“And I think I’ll be needing my Italian friend as well,” he said, while delicately rolling up Mona Lisa and easing her into the hollow of his cane.
“Is that how you managed to remove her from the Louvre?” I asked.
He responded with a superior smile.
“And as the museum director, you would have had unique access,” said Leo, almost admiringly.
“Some diversions were required, but yes, I am probably the only person in the world who could have pulled this off. I know some things about the art of disguise as well.” Here he pretended to be a much older man, giving me a chill as I recalled my experience with the gatekeeper at Père Lachaise.
“Where will you go?” I asked innocently.
DeFaux eyed me with suspicion, then shrugged. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, is there? I have friends; more people than you might imagine are quite sympathetic to my work and have gladly offered their assistance. One of your rally taxi drivers, in fact, is taking me to Marseille, and from there I have secured a hideaway for the evening before an unscheduled night flight to Tahiti. Gaugin documented it beautifully, and I’ve always wanted to see it firsthand. As it happens, the extradition agreements with France are shaky at best, so I should be able to remain in this island paradise as a guest for some time. And besides, who will come after me, knowing that Mona could disappear forever should my safety be threatened in any way?”
“You would really destroy the most famous painting in the world to get what you want?” Leo sounded incredulous.
“I think he would,” I said, disgusted. DeFaux offered only a reptilian smile in response.
“Ah, but I have a party awaiting me and I’m guessing that you two haven’t heard. There’s talk of cancelling the last day of the rally de taxi, or at least shortening it, due to the big storm. But you will be safe and far from all that here in my apartment. Feel free to use the TV and the fridge, but I would appreciate it if you would leave my Armagnac untouched. Sadly, I have no Orangina.”
He didn’t look sad as he made a swift exit, leaving Leo and I staring at each other, wondering What now?
Twenty-Three
Tireless rain flung itself on tiny Saint-Paul de Vence, along with the rest of Provence, turning roads into rivers, washing wildly over windows, and soaking every living thing that ventured out underneath the sky. Shopping, visiting, and games of boules were left for another day. Steady streams ran off the colourful tile roof of La Colombe d’Or and into the empty courtyard onto tables and between cracks in the concrete, sending wayward leaves rushing over soaked walkways, past bowing bushes in drenched winter gardens. Rain rolled into doorways, seeking any tiny opening. It dripped from trees and lampposts, drummed on car roofs, and danced in fountains.
Blag came into the bar of La Colombe d’Or and shook himself off like a bull terrier with a bad attitude. He looked at Dizzy and shook his head. Dizzy peered out of a drenched window and heaved a mighty sigh.
“But where would she go?” he said. Around the table his fellow Partypoppers sat subdued and silent. Across the room the Marauders chewed on their coffee, playing a half-hearted game of Belotte. Margot looked up when Blag entered, a stormy expression on her face. Behind the bar, DeFaux fired up the espresso machine once more and turned to the grumpy patrons.
“Do you mean the American girl with the ponytail?” he asked innocently.
All eyes from the Partypoppers table swung towards him. “Mac,” said Blag, “her name is Mac. What about her?”
DeFaux swallowed audibly and worked up a feeble smile. “Oui, Mac, of course. She was with the young man with the curly hair; I believe he was carrying a guitar.”
Margot pushed her table aside, sending croissants airborne. “Leo. His name is Leo. What about him?”
She approached the bar alongside Blag, and DeFaux visibly trembled. With good reason. It was like having an angry brick wall walking toward you.
“Leo, bien sûr, Leo. Well, I saw them this morning, earlier, while I was setting up.”
Margot and Blag, shoulder to shoulder, pressed against the bar as DeFaux shrank.
“They took one of the hotel umbrellas and headed into the street. Perhaps they were going up the hill to the magnificent Maeght gallery to view the splendid outdoor Miro sculpture garden.” He shrugged.
Blag’s eyes bore into DeFaux. “Are you sure?” he growled.
DeFaux’s upper lip revealed a fine layer of sweat and quivered slightly.
