“But why Maltesers?” I asked. The information wasn’t going to be much use to me, but I wanted to know.
The Professor shrugged. “I like Maltesers,” he said.
“And now I have them.” The Fat Man smiled. The smile stretched his skin across his cheekbones like an elastic band. “And soon, very soon, the Professor will tell me what they open—”
“And then you’ll kill him, too,” I interrupted. I had nothing to lose. I was only minutes away from the end. I could feel the chill of the cement spreading through my entire body. I turned to the Professor. “You don’t think the Fat Man will share the money with you, do you?” I said. “Once you tell him your secret, you’ll be joining the line at the bottom of the Thames.”
“We’ll split the money fifty-fifty . . .” the Professor mumbled, but I could see he had his doubts.
“I’ll see you in hell, Professor,” I said.
The Fat Man was furious. His face had gone white and the veins in his neck were standing out so far they were threatening to snap his bow tie. “Throw him in!” he yelled.
He stepped back. At once, Lenny, Benny, and Kenny moved in on me. They bent down and a moment later I was in the air, bath and all, being carried toward the Thames. Don’t let me kid you. I like to think I’m smart. Sometimes I act older than I am. But right then I would have screamed and cried and torn my hair out if I’d thought for a single second that screaming and crying and tearing my hair out would do any good.
The river drew closer. The Fat Man watched. The three men shuffled forward.
They were about six feet from the edge of the water when a spotlight cut through the fog and the darkness. It came from high up, somewhere behind me. It was hard to tell. The night seemed to rip apart, torn into shreds by the beam. The fog boiled furiously in its grip. The gangsters stopped as if frozen.
There was a crackle in the air. Then a voice boomed out, amplified by a bullhorn.
“This is the police. Stay where you are. You’re surrounded.”
Lenny, Benny, and Kenny dropped me. I crashed to the ground but remained standing up. The Fat Man ran for the boat. He still had the Maltesers. The Professor stumbled after him. Lenny took out his gun and fired in the direction of the spotlight. I tried to dive for cover, but I was about as capable of that as an oak tree. There was an answering shot. Lenny was blown off his feet. His gun clattered to the ground.
“Don’t move,” the voice commanded. “We’re armed.” It was a bit late to be telling Lenny that.
The Fat Man had reached the boat and turned around, stretching out a hand for the Professor. But the Professor was nowhere near him. Half drunk and nearsighted, he ran forward, missed the gangplank, and dived into the Thames. Benny, Kenny, and Fred scattered and ran for cover. But now the whole area was swarming with men. They were throwing black shadows as they sprinted through the glare.
The Professor couldn’t swim. He was floundering in the water, shouting for help. But the Fat Man couldn’t wait. The police had almost reached the boat.
The boat’s engine roared and it swung away from the bank. At the same moment the Professor let out a ghastly scream. He’d been in the water. He’d been close to the propellers. Too close. I was glad I couldn’t see what the Fat Man had accidentally done to him.
Benny, Kenny, and Fred were arrested. I saw them thrown to the ground. The whole construction site was lit up. And I was still standing in the middle of it all, knee-deep in cement.
And then I felt the bathtub being dragged slowly toward the river. I couldn’t believe it. There was a figure squatting, struggling, pulling the bathtub along the gravel. With me in it.
But then I heard a familiar voice. Snape’s voice.
“No, Boyle,” he said. “You can’t push him in. We’ve come here to rescue him. Go to the car and get a chisel.”
IN THE BATH
Snape and Boyle drove me back to the apartment. I was cold. I was wet. And I was fed up. My pants, sneakers, and socks were ruined and my legs weren’t feeling much better. My throat was sore and my nose was blocked. They’d gotten my feet out of the cement, but I could still feel the cement in my blood and there was nothing they could do about that. And I’d lost the Maltesers. It had been a bad day. I was glad it was over. If I’d known it was going to be a day like that, I’d have stayed in bed.
