,” here the drivers let out a collective oooo, “on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean,” Henri paused dramatically to allow a group ohhhh, “is our favourite California girl, Mademoiselle Mac!”

  The room erupted in a cheer, and I blushed. Is there any way to stop a blush? I think my mom imagines people in their underwear so she doesn’t feel embarrassed. Yech! Maurice got down to business.

  “For the drivers we’ve got new simulators to create the feeling of bumpy country roads in the south of France, and for the navigators detailed maps of the south and sample riddles to solve. Allons-y, mes amis!”

  An instant din filled the room before Henri shouted, “One more thing. Madeleine has the new team shirts to hand out. What do you think?”

  Madeleine, in her wheelchair at the front of the room, held up a shirt with the image of a grinning gargoyle, like the ones on the roof of the Notre Dame cathedral, at the wheel of a taxi. Cheers greeted her as she wove through the room.

  Eight

  “Leee-oooohhh.” A gravelly voice that rattled dishes, woke sleeping pets in nearby towns, and terrified all who breathed, roared down the hall to a closed bedroom door. Behind the door a guitar was being gently strummed.

  “Oui, Maman,” a gentle voice replied.

  “Come for breakfast now, and quit playing that infernal instrument or I’ll use it for firewood.”

  “Oui, Maman.”

  A slender young man with a cascade of sandy brown curls falling over one eye emerged, barefoot with guitar, and sat down in the kitchen. “Bonjour, Maman.” Leo smiled sleepily at his mother and put his guitar in his lap.

  “It’s a ‘jour,’ yes, how ‘bon’ it is I’m not sure,” Margot Mallard grunted. She was a squat woman with thick legs, thick, tattooed arms, and no neck that was visible. What teeth remained didn’t appear too happy about being left behind, and her forehead was deeply lined from a lifetime of scowling disapproval at all she surveyed. The lone exception was her son.

  “Oh Maman, it’s a beautiful morning. The rain sounds like distant bells, and the thought of a bowl of your porridge makes me glad to be alive.”

  “Ohhh, Leo.” Margot shook her head slowly, but the roar had softened to a motherly growl, not without affection. “You’re too sweet for the world, certainly for Marseille. But this year we’re going to toughen you up, my little Ferdinand. You will be my navigator in the taxi rally and together we will honour the memory of your father by beating those five-course, cheese-nibbling, manicured, poodle-fancying, boot-licking dandies from Paris.” As her voice built, spit flew and she punctuated this outburst by slamming her fist on the counter, causing the porridge to leap from the bowl.

  “Oui, but Maman, I get so sleepy in the car.”

  “Noooo, Leoooh, you will not get sleepy this year.”

  “But Maman, I lose my way so easily.”

  “Noooo, Leoooh, you will not lose your way this year.”

  “But Maman, I have to practice for my show on New Year’s Day.”

  “Noooo, Leoooh, you do not need to practice. You are ready now.”

  “But Maman —”

  “No, Leo.”

  “But —”

  “Lee. Oh.”

  “D’accord, Maman.”

  She smiled and picked at her teeth while scratching her armpit with a hairbrush.

  Leo asked shyly, “Would you like to hear my new song, Maman?”

  “Of course, mon petit.” Margot couldn’t hide her pride.

  Leo strummed and sang in a whispery voice with a sweet vibrato.

  “There’s a lady known as Margot

  She comes from old Marseille

  She’ll take you where you want to go

  As long as you can pay —”

  Margot’s eyes closed involuntarily and she rocked from side to side by the stove as Leo continued.

  “Margot drives her taxi

  So fast it makes you spin

  Soon you’ll see if you’re like me

  You’ll be sorry you got in.”

  Margot’s eyes popped open and she bellowed, “What!”

  Leo leapt up from the table and raced down the hall with his guitar, laughing, while Margot chased him waving the hairbrush. He slammed and locked the door. “Je t’aime, Maman.”

  Nine

  “She’s a taxi girl/All she wants to do is grab a cab.”

  I reached across the pillow in the dark, knocking my brand new ultra-cool phone to the floor of the hotel room.

  “She’s a taxi girl/Flag ’em down fast and jump in the back.”

  “Hello,” I whispered under the pillow, expecting that Penelope had forgotten what time it was in Paris. On the other side of the room there was some restless movement.

  “Mademoiselle, it’s Bertrand the doorman.”

  “Uh-huh,” I answered curtly.

  “You have a visitor who asked me to call you on this number.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He doesn’t give a name,” Bertrand paused, sounding sheepish. “Just to say it’s a joke.”

