“I mean—your health if you fail to tell us what we want to know!” Bastille’s green eyes flared. He was even uglier when he was angry. “You have put us to a great deal of trouble,” he went on. “We’ve searched you and this morning we searched your room. Are you going to tell us where it is?”

“It’s on the top floor of the hotel!” Tim exclaimed.

“Not the room!” Bastille swore and choked on his cigarette. “I am talking about the packet that you were given by Marc Chabrol.”

“The ex-steward,” Lavache added. He giggled, and, looking at his apelike hands, I suddenly knew how Chabrol had managed to “fall” under a train.

I’d said nothing throughout all this. I was just glad that I’d decided not to bring the packet with us. The two men must have searched Tim and me while we were unconscious. They had found nothing and it looked like they weren’t going to go back and search the hotel room a second time.

“He gave us a cup of coffee,” Tim was saying. “But we drank it. Unless you’re talking about . . . wait a minute—”

“Who are you people?” I cut in. I didn’t want him to say any more. So long as we had the packet, they wouldn’t kill us. They needed to know where it was. But the moment they heard it was hidden in the toilet, we were dead. That much was certain. I would just have to keep them talking and hope for the best. “Look . . .” I went on. “The steward didn’t give us anything. We’re just here on vacation.”

“Non, non, non!” Bastille shook his head. “Do not try lying to me, mon petit ami. I know that your brother is a private detective. I also know that he was sent to Paris by Interpol. I know that he is working on a special assigment.” His face turned ugly, which, with his face, wasn’t difficult. “Now I want you to tell me how much you know and who gave you your information.”

“But I don’t know anything!” Tim wailed.

He’d never spoken a truer word in his life. Tim knew nothing about any special assignment. He’d have had trouble telling anyone his own shoe size. And he also hadn’t realized that this was all his fault. If only he’d kept his mouth shut on the train! He’d told Jed Mathis and the old woman that he was working for Interpol. Could one of them have passed it on? Jed Mathis . . . ?

Beware the mad American . . .

It was too late to worry about that. I realized that Tim was still talking. He had told them everything. The competition on the yogurt container. The free weekend. The truth.

“He’s right,” I admitted. “We’re just tourists. We’re not working for anyone.”