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 train station 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 carpetbag. 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 line 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 subway.”

I didn’t even bother to argue. I knew a little French—I’d been learning it from a little Frenchman who taught at our school—and I knew, for example, that metro was the French word for subway. On the other hand, I didn’t know the French for idiot, which was the English word for Tim. I picked up the bags and prepared to follow him when suddenly we found ourselves interrupted.

It was Marc Chabrol. The French steward had reappeared and was standing in front of us, blocking our way. He was terrified. I could see it in his bulging eyes, the sweat on his cheeks, the yellow-and-black bow tie that had climbed halfway up his neck.

“I have to talk to you, monsieur,” he rasped. He was speaking in English, the words as uncomfortable in his mouth as somebody else’s false teeth. “Tonight. At eleven o’clock. There is a café in the sixth arrondissement. It is called La Palette . . .”

“That’s very nice of you,” Tim said. He seemed to think that Chabrol was inviting us out for a drink.

“Beware of the mad American!” The steward whispered the words as if he were too afraid to speak them aloud. “The mad American . . .!”