They came in with me and I made them some coffee. While the kettle was boiling I tried to call Lauren. I thought she might be worried about me. But there was no answer. I flicked on the hot-water tank for a bath and went back downstairs. Snape and Boyle had made themselves comfortable in the office. I fixed us three cups of coffee and took them in. I didn’t like them and they didn’t like me. But like it or not, they’d saved my life. The least I could do was give them a cup of coffee.
“All right,” I said. “How did you find me?”
“We were watching the flat,” Snape told me. “We saw you go in and we saw you taken out. Lucky for you. We followed you to the Thames. When we saw what was going on, Boyle here called for backup on the radio.”
“Why were you watching the flat?” I asked.
Snape let out a sniff of laughter. “Why do you think? In the last few days we’ve been receiving some of the craziest reports I’ve heard in thirty years. A young boy blows up a hotel in the Portobello Road. A young boy pushes a grand piano out of a fifth-floor window. A young boy goes berserk in Selfridges and leaves forty hysterical children and a dead Santa Claus behind him. You’d think London was crawling with lethal young boys. Except they all fit the same description. Yours.”
“I can explain,” I said.
“I’m delighted to hear it. You’ve been making life very difficult for me. You’ve upset Boyle—”
“I’m upset,” Boyle agreed.
“—and you’ve done more damage than the Germans managed in two world wars. And I thought your brother was a menace!”
“Where is Herbert?” I asked.
Snape’s eyes narrowed at that. “We released him at lunchtime. We couldn’t hold him. To be honest, we didn’t want to.”
“Well, I haven’t seen him.”
I wasn’t particularly bothered just then. It was strange that Herbert should have just disappeared, but I could understand it. He’d probably gone to Auntie Maureen in Slough. He’d hide out there until the heat was off. I shivered. Herbert hadn’t paid the gas bill for the flat. The heat had been off for two weeks.
“Did he tell you everything?” I asked.
“Well, let’s just say that Herbert and canaries have a lot in common.”
Snape held out a hand. “I want the Maltesers,” he said.
“I don’t have them,” I said. “The Fat Man took them.” Snape’s eyes narrowed a little more. “If you don’t believe me, you can search my bag.”
“I already have,” Boyle muttered.
“The Fat Man took them,” I repeated. “When you arrest him you can get them from him.”
“Arrest him?” Snape twisted his neck until the bone clicked. “That may not be so easy.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a question of evidence, lad. We haven’t got anything on him. Nothing concrete—”
“What about the stuff he was burying me in?”
“You don’t understand!” Snape was distressed. “He’ll deny he was ever there. He’ll say it was a case of mistaken identity . . . in the fog. He’ll have an alibi.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “So that’s it, then,” I said. “If the Fat Man goes free, he’ll find the diamonds and that’ll be the end of it.”
“You should have given us the Maltesers in the first place,” Boyle said.
“Sure.” I nodded. “And if the Fat Man had come strolling in and claimed them as lost property, I suppose you’d have handed them over.”
That made Boyle scowl again. But Snape stood up. “You’ve got a lot of questions to answer,” he said.
“Are you arresting me?”
“No. You’ve had
enough for one day. We’ll talk to you next week. Like you say, the Fat Man has the Maltesers and that’s the end of it. We’ll be in touch.”
I showed them to the door. Snape stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
I’d forgotten until then. It was Christmas Eve. “Yeah . . . Merry Christmas, Chief Inspector,” I said. “And to you, Boyle.”
Boyle grunted. He probably didn’t even know what Christmas was.
An hour later I was lying in hot water with soap bubbles up to my neck and Herbert’s plastic duck floating around my feet. My body wasn’t a pretty sight just then. What with the ropes, the cement, and the general manhandling, I had more bruises than I cared to count. But it felt good in the bath. I needed to relax. It was time for some serious thinking.
What did the Maltesers unlock?
I knew the answer. I knew I knew the answer.
It had to be something near Herbert’s apartment. Johnny Naples had left Notting Hill Gate with the Maltesers and a pair of scissors. By then he’d found the answer. He knew where he was going and he went to Fulham. But he’d been followed—and rather than lead anyone to his destination, he’d come to us. So it had to be something near. But what was there near the apartment connected with the Falcon?
