There was a buzz of voices in the corridor. I heard a dry official monotone, then Hugh's clipped English French and Nikka's smooth accent.
"But he must be on the train, Monsieur—"
"Ah, but if—"
"There can be no question he is in one of the cars. What objection—"
"There are people who sleep, women who—"
"But surely we can search—"
The woman opposite me hissed one swift sentence to Toutou, and rose, crouching towards the door. Hugh's voice, tense and passionate, thundered over the dispute:
"I don't give a damn for your rules! My friend is missing! I'm going to look—"
A hand rattled the knob of the door. Hélène ripped off her waist, dropped her skirt to the floor, and tumbled her hair over her shoulders—all in two consecutive movements. As she unlocked the door, she clutched her lingerie about her. Toutou reached up one hand, and twitched off the single light; his other hand compressed my neck and throat so that I could hardly breathe. Hélène, herself, pushed open the door.
"Why the disturbance, messieurs?" she questioned silkily in French with the Parisian tang. "In here we have illness. Is it necessary—"