The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle Read Online Free Page B

busy. Rudee spotted someone, and they exchanged greetings.
    â€œMagritte, ça va ?” Rudee said to a well-tanned policeman in a bowler hat and tailored black coat smoking a pipe and pulling on a pair of gloves.
    â€œAh, my old friend,” and tipping his hat at me, “mademoiselle, enchanté . Rudee, I cannot thank you enough for delivering the Picasso thief to me.”
    â€œHe refused to pay the oversized baggage charge and ...” Rudee shrugged.
    â€œStill, we are grateful ... now, tonight is a theft of another kind.”
    â€œMagritte, I can’t believe it. First the cross of the Église Russe, and now this.” Rudee looked like he would cry any second. “And not only the cross, but the dome, the beautiful frosted dome, painted black.”
    It was true; the freshly cropped dome was drenched in what looked like a bad paint job, still sticky and dripping on the windows below.
    â€œ Oui , I know, it is a travesty,” Magritte said coolly, “and they chose matte instead of glossy, which serves to de-emphasize the Baroque influence of the concave flying buttresses....”
    Rudee’s impatience with this tangent was obvious. “But who, who, Magritte, and why?” he interrupted.
    â€œWho, yes. Myself, I suspect a group of militant atheists from Montparnasse. But how, mon ami , that is the question. It was, if you will excuse a small joke, an outside job, because the entire building was locked and still is.” Magritte shrugged, and we all looked up to where the magnificent dome now blended in with the night sky, with only a silhouette to distinguish it. “I must begin my investigation. If you’d like to walk with me….”
    Rudee nodded, and we followed as Inspector Magritte dusted doors and windows with fingerprint powder, shone a flashlight into shrubs and down stairways that led to locked doors. He held a magnifying glass close to read the inscription on an ancient turquoise cannon as Rudee chatted with him. While they talked about the weight of crosses and discussed various theories as to how one could be raised and transported, I stared at the perfect crescent moon that lit up the immaculately designed gardens. The moonlight caught something shiny, so I walked over to a row of trees and picked up a pair of mirrored glasses. A chill ran from my hand to my spine.
    â€œWhat have you there, mademoiselle?” asked Magritte, shining his light on my find. I started to hand them to him, but he curled up his nose. “ Non, merci . Ah, the tourists. No taste at all you know, present company excepted, of course.” He smiled at me. “How anyone could see through these, I don’t know. Although I suppose to reflect back the absurdity of our existence on this ...”
    Rudee coughed and said his goodbyes.
    â€œAh, it’s adieu then, mes amis .” Magritte waved and went back to his ruminations.
    Back in the cab, Rudee looked at his watch. “Oh, mon dieu , we have to pick up Sashay; her show’s almost over. He who hesitates is late.”
    We zoomed through the streets, now emptying of people. When we arrived at the Moulin D’Or, couples were spilling into the street, arm in arm, laughing and leaning on one another. A lone figure was the last to emerge.
    â€œRudee,” I asked, “isn’t that Blag LeBoeuf?” I hoped another encounter like the one outside CAFTA wasn’t about to happen.
    Rudee barely glanced. “No doubt, little one, he still comes to make eyelids at her after all this time, and the club ... his family ... well ...”
    He left the thought unfinished, concentrating on navigating through the less than sure-footed crowd; but it was then that I understood whom they had fought over years ago.
    We didn’t have to wait long at the stage door. In a whoosh of scarves and in a long cream-coloured cape, Sashay materialized and was in the back seat before Rudee could even open his