DeFaux now looked confused and angry, but not out of resources. He grabbed a paddle from the side of the boat and started working his way between the rocks that jutted out of the water and toward the harbour, which had appeared on the coast of the island. We weren’t bouncing as wildly now that we were almost into the harbour, and I felt Leo let go and then saw him slip into the icy waters. DeFaux was paddling furiously when a voice boomed out of the fog.
“Give up, Monsieur DeFaux, there’s nowhere to go!” Magritte! The inspector became visible, hanging on to a ladder that was being lowered from the helicopter hovering above us. He had his bowler hat and raincoat on and was carrying an umbrella, of course. I mean, you never know with the weather here, right?
DeFaux stopped paddling and looked up. He held his paddle aloft like he was going to swat away anything that approached from above. “Magritte, you bumbling fool, don’t you realize I have a hostage?”
He began paddling again and was making good progress toward the harbour. Who knew what might protect him once he got there, or even if anyone could land. I crawled toward the bow of the boat as it bounced on the waves in and around the rocky shoreline. Suddenly, DeFaux looked like he was being pulled into the water. Then I saw Leo’s head emerge and yank the paddle from DeFaux’s grasp. DeFaux looked stunned but quickly swung around and grabbed his cane. Magritte called out to him.
“DeFaux, she’s done you no harm. Except perhaps for some rather ill-considered comments during an impromptu TV interview that may have besmirched your reputation slightly, but which arguably are not entirely ...”
DeFaux yelled back, sounding exasperated, “Magritte, you raging windbag, what do I care about a child whose idea of art is taking pictures of herself on a portable phone? No, my hostage is far more valuable.” He unrolled Mona Lisa from inside the shaft of his cane and held her up in the air.
“Monsieur DeFaux — may I call you Raoul? — ignoring for the moment your rather callous mischaracterization of myself, in the name of all that is sacred to art lovers, please put this most glittering gem of Renaissance genius back inside your cane.” This was the most agitated I’d ever heard Magritte sound as he called out urgently through a megaphone from his perch on the ladder above the boat. “I have spoken with the minister of culture and he has agreed to arrange for an exhibit of your work at the Grand Palais in the spring. You can be completely involved in the mounting of the exhibition — of course, from the confines of a comfortably appointed prison apartment with the highest quality furnishings, a superior thread count on the bedding, and a generous supply of fine liquor.”
DeFaux seemed to hesitate at this suggestion but then threw his head back, laughing like a cartoon villain. “A most excellent attempt, Magritte, I must give you credit. But I know that will never happen, because I’m not going to prison. I’m going to follow my beautiful Mona to the bottom of the Mediterranean.”
At that moment, he cocked his arm back with Mona in hand and flung the world’s most famous painting into the air, destined for a home in the ocean. Magritte froze. Everything seemed to slip into slow motion.
“Noooo!” I shouted, as if that would slow down La Joconde’s progress into becoming only a memory. I threw off my sneakers, climbed up on the gunwale of the speedboat, and, checking hastily for looming rocks, I dove. I can swim, barely, but sometimes you have to forget that you might not be able to do something, not even giving fear time to form in your head, and just find that single purpose that hopefully will get you through the stupidest thing you could possibly do, given the circumstances. “Aaaaahhhhh,” I shouted when I hit the water, so cold I thought my head would explode. Then I saw her, caught in a momentary, blessed crosswind, held up for her last public viewing before entering an afterlife with the fishes. I pushed forward through an advancing wave and threw my hand upwards underneath her. I kept my hand aloft even as my arm ached with the effort until through the ocean spray I saw a ladder lowering rapidly and a hand reach down to take her from me. An arm wrapped itself around me and the rest becomes a bit blurry.
“I feel like I’m flying.”
I knew that voice! I looked up groggily and realized I was wrapped in tarpaulin on the deck of DeFaux’s boat. The crazy genius was nowhere to be seen, but Leo looked down at me with great concern. Magritte was still standing on the ladder hanging from the helicopter, admiring Mona Lisa with a magnifying glass, nodding contentedly. Just then another craft emerged from out of the fog, some kind of inflatable rescue boat with a bizarre paisley-patterned sail.
