The French Confection

by Anthony Horowitz

  “Where do you want to be shot?” Tim asked.

  “I don’t want to be shot anywhere! That’s why I’m going to find the Mad American before he finds us.” I started to thumb through the pages. I still didn’t know what I was looking for, but I had a good idea. “After we were knocked out, we were taken to the Mad American’s headquarters,” I said.

  “But we were knocked out!” Tim said. “We didn’t see anything.”

  “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 stomach-ache. 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 sector 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 only had 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 sweets 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.

  It was a short walk from the station to the start of Le Marais – the Place Vendôme, one of those Paris squares where even the trees manage to look expensive. From there we headed down towards a big, elegant building that turned out to be the Picasso museum. I’d studied Picasso at school. He’s the guy who painted women with eyes in the sides of their necks and tables with legs going the wrong way. It’s called surrealism. Maybe I should have taken Tim in, as he’s pretty surreal himself. But we didn’t have time.

  We backtracked and found ourselves in a series of long, narrow streets with buildings rising five storeys on both sides. But I knew we were on the right track. There was no singing, but here and there I saw blue stars – the same stars I had glimpsed as I was bundled into the van. I knew what it was now: the six-pointed Star of David. There was one in every kosher food store and restaurant in the area.

  We’d been following the Rue des Rosiers – the one I’d read about in the guidebook – but with no sign of the building where we’d been held. So now we started snaking up and down, taking the first on the right and the next on the left and so on. It was a pretty enough part of Paris, I’ll say that for it. Tim had even forgotten our mission and stopped once or twice to take photographs. We’d been chased and threatened at knife-point. We’d been kidnapped, drugged and threatened again – this time by the French police. And he still thought we were on holiday!

  And then, suddenly, we were there.

  It was on one of the main streets of the area – the Rue de Sevigny. I recognized it at once: the burnt face of the building, the broken windows, the ugly chimney stacks… And there was the archway that we had driven through. There was a courtyard on the other side which was where the white van had been parked. I stood there in the sunlight, with people strolling past on the pavements, some carrying shopping bags, others pushing prams. And none of them knew. The biggest drug factory in Paris was right in front of them, just sitting there between a café and a cake shop, right in the middle of the Marais. I couldn’t believe I had found it so easily. It was hard to believe it was there at all.

  “Nick…!” Tim whispered.

  I grabbed hold of him and pulled him down behind a parked car as Bastille and Lavache appeared, coming out of the front door and walking across the courtyard. Each of them had a heavy box in their hands. Another shipment on its way out! It made me angry that anyone should be dumb enough to want to buy drugs and angrier still that these two grim reapers would be getting richer by selling them.

  “What do we do now?” Tim whispered.

  “Now we call Moire,” I said.

  “Right!” Tim straightened up. “Let’s ask in there!”

  Before I could stop him he had walked across the pavement and into the cake shop. There was the sign in the window that I had seen from the van. THE FRENCH CONFECTION. Why did the name bother me? Why did I feel it was connected with something or someone I had seen? It was too late to worry about it now. Tim was already inside. I followed him in.

  I found myself in a long, narrow shop with a counter running down one wall. Everywhere I looked there were cakes and croissants, bowls of coloured almonds and tiny pots of jam. The very air smelt of sugar and flour. On the counter stood one of the tallest wedding cakes I had ever seen: six platforms of swirly white icing with a marzipan bride and groom looking air-sick up on the top. There was a bead curtain at the back and now it rattled as the owner of the shop passed through, coming out to serve us. And of course I knew her. I’d met her on the train.

  Erica Nice.

  She stopped behind the counter, obviously as surprised to see us as we were to see her.

  “You…!” she began.

  “Mrs Nice!” Tim gurgled. I wondered how he had managed to remember her name. “We need to use your telephone. To call the police.”

  “I don’t think so, Tim,” I said.

  Even as I spoke I was heading back towards the door. But I was already too late. Erica’s hand came up and this time it wasn’t holding an almond slice. It was the biggest gun I’d ever seen. Bigger than the wrinkled hand that held it. Its muzzle was as ugly as the smile on the old woman’s face.

  “But … but … but…” Tim stared.

  “Erica Nice,” I said. “I suppose I should have guessed. Madame Erica Nice. Say it fast and what do you get?”

  “Madamericanice?” Tim suggested.

  “Mad American,” I said. “She’s the one behind the drug racket, Tim. When we met her, she must have been checking the route. That’s why she was on the train. And that’s how Bastille and Lavache knew we were in Paris.”

  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 woollen jumper. 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 towards the counter and the giant wedding cake.

  “Those idiots – Jacques and Luc – should have got 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 leapt 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 ten kilograms of wedding cake, Christien Moire and a dozen gendarmes 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, 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 have taken 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 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 quay 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…”

  “It’s just the French way,” I said. Even so, I made sure I shook hands with Moire. I didn’t want him getting too close.

  “I wish you a good journey, my friends,” Moire said. “And this time, perhaps you will be careful what you say while you are on the ship!”

  “We won’t be saying anything,” I promised. I’d bought Tim a Tintin book at the harbour bookstall. He could read that on the way home.

  Moire smiled. “Au revoir,” he said.

  “Where?” Tim asked. I’d have to translate it for him later.

  We were about halfway home, this time chopping up and down on the Channel, when Tim suddenly looked up from the Tintin book. “You know,” he said. “We never did find out how Erica Nice was smuggling the drugs on the train.”

