The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle (24 page)

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.”

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.

“So how come you two went AWOL?” Blag sauntered over to me, covered in mud up to his shoulders.

“Did you try to haul the car out by yourself?” I asked teasingly. He shrugged and I knew that he had. “So, DeFaux ...” I could see that the name didn't register. “The bartender at La Colombe d'Or is the art attacker.” He looked dumbfounded, and Dizzy, Mink, Maurice, Henri, and the Marauders gathered around to hear the story. “He's the guy who replaced all the art with replicas and he's got the real
Mona Lisa
and is planning to go to Tahiti, so Leo and I are racing to try to catch him before he gets away with it.” As I sped through the story and watched their incredulous expressions, I realized how bizarre it sounded, but knew there wasn't time for a detailed explanation. I think they believed me, and of course Leo backed me up. Only Blag seemed to grasp the urgency of the situation. “Okay, kiddo, then you'd better book it for Marseille.”

“Thanks, Blag. I'm sure the tow trucks will be here soon, and I'll meet you in Marseille. By the way, I texted Rudee to get in touch with Magritte, so help should be on the way.”

Blag rolled his eyes and almost choked. “Yeah, those clowns are sure to save the day. Thank goodness Daru is on a ship in the Mediterranean and Magritte probably couldn't find his way out of Saint-Germain without a military escort and a trail of croissant crumbs.”

DeFaux looked over at Anatole Belmondo, whose focus was intently on the road ahead. “I'm so glad you stopped at Le Colombe D'Or after the rally ended for your Supernovas team, Anatole. I'm not sure how I could have arranged such a speedy ride to Marseille.”

Belmondo nodded but kept his eyes straight ahead. “You were the perfect host for my team, Monsieur DeFaux, and the fact that Dr. Brouillard made himself available to put the Champagne Supernovas back in the race made it a win for all of us.”

DeFaux filed his nails and glanced back at Brouillard, who was tucking into the last bits of a suckling pig with zest. “So, Monsieur, or rather Docteur Brouillard, not to interrupt your little snack, but I'm very curious as to how you utilized my green apple painting — or shall we say my adaptation of Magritte's painting — to derail the taxi rally participants so effectively?”

“It was quite simple, Raoul. I projected your brilliant work onto a screen such as one would use at an outdoor film showing and turned it on once I saw the rally cars approaching.” He proceeded to methodically lick each finger and the front of his shirt, where drippings from his “snack” had landed. “The massive size of the image, to say nothing of its content, was clearly confusing to the drivers. I'm no art expert, but the addition of a little bite in the apple was very tasty, so to speak.”

At the wheel, Anatole Belmondo ran his hands through his hair and glanced appreciatively into the mirror. “This must surely be your dirtiest dirty trick, wouldn't you say, Brouillard?”

Brouillard cackled and examined his sleeve for any further leftovers. “Absolutely,
mon ami
. And I appreciate that you had no hard feelings after my fog diversion ended the Supernovas' rally. Of course, now, if you finish the race, you'll be declared the winner. I'd love to see the expression on Margot's face when she finds out how you pulled it off, but for the sake of my survival, I'll have to forgo that pleasure.”

“So, Monsieur DeFaux, what made you choose the image of the green apple?” Anatole asked.

“Oh, please call me Raoul.” He gestured suavely with his cigarette. “The Belgian surrealist painter, René Magritte, loved the image of the green apple, and in one work, mysteriously named
The Listening Room
, he used a giant apple the size of a room. It was my opportunity to remind Inspector Magritte of the Paris police how absurd his pursuit of me is.”

Anatole only managed a fake laugh, but DeFaux seemed happy with the response as he puffed away with a self-satisfied expression. “Let me know when you're close to the harbour and I'll tell you where my boat is berthed, will you, Anatole?”

“Absolutely, Raoul. I think you're completely in the clear, so I'm going to slow down to the speed limit so as not to draw unwanted attention.”

“Certainly, Anatole. I'm sure our swine-fancying scientist, Brouillard, took care of anyone who could be inclined to pursue us to the harbour in Marseille.”

The slippery, rain-soaked pavement made the road to Marseille treacherous — as if being in the rusted sidecar of a beat-up motorcycle driven by an admittedly charming but totally inexperienced driver wasn't risky enough. I'd been happy to see Blag, Dizzy, and the boys, but their situation on the side of the road was no laughing matter, and the fact that Margot and the rest of the Marauders team were also waylaid made me realize that we had a common enemy. Could it be DeFaux or his associates, whoever they were? The mailman's description of the car that DeFaux took from Saint-Paul de Vence sounded like one belonging to the Supernovas, but was that lot capable of anything more dangerous than visiting a tanning salon?

I was getting used to the total discomfort of bouncing up and down in the sidecar, and my motion sickness problem seemed insignificant. Leo focused intently on the road, so I did the same. We passed every vehicle we approached, sometimes with very little room to spare. We pulled up on a very sleek-looking car with three passengers; the driver seemed to ignore our desire to pass. Then I noticed the bubbles painted on the side: the Champagne Supernovas logo!

