The girl in the striped apron unfurled Peppi’s hair from six little rollers and brushed it so that it curled across the cushions. She teased a halo of fur into shape around his face and then, sheltering his eyes with her palm, picked up a cut-glass perfume bottle and spritzed his fur so that it shone beautifully in the light. Madame Belfourte clapped her hands and declared him to be perfect. The woman in black sighed and, picking up a camera from a nearby table, began to take picture after picture.
“This must be the famous Zelie,” Maximilian said, watching the woman tweak the roses near Peppi’s face and smooth a lock of his hair into a wave across the front of the cushion. She worked quickly, moving round the room to photograph him from above, looking up into the camera, then from low down, tilting a lamp to catch his face half in shadow. Finally, she stepped back and declared that she was finished.
“Unless…” she said, glancing round the room. She picked up a mirror and turned to Madame Belfourte.
“I wonder if we should try a picture of Peppi by the window,” she said. “The light can be so lovely at this time of day.” She clicked her fingers at the maid, who moved to pick up the cushion that Peppi was resting on and turned to the window.
“You seem to have a visitor, Madame,” Zelie said, spying Maximilian.
“Oh, it is the little cat from yesterday!” cried Madame Belfourte, moving to the window. “The one who is such a good friend of our Madame Emerald.”
Maximilian glanced to his right and realised that Oscar had slipped away. He never did much like to be around humans.
“What is it doing here?” asked Zelie.
“Perhaps he came to see Peppi have his photograph taken,” said Madame Belfourte. “Perhaps he hoped you would take his photo too.”
She laughed, but Zelie tilted her head to one side. “Well, he is rather handsome,” she said. “Not as handsome as Peppi, naturally,” she added quickly, sensing Madame Belfourte bristle.
“I will pay for a portrait of him as a gift to Madame,” said Madame Belfourte. “She would love a picture of her little friend, I’m sure.”
Zelie nodded. She reached out of the window and in an instant Maximilian felt himself being lifted inside and deposited on a bright-blue stool by a piano.
“There,” said Zelie. “Quite a contrast.”
While the maid was arranging Peppi on his cushion by the window, Zelie fussed around Maximilian, teasing his hair out so that it looked extra fluffy. Maximilian began to wish that he had spent a little more time on his third groom this morning and that he had paid a little more attention to how grubby his paws were getting in the city streets He shook his tail out to make sure that it looked its best and lifted his chin to show Zelie what a noble, elegant cat should look like.
“Wonderful,” she breathed and clicked away with her camera. Maximilian beamed. He glanced over at Peppi, but the little cat was not smiling back at him. Peppi looked most put out at no longer being the centre of attention. The maid who was combing his hair pulled a little too tightly and Peppi batted her rather petulantly with his paw.
“Oh, my poor darling,” cried Madame Belfourte. “He is becoming tired, the precious baby.” She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and tutted. “I think maybe we have taken too much of your time, Mademoiselle,” she said and, signalling to the maid that it was time for Maximilian to be put out, she swept Peppi into her arms. Maximilian found himself deposited outside, and the window was firmly closed behind him.
He peered through at Peppi and Madame Belfourte. Madame Belfourte was all smiles, directing her maids to help Zelie with her bags. Peppi was smugly happy that he was, once again, in the spotlight. But Zelie did not seem at all pleased. Her eyes strayed to the window once or twice while she and Madame Belfourte were talking, and Maximilian could tell that she was annoyed. Well, that was to be expected. The opportunity to photograph as handsome a cat as Maximilian would not come along every day. He whisked his tail in the air and leapt from the sill, feeling very pleased with himself.
Maximilian was still preening the next afternoon while Sylvia and Agnes bustled around, helping Minette get ready for the concert. Oscar had muttered something about Maximilian’s head “taking up too much room” and had left for the roof to take in the Paris sights.
