‘So, what are you going to do?’ asked Ian. ‘You can’t just swan in there and pretend to be their legal representative. It’s not like getting Binky off a false accusation of being attacked by a polar bear.’

  ‘Technically,’ said Friday, ‘I got Binky off a false accusation that he falsified an attack of a polar bear.’

  ‘Yes, and if you start being pedantic like that, they’ll definitely lock you up for twenty years,’ said Ian.

  ‘My mother may be self-involved, and irritatingly incapable of basic self-care,’ said Friday. ‘But I can’t let her stay imprisoned for a crime she did not commit.’

  ‘What if it’s true?’ said Melanie. ‘What if she did do it?’

  Friday sighed. ‘I find that highly improbable.’

  Melanie tilted her head to one side. ‘But as a scientific thinker,’ she countered, ‘you know that when you investigate the facts and eliminate all the impossible possibilities, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

  Friday scowled. ‘When did you learn reasoning and logic?’

  ‘It’s hard to hang out with you for four years and not pick a few things up,’ said Melanie.

  ‘I’m going to Switzerland,’ said Friday.

  ‘How are you going to get there?’ said Ian. ‘The Paris police are on the lookout for you. There’s an arrest warrant out for you. They’ll be watching the borders.’

  ‘It will be challenging,’ said Friday. ‘I’m still considering the options.’

  Suddenly they were interrupted by the sound of heavy doors clanking shut. Friday shuddered. She’d hated that sound ever since her time locked in juvenile detention. They turned to see what was going on.

  A nattily dressed man in a dark-grey suit stepped forward. He didn’t look like a police officer or even a security guard. ‘Mesdames et Messieurs, pardonnez-moi. My name is Monsieur Lamond and I am the chef here at the library,’ he announced in a loud authoritative voice. People are meant to be quiet in libraries, and yet, so often, libraries have acoustics perfectly suited to people who choose to do the exact opposite. His voice echoed around the large oval room.

  ‘Did he just say he was a chef?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Chef means boss,’ explained Friday. ‘He’s the head librarian.’

  ‘There has been a robbery,’ continued the librarian. There were a few audible gasps at this announcement, but no babble of conversation. The patrons of the library were too well behaved to speak, even after this gossip-worthy announcement. Also, people rarely come to libraries with friends. A library visit is usually a solo expedition. So even if the patrons had wanted to gossip, they would have had to overcome the Parisian inhibition against speaking to a stranger, which no Parisian wishes to do unless to say something dismissive and disdainful.

  ‘A priceless handwritten manuscript of a poem by Charles Baudelaire has been stolen. The doors have been locked. And will remain so, until this room has been searched and the document recovered.’

  As he spoke, security guards fanned out around the room, approaching groups of people.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Friday. ‘They are looking for a manuscript. Not for me.’

  ‘But if an alert has gone out for three teenagers,’ said Ian, ‘the security guards will have been notified. They might be here to search for the manuscript, but if they find three terrorism suspects they’re not going to overlook that. We should split up.’ Without standing up, Ian twisted around on his seat so he was facing the table behind them, then slid across to another seat there. He took a notepad and pen out of his pocket and pretended to be taking notes.

  ‘You should go too,’ Friday whispered to Melanie. ‘It’s me they want.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Melanie. ‘I’d much rather be arrested and be with you, than be not arrested on my own.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be on your own,’ said Friday. ‘You’d be with Ian.’

  ‘Yes, and I know he is lovely,’ said Melanie. ‘But he’s quite stressful to be with when you’re not there. He pines. And he’s such a worrier. He’s not as understanding as you are about my need to nap.’

  ‘I can still hear you,’ Ian muttered, without looking from where he was at the other table.

  ‘You see,’ said Melanie. ‘He’s very good looking, but a little clingy. I think you’ve given him abandonment issues. Probably from all the times you’ve abandoned him.’

  ‘I’ve never abandoned Ian,’ said Friday.

  ‘I know,’ said Melanie. ‘You don’t have it in you. You’re co-dependent too. Which is why I have to stay with you to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘Excusez-moi, Mesdemoiselles,’ said a security guard who had approached their table. ‘I’m afraid we will have to search through your things.’

  No-one was allowed to bring a bag into the library so there wasn’t much to search. The security guard picked up the newspaper Friday had been reading and shook it. Nothing fell out. He looked at the front page.

  ‘You are Swiss?’ asked the security guard.

  ‘No,’ said Melanie. ‘We are doing a project on international studies for our college class. My friend reads German a little.’

  The security guard nodded and moved on to Ian’s table. Friday wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but she didn’t dare make a noise that would draw attention to herself. She looked about the room.

  Most of the other patrons seemed untroubled by the search. They had gone back to their various studies. Being locked in a room they were already planning to spend the next couple of hours in was no major inconvenience. It was a beautiful room. Even the library staff looked relaxed. No doubt they would get paid overtime if they had to stay late because they were locked in. France had excellent unions. They’d probably be paid double for the inconvenience.

  The security guards had made their way around most of the patrons and had still not found anything. The focus would have to turn to searching the room and examining the furniture.

