“That’s right, Monsieur Loire,” Tim agreed. “We’re out of here!”

“I’m afraid not.” Moire hadn’t raised his voice. If anything, he had done the exact opposite. But that’s the thing about the French. When they’re being really nasty, they don’t shout. They whisper. “You realize that I could have you arrested?” he asked.

I almost laughed. “What for?” I demanded.

“You were found in the middle of Paris, full of drugs,” the police chief explained. He sounded almost reasonable. “Two English tourists who decided to experiment with these forbidden substances . . .”

“That’s a complete lie!” I exclaimed.

“Yes!” Tim agreed. “We’re not tourists!”

“And then there is the matter of the Bateau Mouche . . .” Moire continued. “You jumped off a bridge, endangering the lives of the people on the boat. This could also prove to be drug-related.”

“What do you want, Moire?” I demanded.

Moire leaned forward. His face could have been carved out of stone. Even the cigarette smoke seemed to have solidified. “There are two things we wish to find out,” he said. “First, who is the Mad American?”

“Why don’t you ask Bastille and Lavache?” I demanded.

“They wouldn’t tell us anything. And if we did arrest them, it would only let their boss know that we were getting close . . . and that would ruin everything. The second thing we wish to know is, how are they smuggling the drugs across the Channel? As I have told you, we have searched the train many times . . . but with no success. These packets of white powder—they must be somewhere. But . . .” He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “It is infuriating!”

“What do you want us to do?” I asked.

“I want you to go back to the hotel,” Moire replied. “It will be as if nothing has happened.”

“Why?”

“Because you can be useful to me . . . on the inside. My men will continue to watch you. You’ll be completely safe. But maybe you can find the answers to the questions. And if there is anything to report . . .”

“Forget it!” I snapped.

“Right!” Tim nodded. “Bestlé only paid for four days. We can’t possibly afford it.”

“Bestlé?” For the first time Moire looked puzzled. “Who is Bestlé?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “We’re British citizens. You can’t blackmail us!”

“You don’t think so?” Moire almost smiled. “You are Europeans now, my friend. And if you don’t do exactly as I tell you, let me assure you that you will be spending a great deal of time inside a European jail.”

I wanted to argue, but I could see there was no point. The last person to argue with Christien Moire probably found himself with a one-way ticket to Devil’s Island.

He knew he’d beaten me. “Go back to Le Chat Gris and wait for further instructions,” he said. “Don’t worry about the bill. I will see to it.”