“Henri has been looking for you, Madame. I think he wishes to check that his choice of music is acceptable,” she said. Maximilian saw Minette take in the other woman’s gown and move to hide her own. All the excitement had drained from her face. Maximilian tried to miaow his “I think you will look lovely” miaow, but found that he had sunk so far into the cushion that it was rather difficult to lift his head up. All that came out was a rather garbled “mrowl” that made Sylvia look at him in alarm. Really, he was not managing to look his best on this trip, and in such elegant surroundings as well!
He decided to go and explore the side of the stage. It was one of his favourite places in the Theatre Royal back in London. He would perch on the stage manager’s table and watch as the talented crew turned the theatre’s stage into a night-time woodland or a haunted castle or even the depths of the sea. He had lived at the Theatre Royal for over a year now, but it still seemed magical to him. The wings of the Opéra Musique were bigger than the Theatre Royal’s, but instead of being crammed to bursting with set and props they held only four tables. On three of them was a water bottle and a glass. The fourth held several bottles, a huge woollen muffler and a silver frame with a picture of a handsome and beaming young man holding a large glass trophy. Maximilian jumped on to the table to investigate, but there were no clues as to who the young man in the photo was. He peered at the trophy, but it was no use. Maximilian, unlike Oscar, had never learned to read.
“Get down off there!” snapped a voice behind him. Maximilian wheeled round and came face to face with the young man in the photo. He had a very smooth face and, if he had been a cat, Maximilian would have sworn that he spent a good part of his day grooming that lustrous hair of his. It lay perfectly flat and shining against his head, not a hair out of place.
Maximilian leapt to the floor, slightly embarrassed at having been caught snooping. Today was just one embarrassment after another. The young man aimed a sly kick at him and swept to the table, where he checked everything, muttering in a high, whining voice about “disgusting cat hairs”.
“Ah, the famous Max,” said a deep, booming voice and a jovial-looking man with an enormous chest and at least four chins breezed into the wings. “Minette has been telling me all about you.” He folded himself over and pressed his face up to Maximilian’s. “Splendid,” he boomed. “Marvellous to have a cat around the place.”
“I disagree, Albert. Think of the fur, think of the mess,” said the woman in the sequins, coming up behind the man named Albert. She pronounced it “Al-bear”, which Maximilian assumed was the French fashion, though he was sure that Bert, the Theatre Royal’s stage manager, would declare it “silly and fancy, and what’s wrong with plain old Bert?”
Minette was the last to enter the wings. She had changed into her frock and, as Maximilian had thought, it looked delightful on her, the green a perfect colour for her auburn hair. He looked from Henri to Albert to Julienne to Minette. So these were the final contestants in “The Voice of Paris” competition. The four singers. Maximilian already knew which one he wanted to win.
Maximilian perched on the edge of the orchestra pit, watching the auditorium fill with excited concertgoers. The stalls and lower galleries sparkled with the beads of the ladies’ gowns and the jewels in their chic hairstyles. Up in the very highest circle, where the concert hall sold its cheaper seats, shop workers still in their crisp uniforms and women wrapped in woollen shawls craned their heads to see if they could spy anyone famous below. In front of the stage, just behind the conductor’s podium, was a small platform with three seats for the judges. A rather pinched-faced man in a very neatly fitted evening coat with a gardenia in his buttonhole was seated in one of them, leafing through a musical score and wrinkling his nose. From time to time he marked something in the score with a slim, crystal-topped pencil. After a few minutes, Madame Emerald joined him, dressed in a beautiful gown of pink silk. Maximilian waved his tail at her in greeting. He had spent a full half-hour on it and he was sure that it looked perfect. So long as no one covered him in soot or ribbons or smothered him with cushions, he was sure that he could show Paris what an elegant, sophisticated and modern cat looked like. Madame Emerald waved back at him, but the pinched-faced man’s nose creased with disgust and he turned to Madame and said something that made her frown.