“Little Mac!”
I definitely knew that voice!
“For flying out cloud, are you alright?”
I waved at Rudee to let him know I was okay and then realized that it was Sashay’s scarf that was the sail. She was standing, arms outstretched Titanic-like at the bow, smiling at me.
“Leeeeeeooohhhh!” A bellowing foghorn voice cut through the mist and Margot Mallard emerged, standing at the front of a slow-moving barge. “Where’s my beautiful boy?” she called out, sounding stricken.
“Right here, Maman,” Leo answered. Then I saw Blag at the rear, navigating the barge through the fog, which was starting to lift slightly. He grinned at me, and I’d never seen him look so happy.
“Nice work, shortie. I knew you could roll with the punches.”
I waved at him and he gave me a thumbs-up. “Where’s that goat-bearded nutcase gotten to?”
“He dove into the water right after he threw the painting,” said Leo.
“Don’t worry about him,” I said, “Is Mona okay?”
“High and dry. Hey, Rudee,” called Blag, “have you got an inner tube on that rig?”
“Sure, Blag,” said Rudee, grinning, “with a long rope for some ocean rodeo!”
“Cool,” said Blag. “Why don’t you two join me and Margot on the barge, and Sashay, bring your sail.”
Magritte climbed back into the helicopter with his precious cargo and Dizzy popped his head out of the chopper door.
“Hang on, superstar, I’m coming down to take you two back to the harbour.”
A short while later, Leo and I sat huddled under blankets on a dock in the Marseille harbour, drinking chocolat chaud and waiting for the others to return.
“Better than Orangina?” I asked Leo.
“Mmm, absolument,” he said and put his arm around my shivering shoulders. I suddenly forgot about being cold.
It was a strange sight, one that would have been very hard to explain if you didn’t know the events that led up to the moment. DeFaux, wrapped in Sashay’s paisley scarf, and secured in a red lifebuoy, was suspended in a heavy-duty fishing net from a hoist attached to the rear of the barge that Margot and Blag had commandeered. Blag was at the wheel, singing an extremely off-key duet of “Pain Hurts” with Rudee while Margot stood at the bow, proudly holding a fishing rod at her side. DeFaux looked as glum as might be expected, and I’m sure his mood wasn’t improved by the tiny crabs nestled into his goatee. I guess that’s what happens when you mess with Mona!
Twenty-Seven
The crowd assembled in the square in Marseille, where it was mercifully warmer than it had been at the time of the launch of the Rally de Taxi two days earlier. Was it really two days ago? It felt like a half a lifetime to me. Leo and I sat beside Margot and Blag in a row with the other Partypoppers and Marauders drivers as the grandmaster hauled himself up onto the podium. The crowd, knowing what was to come, was subdued in its reaction, unlike the one at the launch of the event.
“How do you spell bogus?” muttered Blag to no one in particular.
“Congratulations to this year’s winner of the Rally de Taxi, the Champagne Supernovas. To accept the award, here is their captain, Anatole Belmondo.”
Holding a bottle of bubbly in the air and waving to his group of loyal followers, Belmondo milked the moment, bowing, accepting bouquets of roses and tossing his sunglasses into the crowd like a rock star with a bad tan job.
“I’d like to p
ut a tarantula in his pudding,” said Margot.
Leo gave me an eyebrow signal and we quietly slipped away while Margot, Blag, and the other drivers expressed their discontent with the Supernovas’ victory.
“So, Maman is very curious as to how you managed to get to Saint-Paul de Vence after being so far behind in the race on day one,” said Leo with a sly smile.
“Ahh, oui, a good question,” I replied, “but of course, you’ll understand if our shortcut remains a little team secret of the Partypoppers.”
“Of course, Mac.”
“And the herd of sheep blocking the road,” I looked questioningly at him, “merely a random event favouring the mighty Marauders, I suppose?”