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ said Friday.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Yes, it will,’ said Friday. ‘Once they’ve searched all the people and all the furniture, they will need to search through all the books.’

  Melanie looked up at the enormous bookshelves surrounding them. Four storeys’ worth, stacked one on top of another. ‘But there must be thousands,’ she said.

  ‘Tens of thousands,’ said Friday. ‘And they will need to be searched carefully. These books are artefacts. They will have to be handled with care.’

  ‘We’ll be here for hours,’ said Melanie.

  ‘It would take days,’ said Friday.

  ‘They can’t imprison us here for that long,’ said Melanie.

  ‘No,’ agreed Friday. ‘But if they let us go, they will want to take our names and contact details. They will want to see ID. And they will run our names through the police database and . . .’ Friday trailed off.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Melanie.

  A small wad of paper hit Friday in the side of the head. Friday looked across at Ian. He had his back to her, but she realised he must have flicked it at her. She unfolded the paper.

  Do you want to make a run for it?

  Melanie read the note over Friday’s shoulder. ‘You could pretend you need to go to the toilet. One of the guards would have to accompany you. Then when they take you out, Ian and I will create a distraction by having a loud and passionate lovers’ quarrel, giving you a chance to run away.’

  Friday’s forehead scrunched up as she imagined this.

  ‘I’ll pretend I’m you and really get into character,’ explained Melanie.

  ‘No,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t want to run again. I ran here last night. Seven hundred metres of cardiovascular exercise is enough for me. It’s really unpleasant running for your life, you know?’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Melanie.

  ‘You have to go much faster than anything we ever did in PE at school,’ said Friday. ‘And I’m not wearing comfortable running clothes. I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘Then what do you want to do?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘The quickest way to get out of here,’ said Friday, ‘is to solve the crime!’

  They could hear Ian groan from his table.

  ‘You’re already imagining yourself as Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?’ said Melanie.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Friday. ‘I’ll merely aid their enquiry.’ Friday got to her feet. She held up her hand and called out, ‘Excuse me!’

  ‘Young mademoiselle, please remain seated,’ called the head librarian from the front of the room.

  ‘Sir, I volunteer myself to aid your enquiry,’ announced Friday.

  Ian groaned even louder this time.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Melanie. ‘Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books are a bad influence on you. I should ban you from reading them.’

  Friday ignored them and strode towards the librarian.

  ‘Young miss, I must insist. Please return to your seat until the search is complete,’ said the librarian, getting increasingly testy.

  Friday looked about. The security guards had started to search the bookshelves. She shook her head and tutted. ‘Your search is complete,’ she said. ‘If the manuscript isn’t among the personal possessions or hidden among the furniture it won’t be in the books.’

  ‘If it’s not in the possessions or the furniture it must be in the books,’ said the librarian. ‘It can’t have ceased to exist. We will search all the books, no matter how long it takes. And if it’s not there, we will bring in the police and they will search the people. Strip search them if necessary.’

  The patrons mumbled when they overheard that one.

  ‘But you can’t hide a manuscript on your person,’ said Friday. ‘Not without irrevocably damaging it. And anyone who wanted to steal it – whether for profit or personal possession – would not want to damage it. You couldn’t hide it in a book without folding it, and that would cause damage too. Every time you fold a piece of paper, microscopic pieces of fibre are torn, stretched and weakened. That’s why it’s easier to tear paper along a fold line. No-one who actually wanted the manuscript would do that.’

  ‘Perhaps someone stole it to destroy it,’ said Melanie. She had followed Friday over.

  ‘That would be an unusually specific form of vandalism,’ said Friday. ‘If you wanted to damage the library’s collection, it would be much better to simply set fire to something.’

  ‘Young lady!’ exclaimed the librarian. ‘How dare you make such a suggestion.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Friday. ‘Fire would be stupid. The punishment for arson is severe. And it is risky. If you started a fire, then became trapped in the building yourself, that would be very dangerous. No, if you wanted to seriously damage the collection it would be much better to use water.’

  The head librarian gasped. Every curator of rare manuscripts knows – water is the enemy of paper.

  ‘You could simply trip with an extra-large frappuccino in your hand and spill it all over an exhibit,’ said Friday. ‘Or, if you wanted to be more subtle, throw some corrosive acid up on the roof. The acid eats through the roofing materials. Water starts to leak in. One hour of heavy rain and BAM! A hundred gallons of water pours in all over the collection.’

  ‘I’m calling the police!’ announced the librarian. ‘You are sowing the seeds of vandalism with this outrageous speculation.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Friday. ‘I know where the manuscript is.’

  ‘Then why don’t you just tell us!’ cried the exasperated librarian.

  ‘Good question,’ muttered Ian.

  ‘I’ll do better than that,’ said Friday. ‘I’ll show you. Do you have a ten euro note?’

  ‘You want me to give you money?’ asked the librarian.

  ‘I want you to lend me money for a demonstration,’ said Friday. ‘If you don’t recover the manuscript, your job is going to be on the line. Surely saving your job is worth ten euros to you?’

