The Falcon's Malteser db-1

by Anthony Horowitz

  “I know,” I interrupted. Clifford liked talking. When he interviewed us, he’d talked more than we had. “I was wondering if you could help me,” I said.

  “Sure. Sure.”

  “It’s a sort of scientific question. Do you know anything about shopping?”

  “Shopping?” He frowned. “I don’t think I know anyone called Shopping. There’s Chopin . . . but he was a composer, not a scientist.”

  “No.” I sighed. “I’m talking about shops. And about bar codes. I want to know how they work.”

  Clifford ran a hand through his hair. There wasn’t that much left for him to run it through. In fact, he had more dandruff than actual hair. “Okay.” He leaned back and put his feet up on the desk. “Technology is mainly about one thing: information. The electronic storage and transmission of information. Computers store information. Satellites send information. But all this information isn’t written out like a book. No way. It’s turned into what’s known as digital information.

  “What does digital information look like? Well, in the old days it would have been a hole punched into a computer tape. There are holes in the modern compact disc, too—although they’re too small to see. And a bar code is another form of digital information. It’s as simple as that.

  “All products have a bar code on them these days. If you look at them, you’ll see that there’s a number with thirteen digits underneath it. That’s all a bar code is. A number—a unique number that can tell the computer everything it needs to know.”

  I’d taken out the box of Maltesers again while he talked. Clifford’s eyes lit up when he saw it. He leaned forward and took it.

  “Take this box,” he said. “Here’s the bar code on the bottom.” He pointed to the strip of blue-and-white lines in the left-hand corner. “Part of it would tell the computer that this is a product made by Mars. Another part of it would tell the computer that it’s a box of Maltesers, that it weighs so much and costs so much. It could even remind the shopkeeper to stock up.”

  “How does the computer read the bar code?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s all done with lasers,” Clifford explained. “There’s a sort of little window built into the counter near the cash register. The person who’s sitting there passes the box of Maltesers—or whatever—over it. Now, behind the window there’s a laser scanner. The salesclerk could use a light-emitting diode, which is the same sort of thing, but either way, the light hits the bar code. Are you with me so far?”

  I wasn’t sure, but I nodded anyway. If I’d learned one thing from science lessons at school, it was this. When scientific types start explaining things, it’s hard enough to follow. But when they start explaining the explanations, that’s when you really get lost.

  “All right.” He nodded. “The light beams hit the bar code. Now, the dark lines don’t reflect light. Only the white ones do that. So only some of the light gets reflected. And somewhere inside that little window there’s a photodetector, which is a clever machine that produces a pulse of electricity whenever you shine a light on it. Do you see? As you slide the bar code over the window, the shining light hits the lines. Some of it is reflected back onto the photodetector, which gives out a ‘bleep’ for every white line. It’s the ‘bleep’ that’s the digital information sent to the computer. Almost like Morse code. And that’s how the computer knows what the product is!”

  He stopped triumphantly and sneezed. Lauren reached out for the Maltesers and he gave them to her. She turned them over and examined the bar code.

  “Could you use the bar code like a . . . a key?” I asked. That was the word the Fat Man had used. He had said he was looking for a key.

  “Absolutely!” the journalist said. “That’s just what it is, really.”

  “But could it open something—like a safe?”

  “It depends how you programmed your computer. But the answer’s yes. It could open a safe. Play Space Invaders. Make the tea. And so on.”

  They open the . . . I’d asked the Professor what the Maltesers did, and that was what he’d said before he caught himself. It was all clicking together. A key. A code known only to the Falcon. A safe. Johnny Naples had guessed the day he went to Selfridges. Now I remembered the words he’d written down on the scraps of paper I’d found in his room. Digital . . . photodetector . . . light-emitting diode. Clifford Taylor had used them all in his explanation.

  I’d always thought that it was the Maltesers themselves that were the answer to the riddle. But I’d been wrong and I should have guessed. When Johnny Naples had bought the envelope at Hammetts, he’d done something else. He’d bought a pair of scissors. Why? To cut out the bar code. That was all he needed. He just had to feed it into . . .

