“They destroyed millions of francs’ worth of antiques before our very eyes,” said Marchant, the curator. He’d followed the police van to the prefect’s house on his motor scooter. He was a sweaty, shifty-looking man with oily hair and an unimaginative body.

“I rather thought I was addressing these two villains,” said Blazer.

“But I . . .” Marchant began.

“Your negligence at letting this happen I can deal with later,” said the prefect. “Right now, I’m interested to hear the motivation behind this hooliganism.”

He walked up close to us and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he considered himself to be a threatening force. He came near enough for me to smell the wine on his breath, and I’m sure he could smell the beer on mine. He was tall and wide at the shoulders like a coffin standing on end. It was midday but he was in a dressing gown with a cravat. On his feet were the most outlandish carpet slippers. Were this a movie, the costumes department would have been chastised for its unlikely choices. It was hard for us to keep straight faces at such a sight.

“Do either of you speak French?” he asked, slowly.

“I did pick up a little at the Sorbonne,” said Civilai.

“Are you mocking me, Monsieur?” he asked.

Civilai went on to list the years of his studies, the distinctions, and finally, the honors degree in Law. I had no doubt he was more qualified than the balding fellow standing in front of us. He turned his gaze to me.

“And you?” he said.

“Siri Paiboun,” I said. “Merely a surgeon with a degree in medicine from Ancienne.”

“I can check all this,” he said. But we doubted he’d wait for the boat to come back with the answer to his inquiries.

“They should be executed immediately,” said the curator, who appeared to be in an advanced state of agitation. Blazer ignored him.

“If you are truly academics,” he said, “the act that you perpetrated today is even more inexcusable. You should be ashamed.”

“And yet we aren’t,” I said.

“Then are you both mad?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” said Civilai. “I would have to say we are mad in many ways. Only madmen would enter enemy territory and advertise their presence here in such an outlandish way. But we stand here before you with spines unbent and sanity unquestioned.”

The weight of it all seemed too much for the prefect, and he sank into an overstuffed velvet armchair. All the rest of us, including half a dozen police, two French military types, three men in ties and a token woman, were left standing.

“Then I shall give you three minutes to explain yourselves before these gentlemen take you into the yard and shoot you,” said the prefect. “I can think of no good reason for what you did at the museum.”

“There is none,” said the curator.