“Sculpture?” spat Margot. “In a rainstorm?” Her eyes widened and her brow developed a furrow you could hide a roast chicken in. “With a rally to win?”
DeFaux’s mouth smacked drily as he cleared his throat. “They were ... holding hands.”
Blag’s eyes closed momentarily and he shook his head slowly before turning back to the Partypoppers with an expression of bemused disgust. Margot snorted and shook.
“I’m going to turn my little Casanova’s guitar into toothpicks for this.”
A much-relieved DeFaux, with the focus off of him, let out a long breath and shrugged modestly.
At this moment, two local taxi rally officials entered the bar, drenched and shivering. DeFaux slithered over with a pair of espressos, which were gratefully accepted. Drivers on both teams eagerly awaited a rally update. A tall, pompous judge removed his raincoat and hat, downed his coffee, and cleared his throat.
“With all due respect for the time-honoured traditions of the taxi rally, it has been concluded by the local members of the Federation, after considerable deliberation …” he paused dramatically, allowing time for the second official, a sharp-nosed young woman with a permanently arched brow, to interject.
“We decided over coffee.”
A miffed expression accompanied the first judge’s next pronouncement. “That this year’s rally must, in light of the unforeseen, and may I stress, unfortunate meteorological conditions and their impact on the planned route …” He paused again.
“It’s raining,” his partner interjected, and when he showed his displeasure, added, “a lot.”
“That the rally should be adjusted to embody but a single leg, reducing the final portion of this legendary event to its most practical configuration.” He paused to allow time for full appreciation of his vocabulary, mistakenly, since the drivers seemed perplexed.
“You’re going straight to Marseille, dudes,” his partner jumped in.
The room exploded with questions, complaints, outrage, and confusion.
In the tiny apartment below the hotel, there was no evidence of rain, no talk of rallies or splendid outdoor sculpture.
“How long have we been here?” I yawned as I adjusted my position on DeFaux’s tiny, perfect sofa one more time and looked over at Leo, who was strumming his guitar quietly with his hair hanging over the strings. He really is very cute, I thought as he looked up sleepily.
“No idea, Mac,” he said. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Not really, you?”
“Not much. I guess we should reconsider the idea that we’re going to be rescued from here.”
“What’s the alternative?” I asked, wandering over to look again in wonder at Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles. “Do you think those are family members on the wall in his room?” Leo seemed to be deep in thought. “I wonder what he saw when he looked out the window.” Still no response. “I wonder if he wore a watch.” He looked like he was far away. I couldn’t blame him; that was where I would have liked to be. “Hard to imagine Van Gogh with jewellery, even if they had invented ...”
Leo stood up suddenly. “What’s that on your wrist?”
“Penelope, my best friend, thinks I’m stylistically challenged —”
“Yes, of course, but what is it?”
I ignored the “yes, of course” but might have replied a little sarcastically when I said, “In America we call it a bracelet, why?”
“Does it come apart?”
“Not if I want to still have a best friend when I
get home, assuming we’re not spending the rest of our natural lives in an apartment in a wine cellar.”
“Let me see.” He practically wrenched it off my wrist. “Sorry, I have an inspiration,” he said. I figured it wasn’t a new song idea. To my horror he rapidly undid the elaborate pattern of safety pins and began to straighten them out and bind them together into something weird ... that almost resembled ... a key!
“Nice work, Leo!” I said minutes later, so happy to be feeling my way in the darkness of the wine cellar once again. “Any chance you could put that back together once we take care of solving France’s greatest art theft?”
“I don’t think so.” He smiled as we emerged blinking into the grey Provence morning.
It took me a minute to realize that it was far too quiet. There was no one around, no one in the hotel bar, no one in the street outside La Colombe d’Or. The rain had washed away everything in its path and the whole town looked soggy. Just outside the gate to the town, we saw one person, a mailman with an umbrella and huge rubber boots.
“They all went to the start of the rally in the square but probably ducked into the bars and cafés when it started pouring again.”
“But what about the people from the hotel?” I asked.