  I smiled to myself. “Big guy, really big, looks like he could play Magwitch in Great Expectations?”

  “Oui, il est très grand….” Bertrand replied, sounding nervous.

  “Please tell him I’ll be right down.”

  I left a note on the bathroom mirror, grabbed a banana from the fruit basket, and eased into the hotel hallway. What would Blag be doing at my hotel at four thirty in the morning?

  “Hey Mac,” he grunted when I spotted him pacing in the street beside his cab. I shrugged and waved at Bertrand, who retreated to the safety of the lobby. I gave Blag an awkward but sincere hug. Have you ever tried to hug a truck or a small office building? Blag was built like a low-lying mountain range, with a shaved head and a permanent five o’clock shadow to go with his gruff demeanour and intense gaze. I’ve seen people cross the street to avoid passing him on the sidewalk, and not just because he’s a one-man crowd. What they don’t know, and what took me a while to discover, is that underneath is one of the best people you’ll ever meet. I would have been in a world of trouble — I mean more trouble — if Blag hadn’t had my back during last summer’s adventures. Oh, by the way, in French a blague is a joke, so you can understand the doorman’s confusion.

  “Blag, it’s good to see you, but it would’ve been just as good if we’d waited until at least sunup.”

  “We have work to do,” he said tersely, walking purposefully to the cab, “partner.” He shot me as much of a smile as I would ever get from him, which wasn’t much. I figured that part two of my rally training was about to begin.

  “It’s a lot easier getting around the city at this time of day,” he said, handing me a grease-stained map of Paris and a few squares of paper with handwriting on them. “Okay, nana, you’re the navigator, start navigating.” He hit the sound system and an angry, siren-like guitar filled the car. As the thunderous drums kicked in, Blag began pounding the steering wheel and nodding in time to the music. A row of Viking action figures bounced on the dash along with the bass drum.

  “What’s the first clue say?” he shouted over the music as he tore away from the curb into the mercifully empty street. I shrank in my seat and held up the first piece of paper in the pile. It was written in an elegant, if spidery, hand. Blag read my mind.

  “Yeah, Tawdry made up the clues. I couldn’t think of any.”

  “Oh, cool,” I said, “how is she? You guys looked great at the wedding, sorry you couldn’t make it to the party.”

  “Yeah, well, I can only handle so much of the Daroo crew. And that carnival crap they play, ugh.” Blag banged the dash in time to something called “Death Hurts.” “Not like Malade, this is music.”

  I chose not to mention my dad’s part in the music-making at
the party. I flattened out the map on my lap as we sailed down Faubourg St. Honoré and read the first clue.

  Like a belt it holds us in/This is where your day begins.

  Blag chuckled as I stared at the map and thought out loud.

  “A belt. A belt has notches and ... it goes through loops. Maybe it’s an overpass.… No ... they don’t have those in Paris, do they?”

  “Death hurts/It’s a drag …”

  Blag’s singing wasn’t helping.

  “But happiness/Makes me gag …”

  I looked up as we approached rue Royale and caught a glimpse of the Madeleine church. What would Madeleine do in her little tower in Montmartre, from where she managed the world of Paris taxis with her giant map of the city? I closed my eyes, and there it was! The road that surrounded the city ... like a belt!

  “It’s the périphérique, Blag!”

  “Nice work, short stuff, so how do we get there?”

  Good question. “Okay, so let’s stay on Saint-Honoré, right past the Palais Royale and head across the Pont Neuf.”

  “Sure, if it wasn’t one-way the other way.” Blag glanced over at me, grinning, and ran a yellow light.

  I had to choose. “Rue de Rivoli,” I suggested uncertainly.

  “One way. Wrong way,” he shouted as “Death Hurts” crescendoed.

  “Okay, okay.” I tried to keep my cool, already feeling over my head in my new role. “Then let’s turn here up to Berger, past the Centre Pompidou, up to Francs Bourgeois, right on Turenne, left on St. Antoine, and around the Bastille.”

  “You got it, nav.” Blag accelerated, thrusting me back into my seat, grateful for the empty pre-dawn streets.

  I peered at the map but couldn’t read it in the dim light, then I remembered that my new phone could be a flashlight. “Okay, I’ve got it,” I shouted excitedly. “Stay on St. Antoine and circle Nation and take Cours de Vincennes all the way to the périphérique at Porte de Vincennes.” This was one of the gates to the city that separated Paris from the suburbs on the other side of the périphérique. Relief was short-lived as Blag careened past a terrified vendor opening his newsstand, toward our first destination.