The French Confection by Anthony Horowitz Page B

course the answer was “no”. We were on holiday. Tim hadn’t had any business for several weeks and even then he had only been hired to find a missing dog. In fact he had spent three days at Battersea Dogs’ Home where he had been bitten three times – twice by dogs. The trouble was, though, he was never going to admit this. He liked to think of himself as a man of mystery. So now he winked and leaned forward. “Just between you and me,” he drawled, “I’m on a case.” Yes. A nutcase, I thought. But he went on. “I’ve been hired by Interplop.”
    “You mean Interpol,” the Texan said.
    “The International Police,” Tim agreed. “It’s a top-secret case. It’s so secret, they don’t even know about it at the top. In other words…” He gestured with his almond slice, spraying Jed with crumbs, “…a case for Tim Diamond.”
    The steward had obviously heard all this. As he put down the first cup of coffee, his hands were shaking so much that the liquid spilled over the table. His face had been pale to begin with. Now it had no colour at all. Even his moustache seemed to have faded.
    “Where are you staying in Paris?” the old lady asked.
    “It’s a hotel called The Fat Greek,” Tim said.
    “Le Chat Gris,” I corrected him. It was French for “grey cat” and this was the name of the hotel where Bestlé Yoghurts had booked us in for three nights.
    The name seemed to have an electric effect on the steward. I’d been watching him out of the corner of my eye and actually saw him step backwards, colliding with the trolley. The bottles and cans shook. Two packets of gingerbread biscuits rocketed onto the floor. The man was terrified. But why?
    “Paris is so beautiful in the spring,” the old lady said. She’d obviously seen the effect that Tim was having on the steward and perhaps she was trying to change the subject before the poor man had a heart attack. “You must make sure you take a stroll on the Champs Elysées … if you have the time.”
    “How much do I owe you for the coffee?” the American asked.
    “Thirty francs, monsieur…” The steward reached down and picked up the biscuits. The way he took the money and moved off, he could have been trying to get to Paris ahead of the train. I guessed he wanted to get away from us as fast as he could. And I was right. He didn’t even stop to offer anyone else in the carriage a coffee. He simply disappeared. Later, when I went to the loo, I saw the trolley standing on its own in the passageway.
    Twenty minutes after we’d entered the tunnel, the train burst out again. There was nothing to show that we’d left one country and entered another. The French cows grazing in the fields looked just the same as the English ones on the other side. An official came past, looking at passports. Erica Nice looked at Tim as if puzzled in some way and went back to her knitting. Jed returned to his magazine. We didn’t speak for the rest of the journey.
    We arrived at the Gare du Nord about an hour later. As everyone struggled with their luggage, Tim gazed at the name. “When do we arrive in Paris?” he asked.
    “Tim, this is Paris,” I told him. “The Gare du Nord means north station. There are lots of stations in the city.”
    “I hope you have a lovely time,” Erica Nice said. She had an old carpet-bag. It was big enough to hold a carpet – and maybe that was what she had been knitting. She winked at Tim. “Good luck with the case, mon ami!”
    Meanwhile, the Texan had grabbed a leather briefcase. He nodded at us briefly and joined the queue for the exit. Tim and I retrieved our two bags and a few moments later we were standing on the platform, wondering which way to go.
    “We’d better find the Metro,” I said. Bestlé had given us some spending money for the weekend but I didn’t think it would be enough for us to travel everywhere by taxi.
    Tim shook his head. “Forget the metro, Nick,” he said. “Let’s take the tube.”
    I didn’t