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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.
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œWhat?” 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.”
    â€œ 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.