Four days later we’d found Naples dying. He’d managed to say two things: “The Falcon” and “the sun.” I assumed it was sun—with a u. Henry von Falkenberg didn’t have a son . . . at least, not one that we’d heard about. But what did the sun have to do with the Falcon? Nothing . . . unless he’d been talking about another falcon. Maybe not a man. A bird. Or a statue of a bird.
And then I thought about the Maltesers themselves and about a phrase that Clifford Taylor had used. The journalist had described the laser as “the shining light.” The sun was a shining light, too. But the phrase bothered me. I’d seen those words somewhere before. The Maltesers.
When the Fat Man had taken them, he’d looked on the bottom. I’d already tricked the Professor once. He’d told the Fat Man to find something, to check that they were the real ones. Henry von Falkenberg would have had to mark them in some way. And there was an easy way.
You’ll see that there’s a number with thirteen digits underneath.
That was what the journalist had said. And I knew that number. I’d read it so many times that I’d learned it by heart: 3521 201 000000. That number was the final clue.
I pulled the bath plug out with my toes and wrapped a towel around my body. Then, still dripping water, I went downstairs. It took me an hour before I found what I was looking for, but there it was—a piece of paper with another number on it. I’d written that number myself on the day of the Falcon’s funeral.
There were thirteen digits on the Maltesers box—but the last six of them were all zeroes. Cross those out and you’d be left with seven digits.
A telephone number. And I knew which telephone it rang.
That was when our own telephone rang. The noise of the bell was so sudden, so loud, that I almost dropped the towel. I went into the office and picked it up.
“Nick Diamond?”
The voice was ugly with hatred. I didn’t believe a voice could hate that much.
“Gott,” I said.
“We have your brother.”
That took me by surprise. Herbert? But that was the way Gott worked. He’d snatched Lauren, then me. Why shouldn’t he add Herbert to his list?
“If you don’t give us what we want,” Gott snarled, “he dies.”
I didn’t have what they wanted, but I wasn’t going to say that. Because suddenly I knew everything. It all made sense. I should have seen it a long, long time before.
“Come to the cemetery,” I said. I was talking even before I knew what I was saying. “I’ll meet you at the Falcon’s grave. Tomorrow at twelve o’clock.” I hung up.
I didn’t want to get into any arguments.
Then I opened the drawer of Herbert’s desk. On the day we had first met the Fat Man, he had given us a card with his telephone number. I called it now, hoping there would be someone in.
“Yes?” It was a flat, neutral voice.
“I want to talk to the Fat Man,” I said.
“He’s not here.”
“It’s important I get a message to him.”
“Who is this?”
“Nick Diamond.”
There was a pause. Then the voice said, “What is the message?”
“I know what the key opens,” I said. “And I’m willing to do a deal. Tell the Fat Man to be at Brompton Cemetery tomorrow. At the Falcon’s grave at five to twelve exactly. Alone. Have you got that?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I hung up on him, too.
After that I made one last call. That was the hardest to make. It cost me five million dollars. But the way I looked at it was like this. The Fat Man had the Maltesers. Gott (and maybe Himmell) had Herbert. And I had the answer. If I’d planned things right, it would all sort itself out the next day at noon.
If I didn’t . . . well, we were meeting in a cemetery. At least they wouldn’t have to carry me far.
I just hoped it would be a sunny day.
THE SHINING LIGHT
There are only about three or four days in the year when the Brompton Cemetery is more or less empty—and Christmas Day, of course, is one of them. That would suit my plans. Witnesses were one thing I could do without. It was eleven forty-five when I walked up to the Falcon’s grave. There was nobody in sight. Fortunately it was another crisp, cloudless day. The sun had no warmth, but it was bright. At least the weather was on my side.
I stood beside the Falcon’s grave. The earth was still fresh where they’d buried him, like a sore that hadn’t healed. It would take the grass time to grow over it—but where better to find time than in a cemetery? I looked at the memorial, that Victorian telephone booth with the stone falcon perched on top. There’s an old saying I thought of. “You can’t take it with you.” But the Falcon had—or at least, he’d tried his best to. I read the inscription on the memorial. I’d read it before.