  But that was one thing I still didn’t know.

  “I do hope I’ve been helpful,” the journalist said.

  “Sure,” I said. “More helpful than you’d guess.”

  “Is there a story in it?”

  I nodded. “An international master criminal, a gang of crooks, a fortune in diamonds? There’s a story all right.”

  Clifford Taylor sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t use it. It’s much too exciting for the Fulham Express. But look out for the next edition. I’m doing a very interesting piece on the effectiveness of one-way traffic systems in Chelsea.”

  “I can hardly wait,” I said.

  We left him at his desk and went back down the stairs. It was only when we got to the bottom that Lauren’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’ve left the Maltesers upstairs!” she exclaimed. “Hang on, honey . . .”

  I watched her run up the stairs and into the newspaper office. About a minute later, she reappeared, waving the Maltesers. “I must be out of my mind!” she said. “How could I leave them?”

  I thought no more of it. That was definitely a mistake.

  We were near Herbert’s flat, so I decided to go in and get some fresh clothes. It was easier for Lauren to take the subway straight to Baron’s Court, so we parted company outside Fulham Broadway Station. It was a beautiful day. Cold but with a brilliant sun. Lauren stopped outside the station almost like she was afraid to go in.

  “Nick . . .” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “What I said that night—I want you to know that I meant it. You’re a nice boy. You deserve the best.”

  I stared at her, then laughed uneasily. “What is this?” I said. “I’ll only be an hour or so. You’re talking like I’m never going to see you again.”

  “Sure.” She shook her head. “Forget it.”

  She went into the station.

  I walked all the way up the Fulham Road, past the cemetery, and on to the flat. As I walked, I thought. I understood so much now. What the Maltesers meant and why everybody wanted them. The only trouble was, if the Maltesers really were a sort of digital key, how was I to find the digital door? And there was something else that puzzled me. Who had shot Johnny Naples in the first place? My money was on the Fat Man. If it had been Gott and Himmell, they’d have told me when I was their prisoner. After all, they’d told me about Lawrence without blinking an eye. But at the same time, I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t see the Fat Man getting his hands dirty that way. It wasn’t his style. So if not him—who?

  I checked the bag. At least the Maltesers were safe. Right now that was all that mattered.

  It was around three when I reached the flat. I slipped in as quickly as I could. The fewer people who saw me go in, the better. I didn’t mean to stay there long—just long enough to pull on a fresh shirt and a new pair of socks and make a clean getaway. I went up the stairs. The office door was open. I went in.

  There were four thugs in there waiting for me. One was behind the door. He kicked it shut after I’d gone through it, so when I turned around there was no way out. I’d have given my right arm for a way out. If I hung around there much longer they’d probably tear it off anyway. The four thugs were all wearing extra-large suits. That was because they were extra-large thugs.
I was once taught at school that Man evolved from the ape and all I can say is that these four had a long way to catch up. They were big, heavy, and brutal, with unintelligent eyes and thick lips. They were all chewing gum, their lower jaws sliding up and down in unison. “Are you Nick Diamond?” one of them asked.

  “Me?” I said. “No . . . no! I’m not Nick Diamond. I’m . . . er . . . the delivery boy.”

  “What are you delivering?” a second demanded.

  “Um . . .” I was having to think on my feet. Any minute now I’d be thinking on my back. If I was still conscious. “I’m a singing telegram!” I exclaimed, brilliantly. “Happy birthday to you, happy birth . . .” I tried to sing, but the words died in my throat. The four thugs weren’t convinced. “Come on, guys,” I pleaded. “Gimme a break.”

  “Yeah—your legs,” the third one said.

  They all laughed at that. I’d heard more cheerful sounds on a ghost train. They were still laughing as they closed in on me.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” I said.

  The man behind the door was the first to reach me. He grabbed my shoulder with one hand and lifted me clean off my feet. “There’s no mistake, sunshine,” he said. “The Fat Man wants to see you.”

