The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle by Christopher Ward Read Free Book Online Page A

and bars were still buzzing, and the lights on the beautiful Opera Garnier gave it a storybook glow. We continued on through a seedier part of the city toward the giant train station, Gare St. Lazare. We stopped at the end of a short bridge overlooking the rows of darkened railway tracks, and Rudee switched off the taxi lights.
    â€œIt doesn’t look like much, but this is my first memory of Paris.”
    Sashay gave me an “I’ve heard this before” look as he continued mysteriously, “Everything old is in the eye of the dog.”
    I think Sashay coughed to hide a laugh, and we sat silently for a while. The night’s events were coming back in a rush to me; the delicious fog that Sashay’s show left had lifted. I tried to tell them everything I could recall about the “Shadows” and Louche, their leader. Rudee clenched his fists and gritted his teeth when I got to the part about Les Invalides.
    â€œSnakethieves,” he spat out.
    When I reached the part about recognizing Luc Fiat, Rudee stopped me. “You must be mistaken, Mac; Fiat works for the mayor’s office, and he is in charge of the campaign to polish up Paris.”
    I tried to tell him that I really was sure, but I had to admit that I hadn’t been that close to Fiat on the day of the rally. When Sashay said, “It was very dark on the balcony, non ?” I started to wonder myself what I had seen.
    As Rudee switched on the headlights and eased back into the traffic, I asked about “Shadowcorps.” He glanced at Sashay in the mirror and said, “That’s the monstrous new building in Les Halles, isn’t it? The ugly-as-snot light-reflecting one?”
    She wasn’t listening, instead looking out the window at the couples laughing arm in arm as they walked past the lights of the late night brasseries and bars.
    Rudee caught my eye in the mirror and added, “I’d avoid that place like the flu, Mademoiselle Mac.”
    We dropped Sashay off outside the scarf museum and returned to Rudee’s rooms at the Église Russe. “Hungry?” he asked, and without considering what that might bring, I said, “Yes, starving!”
    He served himself a bowl of something pungent and steamy and made me a sandwich and a salad of some-thing called m â che , which was better than it sounded, with cherry tomatoes. Had food ever tasted this good before? He chopped a pear and placed it between us.
    â€œSo, you see a career for yourself as a cigarette girl, Mac?” He grinned at my look of disgust as I recalled the scene at the club and sniffed my hair and clothing. “Well, at least as a detective.” He seemed pleased with the evening’s efforts. “But that’s it for your little sniffer. I will call Magritte in the morning and let him know everything.”
    To me it felt like a jigsaw puzzle in which we’d found a few pieces that fit together, but even the frame was scattered in bits.
    I climbed the steps to my room and fell onto my bed. Maybe it was the fact that my hair was over my face and smelled like an ashtray that woke me up some hours later, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. I stared out the window at the now-quiet city and watched the light revolving around the Eiffel Tower, hoping it might lull me to sleep, but instead it was my thoughts that spun slowly. I pulled on my jacket. Maybe I’d just catch a little night air. Of course, I had a pretty good idea of where Les Halles was. I tiptoed past Rudee, snoring happily, his hands in his gloves resting on the blanket, keeping the music in.

Thirteen
    The shops at Les Halles were long closed, but there were lots of stragglers on the streets in the area, some stumbling home from a long night of lifting glasses and emptying them, some looking for a quiet doorway to rest in until morning. This was a different Paris than the one I’d been shown so far, sadder and lonelier.
    At night, with the lights