The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  “Yes! Where are the wild horses in the south?”

  “The Camargue,” said Blag, smiling, “just east of here and a longer way to Arles.”

  “Well, giddy up then, cowboy.”

  Blag didn’t need any encouragement. With one hand he wheeled past the entrance to the A7 and with the other grabbed his radio mike and alerted Maurice, Henri, Mink, and Dizzy of the route. I explained our deciphering of the clue.

  “Nicely done, little one,” said Mink.

  “It was mostly Blag, but we’re a team.”

  “We are the Partypoppers,” chanted the other drivers, and even Blag cracked a smile.

  “I guess this explains the Marauders taking a barge. Is that allowed?”

  “Doubt it, but the host team gets a lot of slack, probably so the judges don’t get pelted with mackerel.”

  They sure figured out the clue quickly, I thought. Leo?

  Dizzy and Maurice caught up with us in a few minutes and we proceeded caravan-style down the #568, what they called the route ancienne. It took us through small towns, the most picturesque aspect being the water, which came in and out of view as we rolled past. I kept a close watch on our route and the time, knowing that we had to be in Arles precisely two hours after our departure time.

  About halfway, we passed through Fos-sur-Mer. The big highlight I recalled from my prep was the annual colour festival when all the people, streets, buildings, and dogs are decorated in the same colour. I believe this year it was aubergine, a purply French version of eggplant; they must have gone through a few shades to get there. Penelope would love this.

  At the edge of town, the traffic was backed up for a funeral. A troop of sailors was carrying a coffin down the main street at a lead-footed pace. Blag wove around the knot of vehicles, which included frustrated members of the Supernovas and the Bombes, impatiently eyeing their watches. When we got to the front of the row, the pallbearers seemed to move even slower. I thought Blag was going to offer to carry the coffin himself when one of the sailors turned and pointed at us.

  “Hey, mint-suckers, aren’t you with the Partypoppers in the taxi rally?”

  Blag shot me an “I knew it” look.

  “Why don’t you pull over? You can buy us all glasses of cognac and maybe clean our dusty boots with your minty-fresh Parisian tongues.” At this suggestion, they all roared and the deceased shifted audibly.

  Blag had heard enough and stormed out of the car to confront them, the numbers clearly not working in his favour.

  “Ooo, in such poor taste for a Parisian to interrupt a sacred occasion.”

  The lid of the coffin popped open and another sailor sat up, grinning, and shouted “Death to the Partypoppers!” before the lot of them dispersed, laughing uproariously.

  Sixteen

  Rudee distractedly played solitaire shuffleboard, humming a gloomy little melody and gazing out to sea. A trio of gulls flapped and squawked on the railing. Sashay watched him from a distance, then came up from behind, wrapped a scarf around his shoulders, and kissed his yawning bald spot.

  “You look like a man who has lost his beets,” Sashay said sympathetically.

  Rudee smiled feebly, “Oh no, ma cherie, my supply is ...” He stopped himself, flustered.

  “It’s alright, mon mari, I knew that you had a secret stash. I heard them rolling around in your suitcase. If you have any extras we could use them to scare away the seagulls.”

  Rudee looked hurt as he kissed her hand. “Mmm, you are well whiffed, my love.”

  “There was a sampling at the perfume bar on level 5. Heavenly,” she said. “And I must remember the Hairspray Follies at three and Fingernail Fun at four.”

  “I’m glad you are polishing your day. I’m having a touch of barn illness.”

  “You mean cabin fever, Rudee?”

  “Peut-être, oui. But I loved our visit to Sorrento. The eyesight was contagious.”

  Sashay let this one pass as a suave senior in navy garb waved jauntily. He wore a nametag that read Social Convener, Del Velure.

  “Bonjournohhhhh. Ahhhh, there are my favourite turtledoves; I’ve been looking for you. Rudee, darling, the All Aboard Combo are delighted you’ll be sitting in on organ tonight.” Del cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I hope I didn’t ruin a little surprise for Mrs. Dovey.”

  “It’s Sashay, and yes, the surprise is a bit mouldy now,” said Rudee.

  “Oopsy! Oh, and Roberto the band leader wanted to ask to which repertoire ‘Stinkbomb Serenade’ and ‘Gateaux to Go’ belong.”