  IN THE FOG

  I discovered that the four thugs were called Lenny, Benny, Kenny, and Fred. Lenny was in charge. He was the one with the driver’s license. He’d parked the car outside the flat. It was a Volkswagen Bug. After we’d all piled in it I was surprised it was able to move. I certainly wasn’t. I was on the backseat between Benny and Kenny. Things were so tight that if they’d both breathed in at the same time, I’d have been crushed. The Maltesers were still in my shoulder bag, but now the shoulder bag was on Fred’s lap. Lenny was driving. I was being “taken for a ride,” as they say. And I had a nasty feeling I’d only been given a one-way ticket.

  We drove out of town, west toward Richmond. Lenny had made a telephone call before we left, so I knew the Fat Man would be waiting for me. It looked like he was going to have a long wait. These heavies really were heavy and the car could only manage thirty miles an hour on the level. Not that I was in any hurry. In fact, my only hope was that the engine would finally explode under the pressure. I could hardly see them “taking me for a ride” on a bus.

  “You can’t do this to me,” I protested. “I’m underage. I’m only a kid. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me.”

  “That’s what you think.” Lenny sneered.

  “But I’ve got money,” I said. “I could make you guys rich.”

  “Sure.” Lenny swung the steering wheel. “You can leave it to us in your will.”

  The car turned off the main road and began to follow a winding lane through what looked like the remains of an industrial complex. It was still pretty complex, but I figured it hadn’t been industrial for a hundred years. It was a network of Victorian buildings, most of them burned out. Another bit of London that was falling down.

  The lane led down to the river. Suddenly we came to the end of the blacktop and I could hear gravel crunching underneath the tires. The car bounced up and down. The four thugs bounced in their seats. The springs screamed for mercy. We drove right up to the edge of the river. Then Lenny put on the handbrake. We’d arrived.

  “Out,” he ordered.

  He’d produced a gun from somewhere and I don’t need to tell you what it was pointing at. If you’ve ever looked into the single eye of a gun barrel, you’ll know it’s no fun. The devil must have an eye like that.

  “Walk,” Lenny said.

  I walked. We’d stopped in a space about the size of a parking lot, only the bug was the only car parked there. It was another building site—more luxury houses for the Thames. But they’d only gotten as far as the foundations and a few pieces of the framework. The iron girders hemmed us in like we were on the stage of a Greek amphitheater, only there was no audience. The light was fading, and to complete the picture—or maybe to obliterate it—the fog had rolled in across the water. It carried the smell of salt and dead fish in its skeleton fingers, and when it touched my neck I shivered. I couldn’t see across to the other side of the Thames. Which meant that anyone on the other side couldn’t see me. I was alone with just about the four nastiest customers you could ever hope not to meet.

  There was a low hiss as one of them lit a paraffin lamp. It threw a circle of hard, white light. They’d set it all up in advance. I didn’t understand it—but somehow I didn’t like it much. There was a wooden chair about twelve feet away from the edge of the river and an old iron bathtub right in front of it. The bathtub was quite deep. It came to about the same level as the chair. Nearby, there was a pile of brown paper sacks. Kenny picked one up and tore it open. Gray powder flooded out. At the same time, Benny walked forward carrying a hose. Water was already spluttering out, liquid mercury in the strange, harsh light. Cement, water, a bathtub, a chair, and the River Thames. Now I understood it all—and I liked it even less.

  “Sit down,” Lenny said.

  He waved the gun toward the chair. I walked forward, the soles of my shoes squelching on the wet gravel. The four men never stopped watching me. They weren’t getting any pleasure out of this. They were just doing a job. Mind you, I wasn’t getting any pleasure out of it either—and I wasn’t being paid. But there was nothing I could do. I sat down on the chair. It was so close to the bathtub that my legs had to go in it. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Kenny and Benny mixing the cement. If I ever get out of this one, I thought to myself, I’ll take the first flight to Australia. My parents might not have been ideal company, but they’d never tried to kill me. At least, not so you’d notice.

