The French Confection (3 page)

The river was now right in front of us with a pedestrian bridge leading over to the other side. Bastille and Lavache were already crossing the road, blocked for a moment by a bus that had slipped in between them and us.

“The river!” I said.

Tim reached into his pocket and took out his camera.

“No!” I yelled. “I don’t want you to photograph it! I want us to cross it!”

We ran onto the bridge, but I hadn’t taken more than a few steps before I saw that we’d made a bad mistake. The bridge was closed. There was a tall barrier running across the middle of it with a M
EN AT
W
ORK
sign – but no sign at all of any men actually at work. They had left their tools, though. There was a wheelbarrow, a pile of steel girders, a cement mixer … even if we could have climbed over the fence it would have been hard to get through.

“We’ve got to go back!” I shouted.

But it was too late. Bastille and Lavache had already arrived at the entrance to the bridge and were moving more slowly, both of them smiling. They knew they had us trapped. Lavache had his knife out. It was difficult to hear with the noise of the traffic, but I think he was humming.

We couldn’t go back. We couldn’t climb the fence. If we jumped over the side, we’d probably drown. This was only March and the water would be ice-cold. Just twenty metres separated us from the two Frenchmen. There was nothing we could do.

And that was when I saw the boat. It was what they called a Bateau Mouche, one of those long, elegant boats with glass windows and ceilings that carry tourists up and down the river throughout the day and night. This one was full of people enjoying a dinner and dance. I heard the music drifting up to us. They were playing a waltz, the “Blue Danube”. A strange choice considering they were on the Seine. Already the boat was slipping under the bridge. Another few seconds and it would have disappeared down towards the Eiffel Tower.

“Jump, Tim!” I ordered.

“Right, Nick!” Tim jumped up and down on the spot.

“No. I mean – jump off the bridge!”

“What?” Tim looked at me as if I was mad.

Bastille was only five steps away from us now. I ran to the edge of the bridge, hoisted myself up and jumped. Tim did the same, a few seconds behind me. I caught a glimpse of Bastille, staring at us, his face twisted between anger and amazement. Then I was falling through space with the river, the bridge and the boat corkscrewing around me. I thought I might have mistimed it but then my feet hit something and I crashed onto the deck. I was lucky. I had hit the front of the boat where there was a sheet of tarpaulin stretched out amid a tangle of ropes. It broke my fall.

Tim was less fortunate. He had jumped a few seconds after me, allowing the boat to travel a few metres further forward. I heard the glass shatter as he went feet first through the glass roof. There were more screams and the music stopped. I pulled myself up and gazed groggily through a window. Tim had landed on one of the tables and was lying there, sprawled out, surrounded by broken plates and glasses and with what looked like a whole roast duck in his lap.

“Que fais-tu? Qu’est-ce que se passe?”

A man in a blue uniform had appeared on the deck. He was staring at me in horror. It was the captain of the Bateau Mouche. There were a couple of waiters with him. I didn’t even struggle as the three of them grabbed hold of me. I wondered if they were going to lock me up or throw me over the side. Certainly it didn’t look as if they were going to invite me in for a dance and something to eat.

I twisted round and took one last look back at the bridge. Bastille and Lavache were leaning over the side, watching, and as I was dragged inside they vanished, swallowed up in the gathering gloom.

You won’t meet many thirteen-year-olds who have been locked up in prisons on both sides of the Channel, but I’m one of them. I did time in Strangeday Hall, sharing a cell with Johnny Powers, England’s public enemy number one
^*
, and here I was in prison in Paris, this time with Tim. It was half past nine in the evening. We’d been given dinner – bread and water – but the fact that it was French bread and Perrier didn’t make it taste any better.

Miraculously, neither Tim nor I had been hurt jumping from the bridge. The captain had locked us both up in the kitchen on board the ship and by the time we docked, the police were already waiting. I suppose he must have radioed on ahead. I hadn’t tried to argue as we were thrown into the back of a van and driven at high speed through the streets of Paris. Nobody spoke English and even if they had they wouldn’t have believed us. I assumed they’d call the British consul or someone. I would leave the explanations until then.