Agnes was pinning Minette’s hair into a smart chignon and Sylvia was perched on the dressing table, painting the girl’s nails with a pastel-pink varnish. On the dressing table was a coil of the shimmering lace that Mrs Garland had bought. She had cut a length as a present to Minette and promised to come back and pin it round the neckline of her dress before the concert.
“You really don’t have to do this,” Minette said, smiling at her reflection in the mirror.
“Mnf, we do,” said Agnes through a mouthful of hairpins.
“Well, if you can get me looking one tiny bit as beautiful as Maximilian, it will be worth it,” the girl said. “Just look at that tail of his! I don’t know how he keeps it so splendid.”
Maximilian beamed and drew his tail round himself with pride. After the photographic session he had felt much less like a clumsy Maximilian and more like an elegant, sophisticated Maximilian. His tail had been treated to no fewer than four grooms before lunch and six afterwards and he was sure that it looked its very best, fluffy and shining.
“Don’t encourage him. He’s already far too full of himself,” Sylvia muttered, rather spoiling the moment.
There was a knock on the door of the dressing room and Agnes leapt to open it. One of the stagehands stood in the doorway, holding a large flat envelope.
“Madame Emerald said to give this to one of you young ladies,” the boy said, looking admiringly at Minette. Agnes took the envelope and turned it over.
“Oh, Sylvia, look. It’s addressed to ‘the handsome cat of Madame Emerald’!” she cried. She slid a hand into the envelope, drew out a flat piece of paper and gasped.
“It’s a portrait of you, Max. Whenever did you have this taken?”
Sylvia held up the picture so that everyone else could see it. Maximilian sat perched on a bright-blue cushion. His fluffy white tail draped beautifully across the soft folds of the fabric and his eyes gazed wide and gleaming out of the photograph. In the corner was a signature written in a bold, brisk hand.
Sylvia read the back of the photograph.
“Cher Madame, I hope you will accept this photograph of your favourite young gentleman.”
“It’s beautiful, Max,” Sylvia said. “I think we should give it back to Madame, though, don’t you? After all, we’ll have the original back with us in London.”
Minette stood up, gave the daintiest of blows on her nails and held her hands out to admire them.
“They look wonderful!” she declared. “And your lovely Mrs Garland has promised to help me make my dress look a little different.” She smiled at Sylvia and Agnes. “You’ve been so kind. I didn’t think I stood a chance in this competition. I only entered this year because Madame Belfourte removed the entrance fee. It was astronomic and only the best families could afford it. I don’t think that Monsieur Pierre is happy about it at all. Well, thanks to you, I haven’t looked too shabby. As soon as the concert is done, I am going to take you to see the city at its best, at night. We can go and see all the sights, and I’ll take you to my favourite café.”
Agnes gasped. “Paris by night! How romantic!” she cried.
Minette was as good as her word and, after the evening’s concert was done, she swept them off to explore. She pointed out all her favourite spots and told them stories about the many landmarks they passed that rivalled even Oscar’s tales. They wandered along the banks of the Seine, where Maximilian and Oscar felt a little resentful that there were so many rats to chase but no time to do so if they wanted to keep up with the humans. They admired the Eiffel Tower, lit up with thousands of lanterns, and stopped on the bridges to watch boats full of revellers pass beneath. Finally, they arrived at Theo’s, a neat café bar, overstuffed with tin
y round tables at which too many customers were crammed. It was noisy and animated, with waiters dressed in black suits and cream bow ties darting between the tables.
Minette pushed open the door and a great roar came up from a table for four, around which at least nine people were crammed. The table groaned with carafes of wine and tiny plates of exquisite puddings drizzled in caramel and cream. A lady in a green tuxedo jumped up from the chair she was sharing with a woman in a black silk dress and threw her arms around Minette.
“Ma chérie! How was the concert? Were you divine as always?” she cried. Then, spotting Agnes and Sylvia over Minette’s shoulder, she demanded to know who her new friends were. Minette introduced them all and there was a whirl as the table was rearranged and space was found for them all. Maximilian and Oscar were offered a chair between them and several customers squeezed up to allow Sylvia and Agnes to sit down.