He looked at his watch. “Siesta time, I think.” He gave a small-town shrug. “Oh, except for the new man, the bartender who looks after the art.” Leo and I were about to continue on into town but paused. “I saw him getting into a silver car with bubbles painted on the side. You don’t see that every day in Saint-Paul.”
We both must have looked mystified. “What direction did he go, did you notice?” I asked, trying to conceal the urgency in my voice.
“I’m a mailman, of course I noticed. They took the road toward Nice, not twenty minutes ago. Of course, you’d take the same route if you were going to Antibes or Juan-les-Pins, for that matter, or even Marseille, eventually. Now, there are alternatives where Marseille —”
“Thanks.” Leo and I looked at each other and started back toward La Colombe d’Or.
“What are you two doing outside anyway? You’ll catch your death.” I guess every adult in the world is required at some point to say that to a kid who is willingly walking in the rain.
As we passed the Café de la Place, Leo spotted an ancient motorcycle with a sidecar parked outside. It was rusted and looked like it was held together with Scotch tape. Inside, the town gendarme sat at the bar with his head resting on his hands, snoring so loudly we could hear him in the square. The other patrons ignored him. Leo smiled devilishly at me and began to quietly roll the motorcycle away from the café. I looked back nervously as he said, “I think I’ve just figured out how we’re going to track down DeFaux.”
“Can you drive this thing?” I asked, not unreasonably.
“Maybe. But you’re definitely the superior navigator,” he said, handing me an equally ancient helmet from inside the sidecar that reminded me of my grandpa’s football team pictures.
“This is going to play havoc with my hair,” I said jokingly, putting on the bulky helmet.
“Pas de problème, Mac. You look merveilleuse!”
I like the sound of merveilleuse, I thought.
He kicked it into gear and the old bucket of bolts responded admirably. I looked back at the gendarme sleeping at the bar. He raised his head briefly but then went back to sleep as if this happened every day.
“I think we better head straight for Marseille,” I shouted over the engine noise. “And I’m going to text Rudee so he can alert Inspector Magritte about DeFaux’s plan.” Leo nodded and we shot out of Saint-Paul de Vence toward Nice.
Twenty-Four
Rudee sat in the ship’s lounge, nervously waiting for news of the taxi rally. “All I hear is flapping about the art surgeon and his manifarto,” he grumbled to himself.
“And in other news,” said Louise Lafontaine, the brightest media star in the country now thanks to her exclusive interview with the art attack perpetrator, “the annual taxi rally seems to be winding down in disappointing fashion for all concerned. Two teams were eliminated early due to some bizarre road conditions.” Behind her the screen showed footage of the Champagne Supernovas walking away from the fog incident, looking stunned.
“Margot,” muttered Rudee, “this has her footprints written all over it.”
“Only the Partypoppers from Paris, last year’s winners, and the Marauders, the host team from Marseille who are heavily favoured to win, remain in the competition, which for the first time has been shortened to one single leg on the last day due to the heavy rains in the south.” A shot of Margot and Blag eyeballing each other in a threatening manner came up on the screen as Louise continued. “In a final twist, two of the drivers, one from each team, will be competing solo after their navigators have gone missing.” She then looked relieved to abandon this now very minor story. “But back once again to the major story we’re following.” She gave her mane a meaningful toss and returned to her beloved art attack saga.
Rudee sat transfixed in front of the ship’s tiny TV, as if hoping he had misheard. “Mac!” The name burst from his lips as he jumped up and raced off in search of Sashay. He found her minutes later in a dance studio with a group of wannabe scarf dancers, all twirling awkwardly, some looking decidedly dizzy but clearly enjoying the lesson.
“Sashay,” Rudee began, out of breath, “it’s Mac, they say she is missing and the rain has shrunk the rally and I knew those Marauders would fog up the road and so we have to do something.”
“Rudee, slow down, mon amour.”
Sashay excused herself from class and led Rudee to the ship’s deck, where he explained everything. At that moment a message appeared on his phone.
Rudee tell Magritte the art attacker has Mona going to Marseille.
“It’s Mac,” Rudee said excitedly. R u k? he replied.
Yes with Leo. Gotta go.