Sure enough, Anatole Belmondo, the lead Supernovas driver, was at the wheel. He shot me a debonair smile, clearly not recognizing me in my 1950s running-back look. The passenger in the back seat was diving into a giant purple-coloured sausage that looked like it was trying to escape. He was hard to see but looked familiar and then, when he glanced over between bites, I recognized Dr. Etienne Brouillard, in spite of the rainy window and the bumpy road. He pointed at me and then I saw
him
. In the front seat was DeFaux! How these three clowns ever ended up in one car was chilling to contemplate.

Leo had been so focused on maintaining the road that he hadn't noticed the occupants of the car. Just then, Belmondo swerved dangerously close to the motorcycle and Leo had to move quickly to avoid a crash. He gave me a glance and I signalled for him to fall in behind the bubble-mobile. I mimed painting and he seemed to understand, so we hung back a bit but stayed close. What was their strategy? Then it was revealed as the Supernova car swung suddenly onto an exit toward the Marseille harbour.

The rain had started up again after a short layoff, and now, as we approached the harbour, a layer of fog settled over the entire area. Another trick? I didn't think so. It looked and felt like genuine maritime weather to me. The streets were narrow and bumpy, and more than once I bounced up in the air as we went over a broken patch of road. Belmondo's car handled all of this with ease, and despite the fact that Leo was on familiar turf, we couldn't keep up with them. The fog got woollier the closer we got to the water, and I thought we had lost them completely when I saw a hazy set of taillights in an alley to our right. Leo saw them too and spun around after driving past. We pulled into the alley in time to see Brouillard attaching a chain to a gate that blocked our way. He gave us a mock salute and hurried off into the dimness.

We abandoned the motorcycle, and although I was happy to see the last of it, I'd felt a little more protected with that armour of rusted metal. Now we were on our own in the silence of the harbour, with the sound of water lapping and the occasional distant voice echoing back from who knows where. Leo stayed close, and when we stopped to get our bearings, I could hear him breathing in little spurts. Was it possible that he was more nervous than me? Just then I heard the sound of boat bumpers rubbing against a dock very close at hand followed by a greasy chuckle that was all too familiar.

“
Merci
, Monsieur DeFaux, you've been very generous. Belmondo and I will leave you here. I'm assuming you can find your way to the Chateau d'If.”

“Absolutely. Thank you both, I can take it from here. I'll be in international waters soon enough and beyond anyone's reach.”

“If I see those kids, I'll take care of them for you. Call it a freebie.”

“
Merci
, Brouillard,” said DeFaux.

A third voice sounded a little less confident. “The waters around the island are treacherous, DeFaux,” said Anatole Belmondo, “and I think we can forget about those kids. They're harmless and nowhere to be seen.”

“Perhaps,” replied DeFaux, “but that little Yankee agitator is relentless. I'm not worried about her doe-eyed suitor, but I'll be glad to see the last of her.”

Safe for the moment behind the bow of a boat in the adjacent slip, I suppressed a laugh. Can you be terrified and amused at the same time? Belmondo and Brouillard, with his distinctive deep-fried odour, passed within a couple of feet of us as we huddled in the fog.

“I'll gladly take his money, and with it the chance to win the taxi rally, but this man is insane. You do realize that,” Belmondo said quietly to Brouillard.

“Perhaps, but myself, I admire his trickery. The two left feet on the Magritte painting is a stroke of genius,” Brouillard replied.

“Maybe, but those offshore currents he's heading into are wild.”

As the two co-conspirators disappeared in the harbour fog, we heard a powerful speedboat engine kick in. Leo grabbed my hand and we raced down the dock toward the sound. Illuminated by the lights in the stern of the boat, we could make out DeFaux at the wheel by the silhouette of his goatee. He was moving out of the dock area at a dangerous speed, but I could see that he still had to pass by the end of the pier.

“If we run, we can get there as he's going by,” I shouted.

We began to run toward the pier. “And do what when we get there?” yelled Leo over the engine roar.

“Jump!” was all I could get out as we raced to cut off DeFaux.

This was a race we couldn't win, as I could see as we neared the end of the dock. But I had to slow DeFaux down, thinking that even just a little bit might be enough to get us on board.

“You forgot Mona!” I shouted over the speedboat whine.

It was just enough, as DeFaux instinctively checked for the location of his hollowed-out cane and let up on the throttle. He didn't seem to see me and I realized that in the fog I was just a voice.

“Jump!” I yelled to Leo, letting go of his hand and going airborne across the oily waters of the harbour. I landed with a thump on something hard and grabbed for anything within reach. The stern light was mounted on a pole that was slippery and cold, but was solid enough for me to clutch onto and haul myself up. DeFaux had heard, or maybe felt my landing, and swung around at the wheel. The boat swung with him and he let up further on the throttle, likely to make sure he hadn't hit anything. Then he saw me, right as I heard a splash. Leo?

