“When does that happen, once a month?” Dillon took the key, gave him his twenty francs and went upstairs.

The room was as disgusting as he expected even in the diffused light from the landing. He closed the door, moved carefully through the darkness and looked out cautiously. There was a movement under a tree on the river side of the road. Gaston Jobert stepped out and hurried away along the pavement.

“Oh, dear,” Dillon whispered, then lit a cigarette and went and lay on the bed and thought about it, staring up at the ceiling.

Pierre, sitting at the bar of Le Chat Noir waiting for his brother’s return, was leafing through Paris Soir for want of something better to do when he noticed the item on Margaret Thatcher’s meeting with Mitterrand. His stomach churned and he read the item again with horror. It was at that moment the door opened and Gaston hurried in.

“What a night. I’m frozen to the bone. Give me a cognac.”

“Here.” Pierre poured some into a glass. “And you can read this interesting tidbit in Paris Soir while you’re drinking.”

Gaston did as he was told and suddenly choked on the cognac. “My God, she’s staying at Choisy.”

“And leaves from that old air-force field at Valenton. Leaves Choisy at two o’clock. How long to get to that railway crossing? Ten minutes?”

“Oh, God, no,” Gaston said. “We’re done for. This is out of our league, Pierre. If this takes place, we’ll have every cop in France on the streets.”

“But it isn’t going to. I knew that bastard was bad news. Always something funny about him. You managed to follow him?”

“Yes, he doubled around the streets for a while, then ended up at that fleapit old François runs just along the river. I saw him through the window booking in.” He shivered. “But what are we going to do?” He was almost sobbing. “This is the end, Pierre. They’ll lock us up and throw away the key.”

“No they won’t,” Pierre told him. “Not if we stop him, they won’t. They’ll be too grateful. Who knows, there might even be a reward in it. Now what’s Inspector Savary’s home number?”