Neither of us had said anything for a while but at last Tim broke the silence. “That’s the last time I buy a Bestlé yoghurt,” he muttered.

“It wasn’t their fault, Tim,” I said, although I knew how he felt. We hadn’t even been in Paris one day and we’d witnessed one murder, been chased by two killers and were now locked up ourselves. It was probably just as well that we weren’t planning to stay a whole week. “I just wish I knew what it was all about,” I added.

“They tried to kill us, Nick,” Tim explained. “They nearly
did
kill us!”

“I noticed, Tim. But why?”

Tim thought for a moment. “Perhaps they don’t like foreigners?” he suggested.

“No. They were looking for something. Something they thought we had.” I already knew it had to be tied in with Marc Chabrol, the steward we had met at the Gare du Nord, and the sachet of sugar he had given us. But what could be so important about a packet of sugar? It was still in my back pocket. I reached in and took it out. “This is what they were after,” I said.

“Sugar?”

“Unless there’s something else inside…”

I was about to open it there and then but at that moment the door opened and a young policeman with close-cropped hair and glasses walked in. I slipped the sachet back into my pocket. I could always examine it later.

“This way, please,” the policeman said.

He led us back out and down a corridor, then into an interrogation room that smelled of cigarette smoke. There was a table and three chairs but nothing else, not even a window. A naked light bulb hung on a short flex from the ceiling. The policeman gestured and we all sat down.

“You are English,” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. The man obviously had a first-class brain.

“This is an outrage!” Tim exclaimed. “You can’t keep us here. I demand to speak to the British ambassador! If the British ambassador is busy, I’ll speak to his wife.”

The policeman leaned forward. “First of all, monsieur, I can keep you here for as long as I wish,” he said. “And secondly, I doubt very much that the British ambassador would be interested in you. Or his wife!”

“Why wouldn’t he be interested in his wife?” Tim asked.

The policeman ignored him. “You and your small brother have caused great damage to one of our Bateaux Mouches,” he went on. “It is most fortunate that nobody was injured. I wish to know why the two of you jumped off the bridge. You were trying to commit suicide, perhaps? Or could it have been a joke?”

“It was no joke,” I said. “There were two men trying to kill us…”

The policeman looked at me in disbelief.

“It’s true,” I went on. “They said their names were Bastille and Lavache. They had a knife…”

“Tell me your names,” the policeman commanded. He took out a notebook and prepared to write.

“I’m Tim Diamond,” Tim said. “You may have heard of me.”

“No, monsieur…”

“Well, I’m a well-known detective back in London.” Tim pointed at the notebook. “That’s the capital of England,” he added, helpfully.

The policeman paused and took a deep breath. He was getting older by the minute. “I am aware of that,” he said. “May I ask, what is your business here in Paris?”

“Of course you can ask!” Tim said.

The policeman groaned. “What is your business?” he demanded.

“We’re on holiday,” I told him. “We only arrived today. We’re staying in Le Chat Gris in the Latin quarter…”

The policeman looked at me strangely, as if he were seeing me properly for the first time. “Le Chat Gris…” he repeated. He closed the notebook. “Could you please wait here for a minute.”

He stood up and left the room.

In fact it was ten minutes before he returned. The moment he walked in, I noticed there was something different about him. He was brisk, emotionless. And when he spoke, he did his best not to meet our eyes. “I have spoken with my superior officer,” he said. “And he says that you are free to go!”

“How can we be free to go when we’re locked up in here?” Tim asked.

“No, no, no, monsieur. He says that you may leave.”

“They’re unlocking the door and letting us out,” I explained.

“As far as we are concerned, this incident is closed.” The policeman did the same to his notebook.

“What about Bastille and Lavache?” I asked.

“We have no record of these men. It is our view that they do not exist!”

“What?”

“You jump off the bridge for a joke or maybe as a game and you make up the story of the killers to explain your actions. That is the view of my Superintendent.”

“Well, he can’t be as super as all that,” I growled.

But there was no point arguing. For whatever their reasons, the French police had decided to let us go. As far as I was concerned, I just wanted to get out of jail. And out of Paris too, for that matter. I’d only been there for a day but so far our visit had been less fun than a French lesson – and twice as dangerous.