If the judges were taking their places, then the concert would be starting soon. Maximilian sprang to the stage and nudged the curtain back with his paw, ready to take his place backstage. He took one final glance behind him at the concert hall, waiting for the magical expectant hush that always fell just before curtain up, and that is when he saw the woman from the café.
She was seated in a box near the edge of the stage with three companions, all of whom were crowded round her, handing her handkerchiefs and shaking their heads at one another in sympathy. The woman had a beaded shawl wrapped tightly around her and her eyes were puffy and red. Maximilian remembered the word she had uttered to her friend as she collapsed into a chair at the café, and he felt his tail tingle. He was vaguely aware of the final judge taking their seat, the conductor appearing at the side of the stage in a spotlight, the dimming of the lights and the hush of the audience, but he paid all this no attention. Instead he leapt to the floor and made his way out of the auditorium, towards the stairs that would lead to the dress circle.
Maximilian slipped into the box and tucked himself in the shadows at the back where he would not be seen. The concert had begun and a high soprano voice was filling the hall, the notes sparking in the air. It must be Julienne, thought Maximilian. He was rather disappointed to find that she was exceptionally talented, with a voice that could change in an instant from light trills that sent the notes bouncing round the hall to beautiful long phrases that swooped through the air. She held the whole audience spellbound.
The whole audience, that is, except for the woman from the café. Ignoring her friends, who seemed now to be trying to listen to the concert and whose glances to one another were notably less sympathetic than before, the woman was engrossed in a photograph that she held in trembling hands.
“This was taken only the other day,” the woman sobbed. “Look at how beautiful she is.”
The woman on her right rolled her eyes and put down the opera glasses she had been using to get a closer look at Julienne’s dress.
“I’m sure she’ll turn up, Monique,” she muttered. “Leave it to the police.”
The woman called Monique shook her head and let out another sob. “The police just said that it was the eleventh this month and they had more important things to worry about. Imagine! Eleven beautiful darlings kidnapped, and no one seems to care.” At this she burst into floods of tears and buried her face in her hands.
A woman in a rather drab mushroom frock took the photograph and passed her another handkerchief. “And you’ve no idea how they got her?” she asked.
“I went in to give her breakfast this morning and she was gone!” Monique wailed. “And it was her favourite. Salmon with cream. Oh, my poor baby girl!”
Maximilian frowned. It was clear that they were talking about a child, but salmon with cream sounded like a most peculiar breakfast for an infant. He ventured out of the shadows to try to get a look at the picture, but the woman in the mushroom dress was holding it in front of her. Only when she passed it back to Monique did he catch a glimpse of it. It was a photograph of a large cushion, plump and tasselled. On the cushion, alert and bright-eyed, staring into the camera for her portrait, was a sleek grey cat with a collar of square-cut diamonds.
Maximilian felt his fur standing on end. He dashed out of the box and headed towards the stage, his mind a whirl. A catnapper was at large. Eleven cats had already been taken, and from the sound of it the police had no interest in investigating. It would be up to Maximilian to save them. As he dashed through the door that led backstage he heard the audience erupt into applause. Julienne must have finished her programme. Maximilian reached the side of the sta
ge to find Oscar sat waiting for him.
“I came to apologise,” the black cat said. “I’m sorry I said you were sulking. You’ve missed Julienne. She was magnificent.”
“Never mind that,” gasped Maximilian, and quickly filled him in on everything he had learned in the box.
Maximilian and Oscar discussed the case all through the concert. While Henri sang cloying love songs they debated whether the cats had really been kidnapped or had simply wandered off. While Albert performed booming pieces about warrior gods they pondered how difficult it would be to kidnap a clever cat. Dogs, of course, were far less intelligent, which would make them easier to take, but a kidnapper would need to work hard to fool a cat.
Then Minette took to the stage and they stopped discussing the case altogether.
Minette stood in the middle of the stage in her simple green chiffon and wove a spell into the air around her. A beautiful low note hung in the air, pure and still, before climbing higher and turning into a wonderful run of staccato notes that swept downwards again to the captivated audience.
