Madame Emerald’s face darkened and she glared at Zelie.
“You have some explaining to do, Mademoiselle,” she said.
Zelie’s bottom lip quavered. She looked desperately from Madame Emerald to the cats, to the crowd who were beginning to murmur and shake their heads. Someone in the upper gallery booed.
Now if I can only show that Pierre was involved too, thought Maximilian. There was nothing to connect the man to the cats, however. Or was there? Maximilian’s tail tingled. He remembered the pictures of the cats torn from newspapers in Pierre’s jacket pocket. Surely they would prove that he was more interested in the catnappings than he wanted to admit?
Maximilian bounded over to Pierre and jumped on to the chair beside him. He thrust his paw into the pocket of the man’s jacket and, spearing the scraps of newspaper with his claws, dragged them out in one deft movement. They flew up into the air and fell like confetti around the feet of Madame Emerald.
“Get away, you little rat,” Pierre snapped, swiping at Maximilian. Madame glanced at the pictures around her feet.
“But this is Summer Rose,” she said, stooping to pick up the picture of the Siamese cat. “And here is Winter Star, and all the other cats who were stolen. Why on earth do you have these photos, Pierre?”
Zelie bounded forwards. “He was behind it all!” she shrieked. “He talked me into it, but I never harmed a single hair on any of their heads.”
“That’s not true,” Pierre shouted back. “She planned the whole thing. You’ve all made her very famous with those photographs of your ridiculous pets. Every newspaper in the land is carrying them now. She’s made a fortune out of you and your pampered wretches. And she was going to make even more money once she collected the ransom money!”
“And you didn’t tell anyone that you knew?” Madame Emerald demanded. “That is a despicable way to behave. Those poor cats have been missing for weeks!”
“Why would he tell anyone when he could get me to steal Madame Belfourte’s ridiculous cat?” Zelie scoffed. “The moment he realised it was me taking the cats he couldn’t wait to use me to get rid of that silly woman as premier judge.”
There was a gasp from Madame Belfourte and a tiny tinkling crash as she dropped her teacup.
“Pierre! I thought you were my friend.”
Pierre turned on her with a snarl.
“You always were particularly silly, Madame,” he snapped. “There was no way I was going to let you continue to ruin this competition with your ridiculous ideas. Singing in the open. Letting waitresses enter! Can you imagine what a laughing stock the Opéra Musique would have been if that that girl won ‘The Voice of Paris’ over voices from some of the oldest music families in all of France?” He gave a shudder and glared at Minette, who, together with the other contestants, had poked her head round the edge of the stage curtain. Maximilian saw Julienne give a nasty smirk. Albert put an arm round Minette’s shoulder and glared at Pierre. The judge in ruby velvet tutted, “Quite so.”
Maximilian let out a hiss. Pierre was a horrible snob. I bet he’s behind the stealing of Minette’s song, he thought. She would have been able to present her music before Julienne if he hadn’t delayed her…
Madame Emerald had heard enough. “Monsieur Lavroche,” she said sternly. “I think it is time that we summoned the gendarmes.” She turned to Maximilian and smiled. “It looks like you’ve saved the day again, Max. I wish we could know how you did it.”
“Well, if you’d bother to learn Cat…” Maximilian miaowed, but Oscar nudged his paw.
“Your humans are very clever, my friend, but let’s not expect miracles.”
As Zelie and Pierre were hauled off by the gendarmes the cats returned to sit with their owners. The street cats crept into cosy corners by the side of the stage, enjoying the warmth of the hall and the comfortable plush carpet. Maximilian was pleased to see that the doormen did not shoo them away and that, one by one, they were welcomed on to the laps of concertgoers. “I’m sure we can find space for just a couple more at home,” said one old gentleman to his stern-looking wife as Maximilian passed their seat, where a tortoiseshell and a ginger cat were curled up on the floor. In the front row, a tiny lady had gathered more cats than she had space for on to her lap. They were all very scruffy-looking, battered and wary from lives on the street. A sweet-looking tortoiseshell with a pretty round face and three legs was making herself at home tucked under the lady’s arm.
Maximilian and Oscar bounded up the steps to the stage after Sylvia and Agnes, and Madame Belfourte returned to her seat at the judges’ table. Henri took his place by the piano onstage and prepared to resume his final concert piece as the audience, still murmuring about all the excitement, settled back to enjoy the rest of the evening.
“Max, you wonder,” Sylvia whispered, lifting Maximilian up on to Minette’s table by the side of the stage. “You found the cats! I don’t suppose you will ever be able to tell us how.”
Oscar leapt up on to the table and slipped the medal from round his neck into Sylvia’s hand.
“What’s this, puss?” she asked, gazing at it.
“It’s a choral medal,” Minette said, taking it and turning it over in her hand. “I had one when I sang with the choir of St Bernice’s.” She held it up to the light.
“It’s from Notre-Dame,” she said, pointing to an inscription on the reverse of the medal.
“Is that where the cats were?” mused Sylvia. Both Maximilian and Oscar miaowed in agreement, and Sylvia took the medal and slipped it into her beaded evening bag. “We’ll give this to Madame Emerald directly after the concert finishes,” she said. “And we’ll tell the police to search the cathedral.” She gazed at Maximilian and Oscar. “You two are amazing, you really are.”