  The librarian glowered a glower of pure loathing. ‘When the Richelieu reopened, I begged the board to make the age limit for entry over twenty-five, but no-one would support me. I see now, I was entirely right.’ He took out his wallet and handed Friday the bank note.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Friday. ‘So, imagine I stole this.’ Friday held up the bank note so everyone in the room could see. She was getting in the swing of the theatrics.

  ‘We don’t have to imagine,’ said Melanie. ‘If you don’t give it back, you did.’

  ‘The question to ask is – how would I smuggle it out of this room?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Put it in the librarian’s wallet and get him to smuggle it out for you,’ suggested Melanie.

  ‘That’s actually not a bad idea,’ said Friday.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Just tell me where my manuscript is!’ demanded the librarian. ‘Or I won’t call the police, I will kill you with my bare hands.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Melanie. ‘Librarians have so much suppressed rage.’

  ‘The answer is right behind you,’ said Friday, pointing to the enquiry counter. Everyone turned to look at it, to see if the manuscript was lying on the desk. But there was nothing there. It was as neat as a pin. There was a stack of blank enquiry forms and a pen chained to the desk but nothing else at all.

  ‘We searched the desk already,’ said the librarian.

  Friday walked around behind the counter. ‘Yes, but you wouldn’t have found anything because the manuscript isn’t here.’

  ‘What?’ said the librarian. ‘You just said the manuscript was there! Are you talking in riddles?’

  ‘She always does,’ said Melanie.

  ‘There is another obvious thing that isn’t here but should be,’ said Friday.

  ‘Friday, the librarian is going to have an aneurism if you don’t explain,’ warned Ian.

  ‘That is an enquiry desk,’ said Friday. ‘When customers come in and they want to look at a manuscript, they write down what they want on a slip, then they hand the slip to the librarian on duty.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the head librarian. ‘Every national library in the world has the same system. That’s how libraries work.’

  ‘But where is the librarian who handles the enquiries?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Huh?’ said the head librarian.

  ‘It’s ten o’clock in the morning,’ said Friday. ‘People come in the morning, ask to see the manuscripts they want to study, then they spend the rest of the morning studying them. This must be the busiest time of day for the librarian manning the enquiry counter. And yet, no-one is there.’

  The librarian scanned the room. There was a mousey young woman in the far corner. She held up her hand. ‘I’m over here. I was just returning some books to the stacks.’

  ‘There, you see,’ said the head librarian, pointing at his junior staff member. ‘Easily explained. Now go back to your seat and stop hindering this investigation.’

  ‘But that is further evidence,’ said Friday. ‘When a criminal commits a crime, it is instinctive to get as far away from the scene as possible. That’s hard to do in a locked room. But this is a very large, locked room. So our criminal instinctively went to the far side of the room.’

  ‘What?’ said the junior librarian.

  ‘I’m sorry to drop you in it,’ Friday called over to the junior librarian. ‘I’m sure you’ve got your reasons. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my day trapped in here. Make sure you get a good lawyer. And perhaps a psychiatrist, to say you’re mad.’

  The junior librarian didn’t move. She watched Friday like a deer in the headlights.

  Friday turned to a tube on the wall.

  ‘This is part of the Richelieu’s pneumatic system,’ said Friday, pointing to a pipe. ‘Aside from the architectural beauty of this room, these pipes are themselves famous. The Richelieu library was one of the first places in the world to use a pneumatic messaging system. Using a vacuum, you could transport documents at a speed unrivalled until the invention of the internet two hundred years later.’

  ‘So?’ asked the librarian. ‘The pneumatic system has been out of operation for a hundred years. It’s just an old pipe. We’d rip it out if it wasn’t heritage listed.’

  ‘Behold,’ said Friday. There was a small hatch on the side of the pipe. Friday opened the hatch, held up the ten euro note, then tucked the note into the hole. It was immediately sucked out of her hand.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed the librarian. ‘Someone turned the pneumatic system back on.’

  The junior librarian ran to the locked glass doors at the far end of the room and threw herself at them. She must have assumed she would crash through. That sort of thing happens all the time in movies. But in real-life, award-winning buildings holding priceless collections use toughened glass in their doors. And toughened glass does not smash that easily. The junior librarian bounced off the glass and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Three security guards rushed over to grab her.

  The head librarian was inspecting the tube. ‘But where did it go?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t know everything. Just most things.’

  ‘But my ten euros!’ said the librarian.

  ‘Just follow the pipe,’ said Friday. ‘It might take you a while. This is a complicated building. But eventually you’ll find your euros and the manuscript. Or you might try asking your member of staff.’

  The head librarian strode over to where the junior librarian was being restrained. Friday started to follow him.

  Ian took Friday by the hand. ‘Come on, you’ve created your own distraction. This is where we should slip away.’

  It took fifty minutes for Friday, Ian and Melanie to walk to the train station. They probably could have arrived faster, but Friday insisted they weave through the small, crowded streets of the Pompidou district. She didn’t want to walk along the Seine River where the footpaths were wide, but there were plenty of police everywhere. And she definitely wanted to avoid the police headquarters near Notre Dame Cathedral, where to see police wearing flak jackets and carrying semi-automatic weapons was a normal thing.