Maximilian sniffed the air and sighed. It was thick with delicious aromas. The scent of salmon danced across the tip of his nose. Spiced almonds and honeyed apples tickled his whiskers. From across the room he caught a hint of oysters and the spark of wild garlic. He glanced at Oscar, who was carefully studying the menu propped up against a candlestick in the middle of the table.
“Max adores salmon,” Agnes was saying to the waiter who had appeared at her elbow. She looked at Oscar and frowned. “We don’t know about his friend, though…”
“Salmon would be delightful,” miaowed Oscar politely and Agnes took his miaow to mean “yes”.
“The salmon is sautéed in prawn butter,” Oscar whispered to Maximilian, pointing at the menu. “Quite delightful.”
Maximilian was watching Minette as she danced between the tables, talking with the customers at each. It was clear that she was very popular. A woman in a lace shawl pressed a small gift into her hand. A man with sideburns and the longest beard Maximilian had ever seen kissed her on both cheeks in a way that looked most tickly and threw his hands in the air, shouting, “The toast of Paris!”
At their table all anyone could talk about was how Minette was going to astound all of France with her voice. The woman in the green tuxedo was insisting to her neighbour that no one but Minette had a chance of winning the competition. The man next to her, swathed in scarves in spite of the heat of the room, declared there had not been such a voice since the great opera singer Célestine.
The salmon had just been delivered and squeezed on to the table in between seven half-eaten crème brûlées when a shout rang out from the other side of the room. “A song, Minette! A song for Theo’s!” The whole room cheered in agreement and there was more hurried moving of the furniture while space was made for an old man at a rather rickety piano. Minette was swept up on to a chair and, beaming around the room, she gave a little cough to clear her throat.
“Thank you all, my dear friends,” she said. She motioned towards the man with the long beard. “I will sing this song for Monsieur Benedict. It reminds him of his wife when they were young together. It is an honour to sing it.”
She nodded to the piano player and they began. It was a song of exquisite sweetness, perfectly suited to Minette’s voice.
The audience hung on every note and when, at the last, Minette sang out a pure high note that tinkled against the wine carafes and danced round the glasses, there was a moment of silence and then the whole café rose to its feet in applause.
Maximilian looked round. Everyone seemed to be blinking back tears or dabbing their eyes. He glanced at Agnes, who was openly bawling, and Sylvia, who whisked a finger across her eyelashes and called out, “exquisite”. Even Oscar appeared to have lifted a paw to his one good eye. Maximilian stared at Minette and was again sure of one thing. She had to win the competition. She was “The Voice of Paris”.
Everyone slept a little late the next day and it was not until nearly noon that they arrived at the concert hall to discover Madame Belfourte in an agony of worry, having read in the papers the report of the kidnapping of Summer Rose. She had taken to carrying Peppi everywhere she went and insisting, however much Pierre resisted, that the little cat could not be left backstage.
“We can clear a space for him on the desks at the front of the stage,” Madame Emerald assured Pierre. “Or even … under?” she suggested, but the look of thunder on Madame Belfourte’s face made it clear that Peppi would not be reduced to sitting on the floor. Monsieur Lavroche offered to have Peppi in the box that he shared with Mrs Garland, but however much he assured her that they would look after Peppi just as well as they looked after Maximilian, Madame Belfourte would not be moved. Peppi was to stay with her.
Shaking his head in bemusement at all the fuss, Oscar crept off for a walk on the roof and Maximilian settled down under Madame Emerald’s judging desk, ready to be delighted by the evening’s concert and determined to think about what he and Oscar could do to investigate. It was a very difficult case. He had no suspects, no real clues, and no idea of what to try next. Maximilian sighed. Maybe he really would have to leave it to the gendarmes. How disappointing that would be.