  “Haven’t you guessed?” I sighed and pulled out the blue sugar sachet that had started the whole thing. It was the sachet Tim had been given at the Gare du Nord. Somehow I’d never quite got round to opening it. I did so now.

  There was a spoonful of white powder inside.

  “Sugar?” Tim muttered.

  “I don’t think so, Tim,” I replied. “This is just one sachet. But Erica Nice was transporting thousands of them every day on the train. A little parcel of drugs. One dose, already weighed and perfectly concealed.” I tore open the packet and held it up. The powder was caught in the wind and snatched away. I watched it go, a brief flurry of white as it skimmed over the handrail and disappeared into the grey water of the English Channel.

  “Do you think we ought to tell Moire?” Tim asked.

  “I expect he’s worked it out for himself,” I said.

  In the distance I could see the white cliffs of Dover looming up. We had only been away for a week but somehow it seemed a lot longer. I was glad to be home.

  Tim was still holding the packed lunch that Moire had given us. Now he opened it. The first thing he took out was a strawberry yoghurt.

  “Very funny,” I said.

  The yoghurt followed the drugs into the channel. Then we went downstairs to order fish and chips.

  THE ALEX RIDER SERIES

  Alex Rider – you’re never too young to die…

  High in the Alps, death waits for Alex Rider…

  Sharks. Assassins. Nuclear bombs. Alex Rider’s in deep water.

  Alex Rider has 90 minutes to save the world.

  Once stung, twice as deadly. Alex Rider wants revenge.

  He’s back – and this time there are no limits.

  Alex Rider bites back…

  Alex Rider – in the jaws of death…

  One bullet.

  One life.

  The end starts here.

  Become an Alex Rider Insider…

  Watch videos at www.youtube.com/alexriderinsider

  Chat with other fans at www.facebook.com/alexrideruk

  Visit the website at www.alexrider.com

  He always knew he was different. First there were the dreams. Then the deaths began.

  It began with Raven’s Gate.

  But it’s not over yet.

  Once again the enemy is stirring.

  Darkness covers the earth.

  The Old Ones have returned.

  The battle must begin.

  An ancient evil is unleashed.

  Five have the power to defeat it.

  But one of them has been taken.

  HOROWITZ HUMOUR

  “Fact-tinged fiction at its gripping best.”

  Mail on Sunday

  “This is a glorious galloping adventure … Funny and gripping.”

  Scotland on Sunday

  “A hoot … Anthony Horowitz has created a scary and unmissable old hag.” Daily Mail

  “Wickedly funny.” Daily Telegraph

  “A formidably well-written adventure story…” Independent

  “The punchy style, snappy dialogue and lively pace make an attractive novel … extremely entertaining.” Irish Times

  New pupils are made to sign their names in blood… The assistant headmaster has no reflection…

  The French teacher disappears whenever there’s a full moon…

  Groosham Grange, David Eliot’s new school, is a very weird place indeed!

  “Hilarious … speeds along at full tilt from page to page.” Books for Keeps

  “One of the funniest books of the year.” Young Telegraph

  ANTHONY HOROWITZ is one of the most popular contemporary children’s writers. Both The Power of Five and Alex Rider are number one bestselling series enjoyed by millions of readers worldwide.

  When Anthony launched the Alex Rider series he created a phenomenon in children’s books, spurring a new trend of junior spy books and inspiring thousands of previously reluctant readers. Hailed as a reading hero, Anthony has also won many major awards, including the Bookseller Association/Nielsen Author of the Year Award, the Children’s Book of the Year Award at the British Book Awards, and the Red House Children’s Book Award. The first Alex Rider adventure, Stormbreaker, was made into a blockbuster movie in 2006.

  Anthony’s other titles for Walker Books include the Diamond Brothers mysteries; Groosham Grange and its sequel, Return to Groosham Grange; The Devil and His Boy; Granny; The Switch; and a collection of horror stories, More Bloody Horowitz. Anthony also writes extensively for TV, with programmes including Foyle’s War, Midsomer Murders, Collision and, most recently, Injustice. His latest novel, The House of Silk, is a brand new Sherlock Holmes adventure, written with the endorsement of the Conan Doyle Estate.

  Althou
gh abandoned by both his sons, Anthony Horowitz continues to live in Clerkenwell with his wife, Jill Green, and the ghost of his dog, Lucky. You can find out more about Anthony and his books at:

  www.anthonyhorowitz.com

  www.alexrider.com

  www.powerof5.co.uk

  “Anthony Horowitz is the lion of children’s literature.”

  Michael Morpurgo

  “Horowitz has become a writer who converts boys to reading.”

  The Times

  “A first-class children’s novelist.”

  TES

  Other Diamond Brothers books

  The Falcon’s Malteser

  Public Enemy Number Two

  South By South East

  The Blurred Man

  I Know What You Did Last Wednesday

  The Greek Who Stole Christmas

  The Alex Rider™ books

  Stormbreaker

  Point Blanc

  Skeleton Key

  Eagle Strike

  Scorpia

  Ark Angel

  Snakehead

  The Power of Five™ series

  Raven’s Gate

  Evil Star

  Nightrise

  Necropolis

  Oblivion

  Other books by the same author

  The Devil and His Boy

  Granny

  Groosham Grange

  Return to Groosham Grange

  The Switch

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.