Rudee looked stunned and handed his phone to Sashay.
“Rudee, Mac says she’s okay. Can you call Magritte?”
“We have to see the captain.” He grabbed Sashay’s hand and they raced toward the bridge. “I’m sorry, my love, but Monaco must hold itself. We have to go to Marseille, right away.”
“Who’s Leo?” said Sashay, but Rudee was flying past a group of wrinkled sunbathers on deck. In the captain’s plush quarters, Rudee sputtered out a request to have the ship head for Marseille instead of Monaco because of Margot Mallard and her “dirty magic,” as Rudee referred to it.
“Mr. Daru, if it was a medical emergency, we would go to the nearest port; and of course, we have doctors on board. But I just can’t authorize a change of course of this sort for a ... what is it, a taxi rally?” The captain was offering his best “there, there” tone while trying to placate a severely agitated Rudee. “I’m sure the authorities have the art attack crime completely under control, and it’s hard for me to see what diverting a cruise ship could possibly accomplish. I certainly can authorize you to use our phone to call your friend on the police force. Free of charge, of course.” The captain directed a greasy corporate smile at Sashay. “And may I say, Madame d’Or, that your dance of the scarves at last night’s show was charming and unforgettable.”
Magritte was attentive as Rudee tried to engage his friend in the idea of a rescue mission, “Oui, Rudee, we have been completely immersed in this most obnoxious crime. There was a recent theft of canvas reported from a factory in Bourgogne that supplies a small but significant art school in Beaune, but it turned out to be a calculation issue with an inventory taken during the release of this year’s Pouilly Fuisse wine, which from all accounts is shaping up to be a banner year for the wonderfully crisp white.”
Rudee was as perplexed as ever by Magritte’s ruminations. “But Magritte, Mac said Mona was going to Marseille.”
“Hmmm,” said Magritte, “perhaps a reference to ‘Mona from Marseille,’ one of the great French chanteur Maurice Chevalier’s most romantic numbers. In
fact, if I recall correctly, there was an outstanding version recorded live at the Olympia Theatre that I really must seek out for my next dinner soirée. Rudee, leave it with me, if you don’t mind. I have to examine some graffiti on the underside of the Pont Neuf that could be germane to this nagging art attack business.”
Rudee hung up, exasperated. “Sashay, this cannot be swept under the floorboards. We have to do something.”
“But Rudee, why don’t we just enjoy the last day of our honeymoon and let Magritte do what he does best?”
“You mean talk in squares and burrow his brow?” Rudee said, shaking. “Come with me, my darling, we have a rescue to operate.”
Twenty-Five
Leo apparently did have a pretty good idea of how to drive an antique motorcycle, and despite the occasional bout of terror as we careened through small towns on the way or bounced over potholes left over from the Roman Empire, I actually found the whole thing thrilling. Leo’s curls flew from the sides of his helmet and every once in a while he’d look over to be sure I was alright, flashing me that shy French smile I’d heard Penelope refer to. I had no idea how far ahead DeFaux and his collaborator were but I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be taking the scenic route to Marseille. We had just passed through the town of Vidauban and the road was clear straight ahead, but then I spotted a gathering of familiar faces on the shoulder of the road. We zoomed by them and I took a quick look over as we passed. Blag! Dizzy! Margot! Margot?
I waved at Leo and got his attention, and he pulled onto the shoulder. We swung back and pulled up on the roadside. All six remaining rally cars were up to their mirrors in mud and were clearly going nowhere. Dizzy looked like he was seeing a ghost when I pulled off my ancient helmet and Margot almost seemed glad to see her wayward son. After a hasty welcome, they explained that they had been racing almost in tandem and simultaneously spotted a giant green apple in the centre of the road. I giggled but no one joined me. Apparently it was a big enough green apple that they had all been forced to brake suddenly and swerve to the right, into the sinkhole of mud. I mentioned the absence of the apple in question, but it seemed to be an article of faith among the six drivers. So I let it drop, reluctantly. Leo caught my eye and gave the smallest French purse of the lips.
The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle Page 23