“Let’s go, Tim,” I said.

And we went.

It was almost eleven o’clock by the time we got back to the Latin quarter, but the night wasn’t over yet. Tim wanted to stop for a beer and I was still anxious to open the packet of sugar that was burning a hole in my back pocket. We looked for a café and quite by coincidence found ourselves outside an old-fashioned, artistic sort of place whose name I knew. It was La Palette, the very same café where the train steward, Marc Chabrol, had asked us to meet.

He wasn’t there, of course. Right now, if Chabrol was sipping coffee, it was with two wings and a halo. But there was someone there that we recognized. He was sitting out in the front, smoking a cigar, gazing into the night sky. There was no way I’d forget the hat. It was Jed Mathis, the businessman we had met on the train.

Tim saw him. “It’s Ned,” he said.

“You mean Jed,” I said.

“Why don’t we join him?”

“Forget it!” I grabbed Tim and we walked forward, continuing towards our hotel.

“But Nick! He paid for the drinks on the train. Maybe he’d buy me a beer.”

“Yes, Tim. But think for a minute. What’s he doing at La Palette?” I looked at my watch. It was eleven o’clock exactly. “It could just be a coincidence. But maybe he’s waiting for someone. Maybe he’s waiting for us! Don’t you remember what Marc Chabrol said?”

“He asked us if we wanted to buy a KitKat.”

“Yes. But after that. In the station, he warned us about someone who he called ‘the mad American’. Jed Mathis is American! He said he was from Texas.”

“You think Mathis killed Chabrol?”

“Mathis was on the train. And Chabrol ended up underneath it. I don’t know. But I don’t think we should hang around and have drinks with him. I think we should go home!”

We hurried on. Le Chat Gris loomed up ahead of us, but before we got there I noticed something else.

There was a man standing opposite the hotel. It was hard to recognize him because he was holding a camera up to his face, taking a picture. I heard the click of the button and the whir as the film wound on automatically. He wasn’t a tourist. That much was certain. Not unless his idea of a holiday snap was two English tourists about to check out. Because the photograph he had taken had been of us. There could be no doubt about it. I could feel the telephoto lens halfway up my nose.

He lowered the camera and now I recognized the man. He had been standing in the reception area that morning when we left: a dark-haired man in a grey suit.

Marc Chabrol, the steward.

Bastille and Lavache.

And now this.

Just what was happening in Paris and why did it all have to happen to us?

A car suddenly drew up, a blue Citroën. The man with the camera got in and a moment later they were roaring past us. I just caught a glimpse of the driver, smoking a cigarette with one hand, steering with the other. Then they were gone.

Tim had already walked into the hotel. Feeling increasingly uneasy, I followed him in.

We took the key from the squinting receptionist and took the stairs back to the top of the hotel. There were a lot of them and the stairway was so narrow that the walls brushed both my shoulders as I climbed. Finally we got to the last floor. Tim stopped for breath. Then he unlocked our door.

Our room had been torn apart. The sheets had been pulled off the bed and the mattress slashed open, springs and enough hair to cover a horse tumbling out onto the floor. Every drawer had been opened, upturned and smashed. The carpet had been pulled up and the curtains down. Tim’s jackets and trousers had been scattered all over the room. And I mean scattered. We found one arm on a window-sill, one leg in the shower, a single pocket under what was left of the bed. Our suitcases had been cut open and turned inside out. We’d need another suitcase just to carry the old ones down to the bin.

Tim gazed at the destruction. “I can’t say I think too much of room service, Nick,” he said.

“This isn’t room service, Tim!” I exploded. “The room’s been searched!”

“What do you think they were looking for?”

“This!” I took out the packet of sugar. Once again I was tempted to open it – but this wasn’t the right time. “This is the only thing Chabrol gave us back at the station. It must be the object that Bastille was talking about.” I slid it back into my pocket, then thought again. It seemed that Bastille was determined to get his hands on the sugar. I wouldn’t be safe carrying it. It was better to leave it in the hotel room. After all, they’d already searched the place once. It was unlikely they’d think of coming back.