  Rudee was mulling an explanation when Del added, “Oh, and Madame d’Or, your willingness to tutor the On Deck Dance Club in the romance of the scarves is so greatly appreciated. They’ll be in Studio Swell in an hour, ready for you.” He glanced down at his clipboard. “Oh my, I have to scoot scoot scoot. Bonjournohhhhh.”

  “Well, well, well, ‘Studio Swell,’” said Rudee in a singsong voice that Mink would be proud of. But then something seemed to distract him and a dark expression took over.

  Sashay put her arm on Rudee’s shoulder. “What is it, mon amour?”

  “I’m worried about Mac. It should be me pointing thumbs, changing the trunk, unwrapping clues.”

  Sashay pouted in reply.

  “Don’t misunderstand, my love. I only want to be with you, but little Mac ... you don’t know those Marauders. They would curl the eyelashes on a crow.”

  Sashay eyed her new husband understandingly. “I know she’s young, but Mac is very strong and resourceful. Have you sent her a message lately?”

  “No, they must clam the cell phones during the rally.”

  “Why don’t we go to the Internet café and try to get some news. The rally will have started by now.”

  A news report on Paris TV of course involved the ever-present Louise, and more speculation on the art thefts, since there was nothing concrete to report. She soon moved on.

  “In other news, the Partypoppers from Paris got off to a less than stellar start on day one of the annual Rally de Taxi. I caught up, very briefly, with team leader François Caboche, or Dizzy as his road mates know him, while the team stopped in Arles at the end of the first stage.

  “‘Yes, Louise, it’s been very challenging, but what do you expect when the best cab drivers in France go head to head or bumper to bumper? As always, there were some unexpected impediments.’”

  “And how will the Partypoppers meet the challenge of, in particular, the team from Marseille?”

  While she posed her question, a visual of the funeral procession in Fos-sur-Mer was followed by the sight of one of the Bombes taxis blowing all four tires simultaneously on what looked like a blanket of nails stretched across a dip in the road outside of Arles. The other cabs could be seen skirting the scene on a dusty shoulder of the road.

  “Well, without giving away any squad secrets, let’s just say that we have some highly specialized foreign intelligence that is helping to guide us to another victory!” At this the other Parisian drivers could be seen behind Dizzy, cheering lustily.

  “Look, Sashay, there she is. It’s Mac and Blag.”

  Sashay curled her nose at the sight of them covered in dust. “I hope they have bathing breaks.”

  “Of course, ma cherie, a long lavender bath and a pedal massage for everyone.” Rudee laughed at his own absurdity, but obviously felt better having seen his friends. “Don’t you have the silky seminar soon?”

  “Ah, oui,” Sashay replied, eyelashes batting furiously, “allons-y. Let’s go.”

  Seventeen

  The Bordeaux Bombes cabs were bunched together at one side of the control point in Arles, across from the arena, and strangely, a celebration was taking place. Glasses were clinking and laughter rang out among the six Lestrade brothers.

  “Didn’t they just get eliminated?” I asked my crew.

  “Oui, when one of the cabs cannot reach the control point, the whole team is disqualified,” said Dizzy.

  “But why are they celeb
rating?”

  “Margot,” said Henri and Maurice at the same time.

  “That cute bed of nails trick was just a sample of her handiwork,” said Blag.

  The two-minute warning was issued, so we headed back to our cars to await the next clue. I tore it open while we waited our turn to leave.

  “Sur Le Pont we’ll rest a spell, Ignore the ‘I’ but pick the ‘L.’”

  “Sur Le Pont d’Avignon.”

  I’d heard Blag sing before, and it was a brutal experience. His roaring metal favourites sounded like Pavarotti compared to this assault on the ears. He seemed to instantly regret it. “Okay, that’s the next destination, but what’s the rest of that nonsense about?”

  I scoured the map for towns that began with an I or an L, but no luck. We were waiting for the other cabs to pull away from our checkpoint, the Arles arena, home to chariot races in the Roman era. It was a busy, touristy part of town with lots of cafés, and people continually tried to get into one of the row of cabs waiting for part two of the rally to begin. The Marauders, of course, drew first position again, and I watched as Margot pulled in front of the pack. Her son, Leo the navigator, kept looking behind them out the rear window, an odd tactic, I thought, until I realized that he was looking at me. He’d lost the eyepatch, I was glad to see, and he waved shyly at me. I saw Blag watching, so I didn’t wave back. Leo held his hands up and made signs for I, L, and U before taking off.

