Rudee’s eyes seemed to recede under his mighty brow, but he said nothing. His assailant dropped him to the pavement and strode off, laughing to himself and spitting like a broken faucet.
Once he was out of sight, Rudee gathered himself and said, “Blag LeBoeuf. I’ve known him since we were knee high to fire hydrants.
“Our families knew each other from the old country. Then we went apelove for the same girl, don’t you know.” He shrugged, and a small smile emerged. “He lost the girl to me, and it’s been like this ever since.”
I wanted to know more about Blag, but as soon as we settled into Rudee’s cab and he adjusted the lights and music to his liking, the radio squawked, and Madeleine’s voice cut through. “Bonsoir, everyone. Just thought you all should know that the cross from the domed church has been stolen. Incroyable, non? Let me know if you hear something, and I’ll pass it along to the others.”
“The domed church. That’s Les Invalides,” said Rudee in an awed tone. “That’s where Napoleon is boxed. The church with the golden dome is one of Paris’ most shining monuments. But how could someone ...”
He yanked the wheel of the cab to the left, and I fell onto his shoulder. He threaded the needle across six lanes of cars as he madly circled the Arc de Triomphe. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I must see this for my ownself.”
Eight
When we slammed to a stop outside the domed church, a TV crew was setting up hastily, uncoiling cables and mounting a camera on a tripod. A reporter was fixing her make-up and throwing her hair back for that windblown look. A small collection of blue-and-white police cars was gathered at the entrance, and official looking people were trying to appear busy. Rudee spotted someone, and they exchanged greetings.
“Magritte, 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.
“Ah, my old friend,” and tipping his hat at me, “mademoiselle, enchanté. Rudee, I cannot thank you enough for delivering the Picasso thief to me.”
“He refused to pay the oversized baggage charge and ...” Rudee shrugged.
“Still, we are grateful ... now, tonight is a theft of another kind.”
“Magritte, 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.
“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.
“Who, 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.
“What 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.
“Ah, 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.
“Rudee,” 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 door.
“Let’s go. Leave now. Please.” She sank into the seat as we drove away. She didn’t seem to notice that Rudee had been too surprised to turn off the organ music that poured like mud from the speakers. I leaned forward and switched off the sound. Rudee did the same with the taxi radio, and we travelled in silence. The only accompaniment was the soft swish of the tires over the rain-soaked streets as we made our way to Sashay’s apartment. When we arrived and Rudee pulled up and parked, no one said anything for a minute.
“There is something so very wrong, Rudee my dear. I’m sorry I doubted you, because now I believe there is a plan, a conspiracy of some sort involving these strange characters who have been showing up lately at the club. They have tables on the balcony that they occupy every night. They pay no attention to the show, they only smoke and laugh their strange laughs and are rude to everyone. Tonight as I passed their tables, they were raising their glasses in a toast, and one said, ‘The Sun King is dead. Lights out, Paris.’ They all laughed loudly and clinked glasses as they would at a celebration. Rudee, what could this mean?”
“Sashay,” he replied seriously, “did you hear about Les Invalides?”
She gave him a quizzical look, and he continued. “A symbol of the city that we love has been stolen — the cross from the Domed Church is gone and the dome has been painted black.”
Sashay paled even more than usual as Rudee went on. “Mac, the domed church was built by Louis XIV, the ‘Sun King,’ and is one of the greatest monuments to a golden age.” His tone grew sadder and a silence followed. “We must find out more. I saw Magritte, and the police don’t take this seriously. They think it’s vandals, and they’re waiting for a handsome note or something.”
“Ransom, Rudee, a ransom note.” Sashay’s voice sounded like it was coming out in little spurts. “Tomorrow night, they’ll all be there. It’s a party for the new owner.” She didn’t hide her disgust. “I can’t get too close. They all stop talking when I come by and say rude things under their breath, and I think it’s just a matter of time before they try to get rid of me anyway.”
Rudee was shaking at this point, but before he could offer to defend Sashay’s honour, I jumped in. “Let me go. You can get me in ... somehow. They wouldn’t suspect me.” Rudee was shaking his head