brasserie on a busy corner. Rudee was already in a red vinyl booth by the window and waved us over. We all settled in and gave our orders to a waiter in a red apron that touched the tops of his shoes. He had an if-you-want-to-be-so-foolish tone as he noted our requests. I asked for ketchup on my green beans to see if smoke would come out of his ears, but he just ignored me.
I could only delay the inevitable for so long. Rudee told us through mouthfuls of oozing crêpe that he’d been to see Inspector Magritte about the domed church theft and told him about what I’d overheard at the Moulin D’Or. Apparently Magritte had a large map of Paris on his wall with pictures of the church from all angles, and a magnet of the missing cross that he moved around the map and some spaghetti-like scribbles.
“He took notes,” Rudee related, “and seemed genuinely concerned. I could tell his hat was elsewhere, though, because he was distracted by a leak in the ceiling of his office that had just extinguished his pipe. When I left, he had opened his umbrella and was drawing more noodles on his map.”
All of this just made me impatient, and with Dizzy’s encouragement, I told Rudee about my visit to Shadowcorps. His expression went from surprise to shock to horror. “You climbed a ladder for five storeys and squeezed through a grate in the gutter in Les Halles?”
At this point his face was in his hands, and he seemed to be mumbling a prayer in some weird language. He looked up at me and put on his most serious expression. “Mac, I’m not going to go behind the back burner with you on this one.”
I couldn’t help it, and neither could Dizzy. We both erupted in laughter at once. Dizzy, unfortunately, had a mouthful of tarte tatin which wound up decorating the red vinyl beside Rudee.
“What?” Rudee asked indignantly, but I could see that he was trying not to smile. “Go ahead and laugh your heads till Thursday. I’m just glad Dizzy was at that cab stand.”
A television set over the bar was showing pictures of the golden-topped monument in Place De La Bastille as we left the restaurant. It all seemed like preparation for the national holiday, until someone at the bar said in a shocked voice, “Mon Dieu, non!”
We stopped and turned in time to see the windblown reporter, mike in hand, breathlessly recounting the daring theft of the statue from the top of the column. She referred to “Another outlandish crime against the state and all that Parisians hold sacred. We ask not only ‘why’ was this beautiful work stolen, but ‘how.’”
The camera pulled back to show the size of the square and the crush of cars swirling around it. In the background of the shot, I couldn’t help but notice the ominous silhouette of a construction crane.
Fifteen
Rudee and I, with Dizzy following close behind, ran red lights from Montmartre to the Bastille. It came to me that the Bastille was today’s major destination for my school group. I closed my eyes a lot on the way and was very glad when we joined a growing cluster of cars near the square. This time we were relative latecomers, since a crush of locals had gathered to stare at the now-naked column. The number of news trucks told us that this was going to receive much more notice than the previous thefts. A barrier was being set up, and the square was being taped off. Rudee charged past and ripped through the tape.
We spotted the bowler hat and tailored black coat of Inspector Magritte near a small group of official-looking men. “Rudee, mademoiselle, monsieur.” He nodded solemnly as the three of us approached. “This is outrageous, of course.”
“Oui, but Magritte, have you any idea who is responsible?” demanded Rudee.
At this point the inspector made a little steeple with his fingers, sucked in his breath, and narrowed his eyes in deep contemplation. “I have some suspicions and a couple of theories, but no clues and precious few leads. I’m considering every possibility.”
Rudee looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, but he asked the obvious question instead. “But how? How do you lift a statue from the Place de la Bastille and erase it with people all around?”
“Right now we can only say when, mon ami,” answered Magritte as he nodded calmly and lit his pipe before continuing. “At a certain time every day in this part of the city, as the sun drops low on the boulevards, casting what I think of as a surreal glow over the city, the glare is such that it causes a few moments of blindness. Pedestrians stop and shield their eyes. It’s why there are so many late afternoon accidents in the Place de la Bastille, you see.”
I wanted to add that it might have something to do with the terrible drivers, but I didn’t want Rudee and Dizzy to take it personally.
“If you will excuse me, I wish to consult with my technicians; they’re dusting for fingerprints in the bistros surrounding the square.”
As Magritte departed, Dizzy was already impersonating him, steepling his fingers and saying, “I’m considering every possibility.”
Rudee was too disgusted to be amused. They were exchanging theories when I saw a small group of girls surrounding a woman waving her hands like she was fighting off a swarm of bees. Mademoiselle Lesage! I pushed through the group and put my arm over our sobbing tour guide’s shoulders. She looked up long enough to register who was consoling her as Penelope fired off a half-dozen photos.
“Ah, Mac, I thought we’d lost you. I am so distraught. The golden figure represents the spirit of freedom, and the Bastille is the most sacred of historical locations in all of Paris because of its connection to the Revolution....” At this, she broke down and was unable to continue.
“Yes, Mademoiselle Lesage, I share your moment of misery, but we must soldier on in these trying times.” Penelope gave a mock serious salute over Mademoiselle Lesage’s shoulder. “Perhaps it would be best for us to return to the residence to contemplate in solitude this devastating loss.”
Mme Lesage nodded sadly and half-heartedly gathered up the girls. Penelope came over and said quietly, “Well done, Mac. We’ll probably head for Café de Flore in St. Germain once Lesage is safely out of sight. We used the fire escape last night. Any chance of you joining us for a chocolate chaude? The clafouti is magnifique. No almonds in sight.”
“I’ll definitely try,” I replied, but Penelope wasn’t buying it. “Look, if you can cover for me, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“D’accord, ‘Mystery Girl,’ but this better be worth it, or you owe me a lifetime of tea parties, teen fashion shows, and pastry-making classes.”
I nodded reluctantly. “Maybe we’ll even play princesses like we used to,” she added with a little too much enthusiasm. “Just kidding. Okay, get out of here before Lesage retires that handkerchief.”
I eased back into the crowd, noticing lights and a TV camera, and made my way closer. I was stunned to see our favourite windblown reporter interviewing Luc Fiat. “But Monsieur Fiat, aren’t these symbols of all that is light and right with Paris? How will this affect the mayor’s campaign?”
He was slick, I had to give him that. With a little shrug and a patronizing smile, he oozed confidence. “You know, Louise ... and by the way, I love what you’ve done with your hair, it’s so natural and windblown ... we Parisians are not so easily disheartened. The sun will come up tomorrow, hopefully, and we will carry on as we have always done. Yes, it’s true, the loss of these beautiful golden symbols does take some of the glow from our hearts, but isn’t that what electric lights are for?”