“Hmmm,” he hummed contemplatively, “very difficult to say. Sheep are such unpredictable creatures, you know.”
“Yes, I imagine. And that freak fog that derailed the Supernovas ... who could have foreseen that?”
“Truly bizarre, I agree,” he replied thoughtfully. “And what could be harder to forecast than the weather in the south of France?”
“And just for the record, how did you get underneath the tarp on DeFaux’s boat?”
Leo smiled. “I wasn’t going to let that cretin make off with you just after we’d met. When he saw you in the boat, he slowed ever so slightly and I grabbed a rope dangling in the water. And when you made your grab for his cane, I hauled myself out of the water and under the tarp.”
“Well, I’m very glad you did.” I sounded so awkward. “And thank you.”
Leo pushed his curls out of his eyes and looked at me without saying anything for a long time. “When you cut that fuel line with your friend’s bracelet ... you were my hero, Mac.”
I looked everywhere but back at Leo. Then he took my hand and kissed it.
“You know, there’s a big party tonight to celebrate catching the art attacker. And you’re the guest of honour, Mac.”
What would I tell Penelope?
The Bar de la Marine was the scene of the traditional party to wrap up the Rally de Taxi, and this year’s event was huge, given the national focus on the art attacker. DeFaux had been dispatched to a local jail, awaiting transportation to Paris in the morning. I almost felt sorry for him, having to get by in some damp, grubby quarters in a Marseille police station without his beloved Louis the Sixteenth furniture and his fancy booze, but I soon let that thought go as the party got underway. The TV lights shone brightest on the supposed rally victor.
“Monsieur Belmondo …” Louise was once again interested in the results of the rally, a little too interested, I thought. “Your victory was, to say the least, unconventional. How did it come about?”
Belmondo shrugged with false humility. “What can I say, Louise, sometimes destiny takes over and leads us to places we dared not imagine. Like here. Tonight. And for me, just to be speaking with you.”
Louise fluttered her eyelashes but tried to maintain her professional demeanour.
“But Monsieur Belmondo, your team appeared to have been eliminated from the rally and then, voilà! You were the winners. Quite a turnaround, non?”
“I must express my utmost respect for the drivers from the Bordeaux Bombes, the Parisian Partypoppers, and the mighty Marseille Marauders, who somehow fell just shy of achieving victory. I also offer my eternal gratitude to my spiritual advisor, Dr. Etienne Brouillard, who unfortunately could not be here tonight to share this moment of glory due to a previous commitment at an all-you-can-eat fois gras festival in Alsace.”
Louise seemed to find this fascinating as Belmondo winningly ran his hands through his hair.
“More on this incredible victory later, but back to you, Stephane.”
Louise turned away from the camera and stood very close to Belmondo, who was clearly enjoying his moment of glory.
“You know, Monsieur Bel ... may I call you Anatole, I love your team uniform, and the helmet with the bubbles says so much about the man wearing it, if I may be so bold.”
“Perhaps we could rendezvous a little later, Louise,” Belmondo cooed. “You know, I’ve always enjoyed your news reports for so much more than just the news. Your smile, and perhaps especially, your hair….”
At this point Louise noticed that the camera light was still on and hastily made a the “cut” sign with her hand on her throat, too late, unfortunately. The nation had observed the previous exchange.
Margot and Blag were watching this on the TV at the bar and clinking glasses, laughing raucously. Just then there was a commotion as a pair of gendarmes escorted Magritte into the bar with much pomp, accompanied by my parents!
How much did they know? I saw my mom’s beaming expression. Not much, it would seem.
Mom rushed over and embraced me, giving me little Parisian air kisses. When my mom commits to a cultural experience, she goes all the way.
“Bonjour, ma petite,” my dad jovially called out, although it sounded more like “banjo appetite.” Fortunately, I was used to auto-correcting Rudee, so this was no problem.
