“We didn’t see much,” I agreed. “But there were some clues. A blue star. Some words in a shop window—THE FRENCH CONFECTION. And when we were tied up, I heard something. Music. Singing.”

“Do you think that was the Mad American?”

“No, Tim. It was coming from a building nearby.” I stopped, trying to remember what I had heard. “It wasn’t French singing,” I said. “It was different . . . It was foreign.”

Sitting next to me on the bed, Tim was making a strange noise. I thought for a moment that he had a stomachache. Then I realized he was trying to hum the tune.

“That’s right, Tim,” I said. “It was something like that. Only a bit more human.”

Tim stopped. I tried to think. How had the singing gone? It had been sad and somehow dislocated. A choir and a single male voice. At times it had been more like wailing than singing. Remembering it now made me think of a church. Was that it? Had it been religious music? But if so, what religion?

I’m not sure what happened first. The thought seemed to come into my mind at exactly the same moment as I found myself looking at the words The Jewish Quarter in the guidebook in my hands.

“Jewish music!” I exclaimed.

“Jewish?”

“The music that we heard, Tim. It was coming from a synagogue!”

Tim’s eyes lit up. “You think we were taken to Jerusalem?”

“No, Tim. We were in Paris. But there’s an area of Paris that’s full of synagogues.” I waved the book at him. “Le Marais. That’s what it’s called. The Jewish section of Paris . . .”

“But how big is it?” Tim asked.

I read the page in front of me:

Originally a swamp, the Marais has grown to become one of the most fashionable areas of Paris. Its narrow streets are filled with shops and boutiques including some of the city’s most elegant cafés and cake shops. The Marais is home to the Jewish Quarter with numerous synagogues and kosher restaurants based around the Rue des Rosiers.

There was a map showing the area. It had only a couple of dozen roads. “It doesn’t look too big,” I said. “And at least we know what we’re looking for. The French Confection.”

“But what is The French Confection, Nick?”

“I think it must be a shop. Maybe it sells cakes or candy or something. But once we’ve found it, we’ll know we’re right next to the factory. Find the sign and we’ll have found the Mad American.”

“And then?”

“Then we call Moire.”

*  *  *

We slipped out of Le Chat Gris down the fire escape, dodging past Moire’s men who were waiting for us at the front of the hotel. Then we dived into the nearest metro station and headed north.