Quelle surprise. The Maurauders were still ahead and were positioned to lead off the third leg of the rally from the parking lot beside the Pont d’Avignon. The famous bridge extended out into the water but didn’t actually go anywhere. I hoped it wasn’t symbolic of our rally efforts. Seeing how easily the Bordeaux Bombes had been eliminated reminded me that every choice was important, so I pored over the newest clue.
If you find what marks the spot, try to get there on the dot.
It seemed so simple, but so elusive. Then it hit me. “X marks the spot” was the oldest clue in the book, dating back to pirate treasure maps, but in this case it referred to a place.
“Blag, I think X in this case refers to Aix, as in Aix-en-Provence!”
“Solid work, Yankee navigator,” he said with a grin, “and ‘on the dot’ means that timing is essential, of course.”
We high-fived, feeling very confident, and were exchanging favourite Rudee-isms when we hit a slowdown outside the Avignon city limits. Just ahead, a cop car with his lights flashing was blocking the right lane. A very tanned officer in rock star sunglasses and a handlebar moustache was standing in front of his car, and we watched as he waved Margot and her teammates through. He was chowing down on a local delicacy, the Boom Burger, as he held up a hand and stopped us when we got close. Something about him was familiar and weird at the same time.
“License and vehicle registration,” he said through a mouthful. Blag handed him the papers wordlessly.
“This is a Parisian taxi. You need a supplemental permit to operate in Provence.”
“We’re on a rally, I’m not working as a taxi.”
“Hmmm, and your passenger is in the front seat; that’s a violation. And excuse me, mademoiselle, may I see that bracelet you’re wearing.”
What was it about him? I handed over Penelope’s safety pin bracelet.
“She’s my navigator, not a passenger,” said Blag tensely.
“Well, monsieur, she’s not driving, so here we call her a passenger.” He smirked, and a bit of pickle that had been trapped in his moustache found its way onto his shirt.
“Here I call that ridiculous,” said Blag, not hiding his impatience.
“Blag,” I whispered, “he’s looking for reasons to hold us up, let’s not help him.”
“Ridiculous, eh? Please wait in the car.” The cop grinned at me with mustard between his teeth. He returned to his car with the papers. Many minutes later, with the time ticking by, he returned with another Boom Burger in hand and gave me back the bracelet, covered in grease. He looked at Blag. “Step out of the car, please.”
Blag got out, fuming, and I was starting to worry about what he’d do if he lost his cool completely. He stood very close to the officer and covered him in shadow with his hulking frame.
The cop was busily writing up a ticket when he noticed something in our car. “What’s that?” He pointed with his glove at the figures on the dashboard. Blag was confused and steaming. “Is that a Viking action figure?” Blag was speechless as I noticed a price tag on the officer’s hat.
“Vikings are illegal in France.” The cop put a glove in front of his face, belched, and seemed to stifle a laugh. “They’re considered terrorists.” Blag’s lip began quivering as more precious time went by. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate Eric the Red.” He reached for the figure and Blag snapped.
“Don’t touch that barbarian, buddy. And it’s Leif Eriksson.”
I squinted and read the cop’s badge as he leaned in the car: “Playtime Police.”
“Stand back!” he shouted, and pulled out his gun. Blag froze as the cop emptied his water pistol on us, howling. He raced to his car, and as he drove off he tossed his moustache, with a chunk of tomato in it, on the road. As we pulled away, I spotted one of the Marauders’ cars beside a roundabout with a pair of grizzled competitors collapsing in laughter when they saw us.
For the rest of the drive to Aix, Blag barely spoke. I knew he was concentrating on trying to make up the time we had lost, but the incident with the “Playtime Police” gnawed at him and I think he was contemplating revenge. On whom, I wasn’t sure. I tried to cheer him up by playing his favourite music, Malade, Bloodjun, and the first album by Tonnage, the one before they sold out, as Blag had informed me, but he didn’t so much as keep time on the steering wheel.