A second later there was a crackle and Snape’s voice came, amplified, from the helicopter. “Put the gun down, Hoover! The car is surrounded!”

Hoover swore in Ukrainian, and before I could stop him he had twisted around and fired at the helicopter.

I threw myself at Hoover.

He fired a second time. But his aim had gone wild. The bullet hit Fiona in the shoulder. She screamed and fell to her knees.

Hoover, with my hands at his throat, crashed into the window. This one didn’t break. I heard the toughened glass clunk against his un-toughened skull. His eyes glazed and he slid to the ground.

I turned to Tim. “Are you all right, Tim?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m fine.” He pointed past the helicopter. “Look! You can see Trafalgar Square!”

It took another fifteen minutes for the car to reach the ground. At once we were surrounded by uniformed police officers. Hoover and Lee were dragged out. They’d spend a few days in hospital on their way to jail. The helicopter with Snape and Boyle in was nowhere to be seen. With a bit of luck a strong gust of wind would have blown it out of London and maybe into Essex. The trouble with those two was that no matter how many times we helped them, they’d never thank us. And I’d probably end up with a detention for missing a day of school.

“We’d better go to the Ritz,” I said.

“For dinner?” Tim asked.

“No, Tim. Joe Carter . . .”

*  *  *

The American was still waiting to hear about his best friend, Lenny Smile. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the bad news to him. Maybe I’d leave that to Tim. After all, discreet was his middle name.

It had stopped raining. Tim and I walked along the South Bank, leaving the London Eye behind us. There were workmen ahead of us, shoveling a rich, black ooze onto the surface of the road. On the pavement, a tramp stood with an upturned hat, playing some sort of plinky-plonk music on a strange instrument—a zither, I think. I found a dollar and dropped it into the hat. Charity. That was how this had all begun.

“Tar!” the tramp warned, pointing ahead.

“Don’t mention it,” Tim said. His foot splashed down in a puddle of it. We crossed the river, the sound of the zither fading into the distance behind.

THE FRENCH
CONFECTION

THE FRENCH FOR MURDER

Everybody loves Paris. There’s an old guy who even wrote a song about it. “I love Paris in the springtime . . .”; that’s how it goes. Well, all I can say is, he obviously never went there with my big brother, Tim. I did—and it almost killed me.

It all started with a strawberry yogurt.