That surprised Moire, but he tried not to show it. “The drugs arrive from Marseille,” he went on. “They are weighed and packaged somewhere in Paris. Then the Mad American arranges for them to be sent to London. We’ve been working with the English police to try to stop them. So far we have had no success in London. But in Paris we had one lucky break.”

“Le Chat Gris,” I said.

“Yes, we learned that the hotel is sometimes used by the Mad American. When dealers arrive from London to buy his drugs, that is where they stay. He meets them there. They pay him the money and then his two associates—Jacques Bastille and Luc Lavache—arrange for the drugs to be sent on the train.”

“So that’s why you photographed us!” I said. “You thought we’d come to Paris to buy drugs!”

“I know it sounds unlikely,” Moire said. “An English kid and his idiotic brother—”

“Nick isn’t idiotic!” Tim protested.

“We became interested in you the moment you reported that Bastille and Lavache had attempted to kill you,” Moire went on. “I ordered the photograph to be taken so that we could check you against our criminal files.”

“But if you thought we were criminals, why did you let us go in the first place?” I asked. It had puzzled me at the time, the policeman suddenly changing his mind and telling us we could leave.

“The answer to that is simple,” Moire said. “We still had no idea what part you had to play in all this, but you had mentioned Le Chat Gris and that was enough. It was important that the Mad American should not be aware that the police were involved. I personally ordered your release, and at the same time I made sure that we kept you under—how do you say?—surveillance. This was very lucky for you, considering how things turned out.”

“You were following us.”

“Yes. I saw you go back to the hotel, and minutes later I saw the van with the two men who knocked you out and kidnapped you. We followed the van but unfortunately lost it in traffic . . .”

“. . . so you don’t know where we were taken.”

“No. But I knew that you were in danger and I had every policeman in Paris looking out for you. One of them saw you and radioed HQ. By that time they had pumped you with enough drugs to kill a horse.”

“Why would they want to kill a horse?” Tim asked.

Moire ignored him. “We only got to you in the nick of time. Another ten minutes, and the two of you would now be in Père Lachaise.”

“You mean, another hotel,” Tim said.

“No. Père Lachaise is a cemetery.”

“Okay. You saved us, Monsieur Moire,” I said. “But now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading back to the hotel, packing, and leaving for London.”