  “Hey kiddo, no time for daydreaming!” Blag was staring at me intensely.

  Oops. “Sorry, I was thinking.” I looked at the map, trying to understand the clue and Leo’s intention.

  “Well, I think I know what I L U means.”

  I blushed at Blag’s sarcasm. “Blag!” I then shouted as the map made sense. “The route from Arles to Avignon makes an I, but if you make a U turn and go via Nimes, it makes an L!”

  He didn’t need to look at the map. When it was our turn, he wheeled around and wove through the crowd of tourists with the rest of the Parisians right behind. “Good work, Nana. I guess you really were thinking. Ha!”

  We had drawn the number two position this time, with the Marauders in front of us and the Champagne Supernovas right behind. We all had the same idea, proceeding down rue de Refuge toward Nimes and eventually Avignon.

  “Hey, Blag, why don’t you sing the next part of the Avignon song for me.” I smiled at him.

  “Yeah, yeah. Very cute.” But I could see him fighting back a laugh.

  Eight roundabouts, seven sidewalk cafés, six dogs sleeping in the shade, five tiny cemeteries, four girls on bicycles with baguettes in their baskets, three French hens, two games of boules, and one Roman aqueduct later, we were there.

  Eighteen

  Quelle surprise. The Maurauders were still ahead and were positioned to lead off the third leg of the rally from the parking lot beside the Pont d’Avignon. The famous bridge extended out into the water but didn’t actually go anywhere. I hoped it wasn’t symbolic of our rally efforts. Seeing how easily the Bordeaux Bombes had been eliminated reminded me that every choice was important, so I pored over the newest clue.

  If you find what marks the spot, try to get there on the dot.

  It seemed so simple, but so elusive. Then it hit me. “X marks the spot” was the oldest clue in the book, dating back to pirate treasure maps, but in this case it referred to a place.

  “Blag, I think X in this case refers to Aix, as in Aix-en-Provence!”

  “Solid work, Yankee navigator,” he said with a grin, “and ‘on the dot’ means that timing is essential, of course.”

  We high-fived, feeling very confident, and were exchanging favourite Rudee-isms when we hit a slowdown outside the Avignon city limits. Just ahead, a cop car with his lights flashing was blocking the right lane. A very tanned officer in rock star sunglasses and a handlebar moustache was standing in front of his car, and we watched as he waved Margot and her teammates through. He was chowing down on a local delicacy, the Boom Burger, as he held up a hand and stopped us when we got close. Something about him was familiar and weird at the same time.

  “License and vehicle registration,” he said through a mouthful. Blag handed him the papers wordlessly.

  “This is a Parisian taxi. You need a supplemental permit to operate in Provence.”

  “We’re on a rally, I’m not working as a taxi.”

  “Hmmm, and your passenger is in the front seat; that’s a violation. And excuse me, mademoiselle, may I see that bracelet you’re wearing.”

  What was it about him? I handed over Penelope’s safety pin bracelet.

  “She’s my navigator, not a passenger,” said Blag tensely.

  “Well, monsieur, she’s not driving, so here we call her a passenger.” He smirked, and a bit of pickle that had been trapped in his moustache found its way onto his shirt.

  “Here I call that ridiculous,” said Blag, not hiding his impatience.

  “Blag,” I whispered, “he’s looking for reasons to hold us up, let’s not help him.”

  “Ridiculous, eh? Please wait in the car.” The cop grinned at me with mustard between his teeth. He returned to his car with the papers. Many minutes later, with the time ticking by, he returned with another Boom Burger in hand and gave me back the bracelet, covered in grease. He looked at Blag. “Step out of the car, please.”

  Blag got out, fuming, and I was starting to worry about what he’d do if he lost his cool completely. He stood very close to the officer and covered him in shadow with his hulking frame.