“Well, well, mademoiselle. I admit this is a surprise, but not a pleasant one,” DeFaux called out. I steadied myself and started toward the front of the cabin.

“And while I admire your determination, I hope it is matched by your swimming skills.” DeFaux turned back to the wheel and reached for the throttle. He turned the boat around and headed out of the dock area back toward open waters. I prayed that Leo was clear of the engine, but the smooth acceleration at least told me that we hadn't hit anything. I spotted DeFaux's cane, and thinking it could be my ticket to surviving this journey, lunged over a tarpaulin in the rear of the boat toward it. Right then DeFaux accelerated and I was tossed into the stern of the boat as the bow lifted in the water. I knew where the stern light was and held on like my life depended on it. Which it did.

He looked back and seemed surprised to find that I was still on board, if just barely. “Very well, Miss Mac, if you insist on being my passenger,
bon voyage
. But please understand that Mona and I are happy on our own in the captain's chair.” He picked up his cane and thrust it toward me menacingly, and I backed up as far as I could without joining the marine life. But where was Leo?

“Rudee, I know you feel very protective toward Mac, but is this really necessary?”

Sashay wrapped her generous scarf tighter around her neck and shoulders and was grateful for its warmth as they bounced over the waves.

“I know she is strong like onions, but Sashay, my love, Mac is a child and her daddy and I spanked the road together,” Rudee shouted over the lifeboat's engine as he peered into the gathering fog.

“You mean ‘hit the road,' don't you, my darling?” said Sashay fondly.

“Of course,
ma cherie
. Did I tell you about the time we were doing a show at an archery range called The Crow and Sparrow and the target was on the bass drum?”

“Do you mean the bow and arrow, Rudee?” Sashay laughed in spite of her discomfort, as the wind picked up.

“As you wish,
ma belle
,” said Rudee. “But when we forgot a song that had been requested, they took aim ...” Suddenly the engine stopped and the lifeboat settled in the water in silence. Sashay looked nervously at Rudee.

“One moment,
mon chou
,” he said, and stared at the now-dead engine. “I'm certain I can make it quack like a bird, just a moment.”

Rudee looked at the propeller with visible agitation. Sashay peered at the instrument panel and asked hesitantly, “So, Rudee,
mon canard
, when the little arrow is pointing at the ‘E,' would that mean —”

Rudee grunted as he leaned over the engine dangerously close to going overboard. “One moment,
ma poule
, I will tell you about the arrow later….”

He paused, then raised his head and looked toward the bow with a sad look of realization. “You mean the gas tank ‘E,'
mon ange
?”

Sashay just nodded and Rudee stared at the gauge, wishing for a different outcome. “I feel so fuelish,
ma petite
.”

Sashay stroked Rudee's head where his comb-over had flopped to one side.

“Don't worry,
mon coeur
, we're not too far from Marseille, and maybe the wind will take us to shore,” she said hopefully.

Rudee looked defeated, but then a slow smile took over his face. “The wind,
mon trésor
, did you say ‘the wind'?”

“
Oui
, Rudee, but ...” Sashay knew she should be nervous when Rudee had his look of inspiration, the most recent occasion having occurred mere hours ago and involved the theft of a lifeboat from their cruise ship.

“Unwrap your scarf,
mon coco
, and we will slide the wind, waving the mighty deep and sailing the sea salt….”

“Rudee, it's cold.”

“
Oui, mon lapin
, but I will be the wind in your shoes.” Rudee paused and looked seriously at Sashay. “Do you trust me,
mon mignon
?”

“Yes, I trust you,
mon loup
, but …” Sashay replied hesitantly.

“Then close your eyes,” said Rudee, leading Sashay to the stern of the life raft.

“Alright,
mon minou
.”

Rudee spread Sashay's scarf out to its fullest. “How do you feel,
ma poupée
?”

Sashay chose to ignore the fact that the lifeboat was standing still in the water.

“I feel like I'm flying!”

Through a space in the layers of fog I could see where DeFaux was taking us. A fortress of rock emerged from an island of stone. The fog gave it an otherworldly, sort of Hogswartian appearance. Is that an adjective? There was a grouping of rounded main structures, surrounded by stone walls with ramparts, presumably built to protect the inhabitants in an earlier era. It was hard to imagine anyone actually
wanting
to go there. But DeFaux wasn't anyone.

“So, little Yankee provocateur, what do you think of my island in the sea?” DeFaux turned to yell triumphantly. “As well as a fortress, it was also a prison holding The Count of Monte Cristo!”

“But that's a book and an imaginary character!”

“
Exactement
! That's why they cannot arrest me — it's a fictional location!” DeFaux seemed so pleased with his twisted logic that I knew there was no point in trying to reason with a lunatic. I just held on, hoping this journey would end soon.