Erica Nice snarled at us. “Yes,” she said. “I have to travel on the train now and then to keep an eye on things. Like that idiot steward—Marc Chabrol. He was scared. And scared people are no use to me.”

“So you pushed him under a train,” I said.

She shrugged. “I would have preferred to stab him. I did have my knitting needles, but unfortunately I was halfway through a wool sweater. Pushing was easier.”

“And what now?” I asked. I wondered if she was going to shoot us herself or call her two thugs to finish the job for her. At the same time, I took a step forward, edging my way toward the counter and the giant wedding cake.

“Those idiots—Jacques and Luc—should have gotten rid of you when they had the chance,” Erica hissed. “This time they will make no mistakes.”

She turned to press a switch set in the wall. Presumably it connected the shop with the factory next door.

I leaped forward and threw my entire weight against the cake.

Erica half-turned. The gun came up.

The door of the shop burst open, the glass smashing.

And as Erica Nice gave a single shrill scream and disappeared beneath about twenty pounds of wedding cake, Christien Moire and a dozen policemen hurled themselves into the shop. At the same time, I heard the blare of sirens as police cars swerved into the road from all directions.

I turned to Moire. “You followed us here?”

Moire nodded. “Of course. I had men on all sides of the hotel.”

Erica Nice groaned and tried to fight her way out of several layers of sponge cake, jam, and butter cream. Tim leaned forward and scooped up a fragment of white icing. He popped it into his mouth.

“Nice cake,” he said.

THE WHITE CLIFFS

The next day, Christien Moire drove us up to Calais and personally escorted us onto the ferry. It would have been easier to take the train, of course. But somehow Tim and I had had enough of trains.

It had been a good week for Moire. Jacques Bastille and Luc Lavache had both been arrested. So had Erica Nice. The drug factory had been closed down and more arrests were expected. No wonder Moire wanted us out of the way. He was looking forward to a promotion and maybe the Croix de Guerre or whatever medal French heroes get pinned to their right nipple. The last thing Moire needed was Tim and me hanging around to tell people the part we had played.

Moire stopped at the dock and handed us our tickets as well as a packed lunch for the crossing. “France is in your debt,” he said solemnly, and before either of us could stop him he had grabbed hold of Tim and planted a kiss on both cheeks.

Tim went bright red. “I know I cracked the case,” he muttered. “But let’s not get too friendly . . .”