“We had to surprise you, Mac,” said my mom, holding my shoulders in that “look how you’ve grown” style. Well, it had been a whole two days since I’d seem them. “When we saw the gorgeous view from the train of the south of France I was so jealous of you cruising through the countryside, letting the breeze blow through your hair, stopping for Camembert and a baguette and chatting in your perfect French with the locals.”
“Well, it was kind of like that, Mom. Although I think that baguettes may be out of season. But definitely lots of breeze.” I thought about my ride in the motorcycle sidecar.
“And the fog in the harbour looks so mystical, doesn’t it, sweetie?” My dad gave me his best dad hug, this time with a look of sympathy. “Sorry you guys didn’t win the rally. I guess the competition was pretty tough.” He grinned and nodded toward Belmondo, who was taking a victory lap of the room.
The din level was building when a squawk of feedback got everyone’s attention.
“Allo, merry crackers!” Who else? Rudee grabbed a microphone on a tiny stage with a little keyboard. “Congratulations to the bubbleheads on their victory in the taxi rally.” Was this meant to be sarcastic? “But next year, watch out for the Partypoppers zooming to victory!” A roar went up from the Paris contingent and was met with an equally enthusiastic “Noooo!” from the Marauders camp, joined by their local supporters. Musical instruments appeared and The Hacks assembled on the crowded stage. In the midst of the mayhem, Magritte approached me and extended his hand.
“You have, once again, Mademoiselle Mac, my gratitude, and indeed that of the art-loving populace, who when faced with the drabness of daily existence, look to the timeless works of the creative spirit that lives within all of us, but finds its fullest flowering ...”
I hope Magritte didn’t see my eyes glazing over. It was pretty dark in the Bar de la Marine.
“I’m sure you understand why, for security reasons, your most considerable contributions to the apprehension of the art attacker must remain unrecognized publicly.”
“Of course, Inspector Magritte,” I said. “I just did what any kid would do.”
Magritte smiled and extracted a small box from his raincoat. Tipping his bowler hat to me, he silently handed me the box. I looked around, and since no one seemed to be taking note of our little exchange, I opened the box and there was the Stella mini Fossil watch that had appeared on Mona Lisa’s wrist.
“It was among DeFaux’s effects,” said Magritte, “and it would just collect dust in a police evidence locker. That seemed like a waste of a good timepiece.”
I knew where this souvenir would be going. “Merci, Monsieur Magritte.”
A boisterous cheer went through the crowd as my dad joined The Hacks for one of their signature songs. I think it was “Onion Heart” but it just as easily might have been “Stinkbomb Serenade.” Then I saw an unfortunate sight. A group of drivers from all the teams was standing in a circle clapping as my mom and Dizzy did the tre
e dance that I’d witnessed at Sashay and Rudee’s wedding party. Why is it that every day for parents is just one more opportunity for victory in the embarrassment Olympics? I slipped out into the street, where I encountered Leo, leaning against a taxi and strumming his guitar in the cool evening air.
“I wondered where you’d gotten to,” I said.
“Too much fun for me in there.”
“What were you playing?”
“Nothing much. I’m always working on something new.” He strummed distractedly and I wondered how he could see what he was doing with those curls falling into his eyes.
“Well, I have to go home tomorrow. It would be nice to hear one farewell song.”
He hesitated and then shrugged and began to play and sing. I remember the opening line.
“There’s a girl from California …”
And the rest is a bit hazy.
Twenty-Eight
“Happy birthday, Penelope. Sorry I missed the party.”
“So Mona Lisa actually wore this watch?” Penelope, obviously pleased with her new acquisition, admired the Stella mini Fossil on her wrist.
“Not actually, of course, but yes, sort of.”
“Well, I suppose this makes up for the destruction of a perfectly good safety pin bracelet,” she smiled and added, “and besides, Gerald and I are on the outs so a bit of its lustre is gone.”
“Sorry to hear,” I said, a bit distractedly, playing with my nautical friendship bracelet. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me, Mac,” said Penelope, her eyes narrowing suspiciously, “and I wonder what really happened on the road to Marseille.”
The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle Page 25
