Free The French Confection by Anthony Horowitz Page A

faster than going down the stairs…”
    We had two seats next to each other right in the middle of one of the carriages. The train was pretty full and soon we were joined by two other passengers opposite us. They were both travelling alone. The first was from Texas – you could tell just from his hat. He was chewing an unlit cigar (this was a non-smoking compartment) and reading a magazine:
International Oil
. The other passenger was a very old lady with white hair and skin so wrinkled I was amazed it managed to stay on. I wasn’t sure if she had huge eyes or extremely powerful spectacles but every time she looked at me I thought I was about to be hit by a pair of grey and white golf balls. I looked out of the window. The platform was already empty, sweeping in a graceful curve beneath the great glass canopy. Somewhere a door slammed.
    The train left exactly on time at ten minutes past ten. There was no whistle. No announcement. I wouldn’t have known we had moved if it hadn’t been for the slight shudder – and even that was Tim, not the train. He was obviously excited.
    About an hour later there was an announcement on the intercom and we dipped into the tunnel carved out underneath the sea. That was a non-event too. A car-park, a sign advertising hamburgers, a white cement wall and suddenly the outside world disappeared to be replaced by rushing blackness. So this was the engineering miracle of the last century? As far as Eurostar was concerned, it was just a hole in the ground.
    Tim had been ready with his camera and now he drew back, disappointed. “Is this it?” he demanded.
    I looked up from my book. “What were you expecting, Tim?” I asked.
    “I thought this train went under water!” Tim sighed. “I wanted to take some pictures of the fish!”
    The other passengers had heard this and somehow it broke the silence. The old lady had been knitting what looked like a multicoloured sack but now she looked up. “I love taking the train,” she announced, and for the first time I realized that she was French. Her accent was so thick you could have wrapped yourself in it to keep warm.
    “It sure is one hell of a thing,” the Texan agreed. “London to Paris in three and a half hours. Great for business.”
    The Texan held up his magazine. “I’m in oil. Jed Mathis is the name.”
    “Why do you call your oil Jed Mathis?” Tim asked.
    “I’m sorry?” Jed looked confused. He turned to the old lady. “Are you visiting your grandchildren in Paris?” he asked.
    “Non!” the lady replied.
    Tim dug into his pocket and pulled out a French dictionary. While he was looking up the word, she continued in English.
    “I have a little cake shop in Paris. Erica Nice. That’s my name. Please, you must try some of my almond slices.” And before anyone could stop her, she’d pulled out a bag of cakes which she offered to us all.
    We were still hurtling through the darkness. Tim put away his dictionary and helped himself. At the same time, a steward approached us, pushing one of those trolleys piled up with sandwiches and coffee. He was a thin, pale man with a drooping moustache and slightly sunken eyes. The name on his badge was Marc Chabrol. I remember thinking even then that he looked nervous. A nervous traveller, I thought. But then, why would a nervous traveller work on a train?
    Jed produced a wallet full of dollars and offered to buy us all coffee. A free breakfast and we hadn’t even arrived. Things were definitely looking up.
    “So what do you do?” Erica Nice asked, turning to Tim.
    Tim gave a crooked smile. It was meant to make him look smart but in fact he just looked as though he had toothache. “I’m a private detective,” he said.
    The steward dropped one of the coffee cups. Fortunately, he hadn’t added the water yet. Coffee granules showered over the KitKats.
    “A private detective?” Erica trilled. “How very unusual!”
    “Are you going to Paris on business?” the Texan asked.
    Now of