Minette was first on stage. For a moment Maximilian thought that she had acquired a new dress, but then he realised that she was wearing the same one as before, cleverly tweaked so that the skirt fell in a cascade from one hip, and with Sylvia’s beaded cream chiffon cape draped over her shoulders. Mrs Garland must have worked her magic once again to help Minette. Maximilian felt glad to have such kind and thoughtful humans as his dearest friends.
After Minette had finished singing a beautiful aria about a fairy-cursed milkmaid, Albert took to the stage. Beaming round the audience, he espied a particularly cheerful-looking lady in one of the boxes and directed his song towards her. The whole audience was charmed by Albert and as he finished his song and whisked a kiss to the lady in the box, the audience rose to its feet, the sound of applause thundering round the auditorium. Albert swept a glance around the room, smiling his thanks to everyone from the society gentlemen in the front stalls to the families crowded into the standing room galleries in the upper reaches of the hall. Ordinarily, Maximilian would have joined in, waving his tail enthusiastically in recognition of Albert’s wonderful performance, but just as he was rising to his paws something caught his eye. To either side of the stage were doors hung with thick curtains through which ushers with trays of chocolate and ices would come during the intervals. A small, slender hand had slipped through the slit of the curtains, a plump filet of beef dangling from its fingers.
Maximilian’s mouth began to water. He took a step towards the morsel, but before he had moved even one cat-length the sour smell of it hit his nose and he felt his fur stand on end. Before he could miaow his “stay away from the beef, it could be drugged” miaow, he saw Peppi slip from Madame Belfourte’s table and pad across towards the curtain. Madame Belfourte, deep in conversation with Madame Emerald, did not notice as her precious Peppi crept away from her. With a roar of “I will save you!” Maximilian dashed towards the curtained door and, overtaking Peppi, sprang at the mysterious hand and sank his teeth and claws into it. There was a shrill cry of pain and the hand was whipped away. Maximilian and the beef fell to the ground, where the first struggled to his feet and the second was set upon by Peppi. Maximilian pushed his head through the curtain, hoping to see who had been trying to lure Peppi away, but all he saw was a figure dressed all in black flitting round a corner and out of sight. Maximilian was about to give chase when he felt himself being lifted in the air by satin evening gloves and turned to see the lovely face of Madame Emerald.
“What on earth are you up to now, Max?” Madame asked.
Maximilian began his “pardon me, but I need to apprehend a dastardly villain so would be very grateful if you could put me down” miaow (one of his most complicated) but was drowned out by a shrieking from Madame Belfourte.
“Peppi!” she cried. “My darling Peppi! What has happened to him?”
Peppi lay motionless at her feet.
After that th
ere was a great deal of fuss. The thin-faced judge, Pierre, sprang up to the stage and announced that there would be a short interval before the next two performances. One of the stage crew descended on the comatose form of Peppi with a blanket and bore him away backstage, followed by a still distraught Madame Belfourte. A vet was called for and Madame stroked the grey cat’s face, begging him to wake up. But Peppi’s eyes remained closed and he did not stir even when Madame Belfourte softly sang the lullaby that she said was the little cat’s favourite.
They had an anxious wait for the vet, a jolly-looking man who Maximilian suspected had been interrupted during his evening meal, if the fresh gravy stains on his waistcoat were anything to go by. There was another wait while he listened to Peppi’s chest with a stethoscope and sniffed his breath. Finally, he patted Madame Belfourte on the arm and declared that in his opinion “this cat has been drugged.”
Maximilian felt his tail tingle. He had been right! If only Madame Emerald had not stopped him from chasing after the perpetrator, he would have solved the crime by now. Instead he was sat in Madame’s arms, being fussed over by Sylvia, who was worried that he might have eaten some of the beef himself. As if he would be so silly! Wriggling free, he leapt to the floor and dashed away to find Oscar.
“It was a very bold move,” Oscar mused. “To actually make an attempt on a cat while their owner is in sight. Our thief is getting braver.”
“Or more reckless,” Maximilian said. “The other thefts all took place when the owners were safely out of the way.”
The Catnap Caper Page 4