  The cop was busily writing up a ticket when he noticed something in our car. “What’s that?” He pointed with his glove at the figures on the dashboard. Blag was confused and steaming. “Is that a Viking action figure?” Blag was speechless as I noticed a price tag on the officer’s hat.

  “Vikings are illegal in France.” The cop put a glove in front of his face, belched, and seemed to stifle a laugh. “They’re considered terrorists.” Blag’s lip began quivering as more precious time went by. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate Eric the Red.” He reached for the figure and Blag snapped.

  “Don’t touch that barbarian, buddy. And it’s Leif Eriksson.”

  I squinted and read the cop’s badge as he leaned in the car: “Playtime Police.”

  “Stand back!” he shouted, and pulled out his gun. Blag froze as the cop emptied his water pistol on us, howling. He raced to his car, and as he drove off he tossed his moustache, with a chunk of tomato in it, on the road. As we pulled away, I spotted one of the Marauders’ cars beside a roundabout with a pair of grizzled competitors collapsing in laughter when they saw us.

  For the rest of the drive to Aix, Blag barely spoke. I knew he was concentrating on trying to make up the time we had lost, but the incident with the “Playtime Police” gnawed at him and I think he was contemplating revenge. On whom, I wasn’t sure. I tried to cheer him up by playing his favourite music, Malade, Bloodjun, and the first album by Tonnage, the one before they sold out, as Blag had informed me, but he didn’t so much as keep time on the steering wheel.

  Nineteen

  One by one, with the gentlest touch, he took the Matisse, the Miro, the Picasso, and the Léger down from the walls of the dining room of La Colombe d’Or. The tables were being rearranged and decorated to prepare for the fête de taxi taking place in the evening at the end of day one of the rally.

  “Merci, Raoul,” said Roux, the family proprietor of the legendary inn. “How was your little trip to Paris?”

  “Mon plaisir, Monsieur Roux. It was brief but I believe I accomplished what I needed to. And I should be thanking you. It’s an honour to be caring for one of the finest private collections of art in the country.”

  “The knowledge you’ve brought since coming here, as a former director of the Louvre, is incomparable. The family is grateful. By the way, did you see the interview with the ‘art attack’ thief? What a madman. You must find his actions despicable, as I do.”

  Raoul
clenched his teeth silently and looked away from his patron. “I agree that his methods are ... unconventional, but I must admit to some sympathy with his thoughts on the appreciation of art.”

  “Hmmm, I suppose,” said Roux, sounding dubious. “I was certainly surprised when he mentioned our little collection in such a glowing light. I still think he’s a lunatic.”

  Raoul swallowed his reply and bent over to gently lift a Miro from the floor.

  “I’m taking these pieces to the wine cellar where they’ll be safe while I clean the frames and glass. With all the activity today I don’t want to run the risk of an encounter with an errant broom handle or a slippery ladder while someone is replacing a bulb.” He arched a brow knowingly and Roux nodded. He regarded the work with admiration. “I know this is a special night and there will be a room full of honoured guests and, of course, inevitably, the press covering the rally de taxi.” As casually as possible, he added, “I understand they’re a unique group this year, including an American teenager, or so they said on the news.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t say,” said Roux distractedly. “The preparations for tonight have taken all my time and attention. I hope it’s worth it, given the unsavoury look of some of these competitors and their supporters. Speaking of them and the wine cellar, let’s be sure the bar is well stocked. I think it will be a very busy place.”

  “No doubt.” Raoul flashed a special smile for Matisse’s elegant sketch of a woman as he carried her down the stone steps behind the bar. At the end of rows of bottles, he looked back to be certain he was alone before opening the brick facade into his secret apartment. He carefully eased the sketch in behind him and sealed the door, returning minutes later with an identical Matisse. Or nearly identical.

  The road signs indicated that we were approaching Aix-en-Provence. It had been a slow, quiet two hours, but it looked like our timing was good, as long as nothing else got in the way. At the point where the highway gave way to the local road, there was a large detour sign, diverting us to the south and away from Aix. Blag slowed and looked over at me, obviously suspicious as a cab approached quickly from behind. Anatole Belmondo of the Supernovas raced past a hesitant Blag and blew us a kiss. The other two Champagne cabs followed closely behind as Dizzy and Maurice pulled in behind Blag.