At the end of Minette’s programme of three songs there was a moment of silence as the audience took a deep breath and sighed as one. Then the whole concert hall broke into thunderous applause.
“We had better wait in Madame’s room for Sylvia and Agnes,” said Maximilian as the curtain swept across the stage.
They made their way up to the corridor where the dressing rooms were, past the room where Albert was reading the newspaper with his feet on his dressing table, past Julienne entertaining a group of friends and drinking champagne, past Henri smoothing yet more oil over his hair. As they rounded a corner near Madame Emerald’s room Maximilian saw a large woman in a voluminous black evening gown and beaded shawl walking away down the corridor.
Over her shoulder peeped the head of a grey cat with a collar of square-cut diamonds.
Maximilian sprang into action at once. With a cry of “Stop! Kidnap!” he dashed down the corridor. When he was a few cat-lengths away from the woman he leapt up and landed on her shoulder next to the grey cat. The woman shrieked and batted at Maximilian with one hand, clutching the grey cat with the other.
“I’m here to save you!” Maximilian hissed at the grey cat, hoping that French cats spoke Cat the same way that English cats did. “Wriggle free if you can.”
The grey cat looked more frightened of Maximilian than of its kidnapper and took a great swipe at Maximilian’s nose with its claws. The woman cried out again, then Maximilian heard Madame Emerald’s voice.
“Max! What on earth are you doing to Madame Belfourte?”
Madame Emerald, her face clouded with confusion, had arrived at the end of the corridor, together with the pinched-faced judge.
Maximilian hung from the woman’s shoulder, his claws snagging on her gauzy dress. He could feel a trickle of blood running down his nose and caking in his beautiful fur. Madame Emerald was staring at him with a look that most certainly did not say “what a heroic rescue you have achieved.” He began to feel rather foolish and, with a little miaow that was meant to say “clearly there has been a mistake and you are probably not a dastardly kidnapper”, he let go of the lady’s shoulder and dropped to the ground.
Madame Emerald hurried over and examined Madame Belfourte’s dress.
“Nothing torn, thank goodness, but I’m afraid your dressmaker will have to reset some of the beading. Honestly, Max, what on earth were you thinking?”
Maximilian looked at the ground. Nothing had gone right since he had arrived in Paris, and he had so wanted to appear suave and sophisticated. Oscar, he noted, was suddenly conveniently absent.
“I thought he was a kidnapper,” said Madame Belfourte. “There have been the most awful cases of kidnapping of beautiful cats like dear Peppi, you know; ten this month.” She had clearly not heard of the latest cat to go missing.
“Far too much fuss about nothing,” said the male judge. “It’s only cats, after all. Nasty creatures, leaving their fur everywhere. Paris’s houses will be better off without them.”
Max felt his hackles rising. He opened his mouth to give out his “cats are the noblest creatures in the world” miaow, but Madame Belfourte beat him to it.
“How could you say such a thing, Pierre!” she cried. “My Peppi is the most precious thing in my life. I think he should come into the dressing room with us. I don’t like to let him out of my sight with that terrible villain on the loose.”
“Oh, Peppi will be quite safe with Max,” said Madame Emerald. “He saved me from a kidnapper in London, you know. He’s quite the detective on the quiet, when he’s not attacking my friends.” She looked sternly at Maximilian, but Madame Belfourte’s attitude to him had changed entirely. Setting the grey cat on the ground, she swept an alarmed Maximilian up into her arms and planted a huge kiss on his cheek.
“Never mind, you gorgeous thing. I’m sure you meant well,” she laughed. She let him down to the ground again and took Madame Emerald’s arm.