The evening sped on. Henri finished his piece to tumultuous applause and there was a pause while the judges deliberated. Then Minette’s name was called. She looked at the music in her hand, her face downcast. She had chosen another song from her repertoire, but Maximilian could see that she was not happy with it.
“It’s nowhere near as lovely as the one that I was going to sing,” she sighed. “But Julienne has sung that already.”
Sylvia and Agnes exchanged looks, not sure what to say to cheer Minette up. Maximilian’s whiskers tingled. He had had an idea, but how on earth was he to let Sylvia and Agnes know what it was? He glanced at Oscar, hoping that his friend would not laugh at him, then gave a cough to clear his throat and started to miaow the tune of the song that Minette had sung in the café.
“What on earth are you making that awful racket for, Max?” Sylvia cried. “Shh. They’ll hear you on stage.”
Maximilian frowned at her, but carried on miaowing, hoping that they would catch on to what he was trying to do before he had to miaow the very high notes that he knew were quite out of his range. His face was an agony of embarrassment as he yowled up the scale.
“Hang on,” Minette said. “He’s singing!”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” Agnes retorted, sticking her fingers in her ears.
“You’re right,” Sylvia said, listening a little more carefully. “It’s that song you sang in the café. Oh!”
The three girls looked at one another.
“It might work,” said Minette dubiously.
“It would be perfect!” Sylvia urged. “Just think how much everyone loved it, and you sang it beautifully.”
Minette looked again at the music in her hand and made a decision. She cast it on to the table and strode out on to the stage to the pianist. She leaned down to whisper in his ear.
And then she sang.
Minette’s voice rang out like silver on crystal, pure and clear in the silence of the hall. The audience held its breath. They had sat through a week of the most beautiful music written by the most celebrated composers in Europe. They had been delighted by full orchestras and by the skill of the pianist who now sat motionless by the silent grand piano on the stage. Here, on the last ni
ght of the competition, they were coaxed into breathless silence by the simplicity of Minette’s voice singing a pure song of love.
Minette’s song wove its spell around the room. Elderly men pressed the hands of their wives or whisked away tears. Young couples smiled fondly at one another. The judges laid down their pens.
Minette’s final note rang out and the audience sighed.
Then they rose to their feet and the spell broke in a shower of applause as the room crowned its “Voice of Paris”.
“You were perfect!” gushed Sylvia.
“Just wonderful!” added Agnes.
“A well-deserved win,” miaowed Maximilian and Oscar together.
They were back at the little café bar, Theo’s. Madame Belfourte had suggested that they celebrate Minette’s win at one of the more fashionable restaurants, but Madame Emerald had insisted that Minette choose her favourite place. Three small tables had been crammed together and round them sat Maximilian and his friends. The café bar buzzed with life and delicious-smelling dishes were whisked into sight in front of them. Maximilian was next to Eloise, suddenly finding himself very lost for words. Oscar and Peppi were bent over the menu, with Peppi pointing out all his favourite dishes. The two of them were most definitely not looking in the direction of Maximilian and Eloise.
Maximilian could not understand why he could not think of anything to say. It was as if he had forgotten every word he had ever known just when he needed them most. He was clearing his throat and trying to think of something clever when the café door sprang open and Monsieur Lavroche hurried over to join them.
“It’s just as you thought, Sylvia,” he said, shaking his coat out over the back of a chair. “A dozen cat baskets crammed up in the tower of Notre-Dame. The police are looking for fingerprints as we speak.”
Agnes clapped her hands.
“Oh, clever, clever puss!” she cried, fussing over Oscar. “It was ingenious of you to steal that medal. We would never have guessed where the cats had been hidden without that.”
“It was clever of Max too,” Sylvia said, frowning a little. “He led all the cats to safety, remember.”
“I think they work as a pair, these two,” said Madame Emerald. She looked over at Peppi.
“I wonder if Monsieur Peppi helped at all.”
Maximilian and Oscar miaowed their “of course he did, and Eloise helped too” miaows, but the humans had moved on to talk about the generous scholarship that Minette had been granted to study music at a conservatoire chosen by Madame Emerald. The four friends were left to talk among themselves.
“It has been a great adventure, Messieurs,” said Peppi. “I will miss you both greatly.”
“We could not have done it without your help,” said Oscar. “Both of you were so courageous.”
Maximilian nodded and silently wished that he had said this. Maximilian always considered himself to be an elegant sort of cat, but it was Oscar who always knew what to say, and Oscar who was able to put people at ease. Kindness, Maximilian supposed, was a special sort of elegance. Oscar really was a wonderful cat and remembering that such a cat was his friend gave Maximilian a little courage.
“Offering to be kidnapped by Zelie was very brave,” he said. “I am very proud to have met you both.”
Eloise smiled. “And I you,” she said. “I hope—”
But they would never know what it was that Eloise hoped. With a little miaow of alarm she was whisked into the air by a tall man in a butler’s uniform while Monsieur Lavroche helped her elderly mistress into a velvet evening coat.