  “Look, Lenny—” I began, trying to be reasonable.

  “Button it, kid,” he snapped.

  Kenny and Benny came over, each carrying a large bucket of wet cement. They glanced at Lenny. He nodded. As one, they tipped them over. The stuff poured out sluggishly, like cold oatmeal. It splattered down into the bath, covering my shoes and rising about five inches up my legs. I could feel it seeping through my socks. It was icy. And it was heavy, too. My shoes were pressing against my toes. They were only sneakers and already the cement was oozing through them. I wiggled my toes. Lenny pressed the gun against the side of my neck. “Keep still,” he said.

  “But it’s wet . . .” I complained.

  “Don’t worry, kid. It’s quick-drying. You keep still and it’ll set in no time.”

  Two more buckets followed the first and two more went after them. By the time Kenny and Benny had finished, the cement came all the way up to my knees. If anyone had seen me—sitting there with my legs in a bath staring out across the Thames—they’d have thought I was crazy. But nobody would see me. It was dark now. And the fog had grown thicker. Like the cement.

  Lenny wasn’t even bothering to massage my neck with his gun anymore. The cement had almost set. I experimented. Carefully I tried to lift my right foot. I couldn’t do it. That was when I began to get really afraid. Talk about having one foot in the grave—I had both feet and most of my legs. I was glued to the bathtub and I knew that any minute now they’d pick it up and drop it into the river. I—it—we would sink like a stone. I’d spend the rest of eternity in an upright position.

  They say that when a man drowns, his whole life flashes before him. Mine did that now, but it was all over in about five seconds. That made me sad. It had been a short life and I’d spent far too much of it at school.

  I heard a sort of glugging sound coming from the Thames. That made my ears prick up. A boat. It was getting closer. For a moment I was hopeful. It might be a river-police boat. Or perhaps a dredger of some sort. But Fred had been waiting for it. The gray curtains of fog were pushed aside by the bow of a sleek white cruiser. A rope was thrown out of the darkness. A gangplank was slid over the edge and made steady on the bank. The Fat Man walked down it.

  He was dressed in a dinner jacket with a mauve bow tie and a white silk scarf hanging loose around his
neck. He nodded at Fred and the others and then strolled over to me. Without saying a word, he leaned down and tapped the concrete with his knuckles. That made my heart lurch. The stuff was already solid. I couldn’t even feel my feet. He straightened up. The four thugs formed a rough circle around us. And I can tell you now, circles just don’t come any rougher.

  “No wisecracks today, Nicholas?” the Fat Man demanded. “Nothing funny to say?”

  “You’re a loony, Fat Man,” I said.

  “And you, my boy, are a fool. You were lucky to escape alive from the Hotel Splendide. But now your time has run out.”

  “What have you got against me?” I asked. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “You lied to me,” the Fat Man said. “Worse still, you defied me. I gave you forty-eight hours to find something for me. Find it you did not.”

  “Well . . .” I said. “How about a second chance?”

  He sniffed. At the same time, Fred moved forward. He’d opened the shoulder bag and taken out the Maltesers. He handed them to the Fat Man. The Fat Man looked at the bottom, holding them to the light so that he could read something. “Perfect!” he whispered. That threw me. How had he found out about the Maltesers? He’d never mentioned them before. He must have read the expression on my face because he smiled. “You’re wondering how I discovered what was inside the dwarf’s package?” he asked. He turned around to the boat. “Professor!”

  I peered through the swirling fog. A second figure appeared at the top of the gangplank and made his way unsteadily down. He stood at the edge of the circle of light, blinking at me. Quentin Quisling, the Professor. He shook his head. “You gave me the wrong box, sir,” he said in an accusing tone of voice.

  “So the Professor came to me,” the Fat Man continued. “A wise decision. A very wise decision. Did you know that the Professor designed them in the first place? You see, the Falcon needed a key—but a key that didn’t look like a key. He had too many enemies. The Professor created the bar code—”