“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 packet 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 sugar 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 lightbulb hung on a short cord 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.