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
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
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