THE PATH OF THE JUST IS AS SHINING LIGHT, THAT SHINETH MORE AND MORE UNTO THE PERFECT DAY.
The Falcon must have smiled when he had that cut in. I wondered if he was still smiling in his grave.
I heard the gate grind open down at the Fulham Road. That had to be the Fat Man. Sure enough, he appeared a few moments later, wearing a camel-hair coat with real humps. He carried a shooting stick and walked at a jaunty pace, for all the world like a man taking a little exercise before his Christmas lunch.
He saw me standing by the grave, raised the shooting stick, and sauntered over. He was smiling, but only with his lips. His eyes didn’t trust me.
“Merry Christmas, Fat Man,” I said.
“I hope so,” he replied. “And I hope you’re not wasting my time, my boy. You should know by now that I don’t take kindly to—”
“Have you got the Maltesers?” I cut in.
He nodded. “In my pocket.”
“Let me see them.”
He took them out but held on to them like he was afraid I was going to grab them.
“Read me the number on the bottom,” I said.
He turned the box over: “3521 201 000000.” It was the right number. “You say you know what these chocolates meant to the Falcon,” he said in a graveyard voice. “You say you want to make a deal. What deal?”
“We’ll split the money,” I said. “Fifty-fifty.”
“Eighty-twenty.”
“Sixty-forty.”
We were juggling figures. It didn’t matter to me. I knew that once I showed the Fat Man what to do with the Maltesers, I’d be dead. But it was important that he hung on to them. They had to be out in the open.
“Seventy-thirty,” the Fat Man said. “It’s my last offer.”
It was his last offer. There was a movement on the path behind him, and when he turned around there were Gott and Himmell with Herbert between
them. It had been a week since I’d last seen him and Herbert had lost weight.
I smiled at him. “Hello, Herbert,” I said.
He looked at me reproachfully. “The name is Tim,” he muttered.
There are times when my brother really amazes me. I’d been kidnapped, tied up, chased around London, threatened, and half killed. He’d been arrested for murder and kidnapped himself. We were unarmed and surrounded by three psychopathic killers. And he was worried about names. “How are you . . . Tim?” I asked.
“I’m okay,” he said. He considered. “Actually I’ve got a runny nose and—”
“All right,” the Fat Man interrupted. “What is this?”
“It’s a cemetery,” Herbert said.
The Fat Man gritted his teeth.
“Do you know them?” I asked him.
He glanced at Gott and Himmell. “I know them,” he said.
“If that little swine is trying to trick us—” Gott began.
“I’m doing what I said I would,” I cut in. “I promised I’d lead you to the Maltesers in return for Herbert—I mean— Tim.” I pointed at the Fat Man, who was still holding them. “There they are. And I promised the Fat Man that I’d tell him their secret. If you’ll let me, I will.”
Nobody said anything. The wind ruffled my hair. I was wearing a warm coat, but my body was far from warm. I just wanted the whole thing to be over.
“Go ahead,” Gott said.
“Yes, go ahead,” the Fat Man repeated. “And it had better be good.”
“All right,” I said. “This is how it goes. Henry von Falkenberg was a very careful man, a man who trusted no one. He had five million dollars in diamonds stashed here in England. It was in a safe that had been specially built for him. Even the key to the safe was special. It was designed so that nobody would even know it was a key. Only the Falcon knew. It was the only way he could feel safe himself.
“The Professor built the safe for him—the late Quentin Quisling. I guess we’ll never know, but I suppose he built in some sort of device so that Henry von Falkenberg could choose his own combination. That wouldn’t have been difficult. The key was a bar code. It could be on a tin of baked beans, a pack of playing cards—a box of Maltesers. The Falcon brought the key with him every time he came to England. If he was searched by the police, he had nothing to fear. Who would suspect that a few black lines on the bottom of a box of candy could open the door to a fortune?
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