“Shall we leave them to get acquainted while we discuss our scores for this evening’s concert?” she asked, herding the other two judges into the dressing room. As she closed the door, Maximilian heard the pinched-faced man say, “Julienne was exquisite as always. Quality will always show and she is from a very distinguished family…”
The grey cat eyed Maximilian dubiously. Maximilian was feeling utterly wretched. How embarrassing it all was. He was very glad when Oscar padded up to them and introduced himself. Oscar never put anything like as much effort into his appearance as Maximilian did, and he spent half his life on the dusty roof of the Theatre Royal, sleeping out in all weathers, but in spite of all this he was a gentleman from his whiskers to his paws and Maximilian marvelled at how he accomplished it.
“My name is Peppi,” said the grey cat. “Madame Belfourte is one of the most respected ladies of music in Paris. She holds at least two concerts a month in her house by the Eiffel Tower, and anyone who is anyone in the city’s music scene has played on her wonderful pianoforte.”
“And what is she doing here?” asked Oscar politely.
Peppi straightened his collar with one paw. “Judging, of course. Madame Belfourte is the premier judge of “The Voice of Paris”. It’s the most prestigious role in the competition. The premier judge is always invited to the best parties.” Maximilian blushed. How simply awful to have attacked one of the judges! What must Madame Emerald think of him? “The other judge is Pierre,” went on Peppi, thankfully oblivious to Maximilian’s mortification. “Everyone expected him to be premier judge this year, but at the last minute the organisers invited Madame Belfourte. Pierre is furious, which is rather delicious, given his horrible views on cats.”
Maximilian remembered the way the man’s face had twisted with disgust and shuddered. Much as he loved a puzzle, people who did not appreciate cats were utterly unfathomable.
“They’ll be in there for ages,” Peppi said, grooming a little dust off his paw. “Pierre will want Julienne to win, but judges’ deliberations take at least an hour and they all need to agree who is progressing best and who will sing first tomorrow. It’s terribly important.”
“While they are all busy,” Oscar said, “why don’t we explore? I expect Monsieur Peppi knows all about this beautiful city.”
In spite of Oscar’s flattery, Peppi looked a little uncertain. “Madame Belfourte doesn’t like me to wander too far,” he said. “She worries.”
“We can be back before she even knows we’re gone,” Oscar promised.
But Oscar had not reckoned on a cat like Peppi, thought Maximilian, as they paused for the fifteenth time at the top of a tilting roof while Peppi crouched low, his claws gripping the slates, every muscle tensed.
“We won’t see much at this rate,” Maximilian remarked to Oscar. They had only crossed four rooftops and Peppi had had to be coaxed across every jump. Paris was wonderful from the rooftops. The lights of the city stretched out for miles and below them they coul
d hear violins playing and smell the mouth-watering aroma of steak cooking in tiny bistros packed to bursting with people. Waiters in long white aprons dashed to and fro carrying six plates at once or balancing huge carafes on silver trays. It all reminded Maximilian that it was a long time since he had had any supper and he was worried that they would have to go back to the concert hall before he caught even a glimpse of the famous Eiffel Tower.
“I seem to remember a certain cat being the same only a year ago,” Oscar said, looking meaningfully at Maximilian. “You need to be more patient with our host, my friend.”
Maximilian looked back at Peppi and felt a little guilty. That first night crossing the skyline of London he had been just as terrified as Peppi was now, marvelling at how deftly Oscar could dash across the rooftops and jump from gable to gable, turning in mid-air. He determined to be a little kinder.
“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding earlier,” he said to Peppi, who was teetering across the slates. “There was a lady in the concert hall whose cat was kidnapped only today, and they looked exactly like you. I saw the photo.”
Peppi opened his mouth to say something and his back paw slipped a little. He let out a “mrowl” of alarm and squeezed his eyes tight shut. Clearly he was not a cat who could concentrate on two things at once. Maximilian waited till he had crossed safely before he began again.
“Grey with a diamante collar,” he said. “Really, quite like you.”
Peppi frowned. “That sounds like Winter Star,” he said. “She is a really beautiful cat. I’m not surprised you thought she was me.” Maximilian was about to suggest that this was a little conceited, but he caught Oscar’s warning look and thought better of it.
The Catnap Caper Page 2