“Don’t forget me, my dear new friends,” Eloise cried. She reached out for Maximilian and pressed something into his paw. He kept his eyes on her as she was carried out of the café. She lifted her paw to her mouth at the door to blow a kiss, and then she was gone.
Maximilian sighed. He did not think that he would ever meet another cat like her. He opened his paw to see what it was that Eloise had passed to him and his heart gave a little leap.
It was a twinkling diamond “E”.
“A song from Minette!” cried a voice at the back of the café. “A song before she is too famous to sing for us!”
“I will never stop wanting to sing for you,” Minette laughed, and she was swept away to the piano by a team of waiters in long aprons. Music was hastily arranged, a waiter tapped a crystal glass to signal for silence, and Minette’s sweet voice rose again to delight a room full of people who had loved her for years and were happy for her.
Maximilian looked at the sparkling “E” lying in his paw. He would miss Eloise. He would miss Peppi too, and Minette, and even Madame Belfourte.
“Back to London tomorrow,” said Oscar, as if reading his mind.
Maximilian nodded. Back to the theatre, and a new production for Sylvia and Agnes and perhaps a new adventure for himself and Oscar. He looked up at Peppi.
“But a little piece of us will always be in Paris,” he said gallantly.
The humans had stood up, swaying to the beautiful sound of Minette’s song. Some of them murmured softly along to it or gently clapped their hands in time with the rhythm.
“Remember us when you have your next adventure,” said Peppi.
“Remember us when next you step out on the rooftops of Paris,” said Maximilian.
The three cats raised a paw to one another.
Oscar and Peppi went back to their salmon soufflés. Maximilian sat for a while, listening to Minette’s lovely voice and thinking about all that had happened over the last week. He had rescued a dozen cats. He had met still more brave ones. He had ridden in a hot air balloon and listened to beautiful music in elegant concert halls and tiny cafés. But the main thing that Maximilian thought, as Madame Emerald cheered for Minette’s success and Sylvia and Agnes hugged one another in happiness for her, and Oscar and Peppi rattled their paws on the table in appreciation, was how lucky he was to have friends. At that moment Maximilian felt like the luckiest cat alive, and in his mind he raised a glass of the finest champagne to all those he loved, as the music played on and the laughter flowed in a tiny café in the most beautiful city in the world.
BOUQUETS
Dressing rooms like Madame Emerald’s are often full of bouquets of flowers from friends and family and it’s not unusual for the chorus to fill the chorus-room sink with flowers when they run out of vases for them. It’s a lovely way to celebrate all the hard work that goes into a show. So here are the bouquets that I want to give out to the amazing people who helped bring Max and Oscar’s Parisian adventure to you.
Roses-a-plenty for the Nosy Crow Team. For Kirsty Stansfield, Fiona Scoble and Lauren Fairgrieve, Max’s wonderful editors – thank you for all your help and guidance and for always helping me iron out plot points and keep going till I have found “just” the right word. Especial thanks to Fiona for correcting all my French. For Elisabetta Barbazza, Ray Tierney and Nicola Theobald – thank you for always making the books look so beautiful. For Ola Gotkowska and all the rights team – thank you for championing Max around the world. Seeing his adventures in so many languages has been an utter delight.
Buckets of blooms for Joanna Moult, the best agent in the world. Thank you for believing in Max and me from the outset and for every encouraging note and phone call that makes me feel like there is no problem I cannot solve.
Huge bouquets for the incredibly talented Nicola Kinnear. How on earth can I ever praise your illustrations enough? Max and Oscar leap off the page and I am so grateful that I get to work with you.
Beautiful blossoms for all the booksellers, book bloggers and teachers who have read Max and shared him with new readers. A special tail-whisk from Max to all the lovely readers who have sent me such lovely post. I love each and every letter.
Red and white roses for my lovely Yorkshire and Lancashire family, and Welsh daffodils for Seren – this book is for you, our own Winter Star. You are wonderful and I am so proud of you.
Perfect posies for my gorgeous Prime
Writers, all my Twitter friends, my lovely work colleagues for celebrating each step, and my theatre friends for reminding me why I wanted to write about the theatre in the first place. Also Debbie and Cat for being awesome friends.
All the roses in the world for Neil, for always believing in me, making me smile when I really need it and putting up with me taking endless photos of Paris.
Finally, the most unusual bouquet of them all – a bundle of catnip for every cat I grew up with, many of whom have found their way into this book. Thank you for the purrs, the cuddles and for showing me how amazing cats are. I hope I captured your wonderful personalities well.
Sarah xxxx
Copyright
First published 2019 by Nosy Crow Ltd
The Crow’s Nest, 14 Baden Place, Crosby Row
London SE1 1YW
www.nosycrow.com
ISBN: 978 1 78800 065 9
Nosy Crow and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Nosy Crow Ltd
Text copyright © Sarah Todd Taylor, 2019
Illustrations © Nicola Kinnear, 2019
The right of Sarah Todd Taylor and Nicola Kinnear to be identified as the author and illustrator respectively has been asserted.
All rights reserved
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of Nosy Crow Ltd.
A CIP catalogue record for this book will be available from the British Library
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