“This is the wrong place!” Tim said.
“It’s Number Seventeen,” Snape growled.
“Can I help you?” The speaker was an elderly woman in a bright pink cardigan, white blouse and beads. She had small, black eyes and a pointed nose like a beak. Give her a few feathers and you’d have had difficulty finding her among the birds. She had shuffled round from behind the counter and, with fingers that were thin and bent, began to stroke a big blue parrot.
“Are you the manager here?” Snape asked.
“Yes. I’m Mrs Bodega.” Her voice was thin and high-pitched.
“How long has this shop been here?”
Mrs Bodega worked it out on her fingers. “Let me see,” she trilled. “I opened the shop two years before my husband died – and that was nine years ago. My husband was pecked to death, you know. The birds did love him! But they didn’t know when to stop. So … eight years plus two years. That’s ten years in all.”
She tickled one of the parrots. The parrot swayed on its perch and preened itself against her. “This is Hercule,” she went on. “He was my husband’s favourite. We called him Hercule after that nice detective, Hercule Parrot.”
At least that amused Boyle. “Hercule Parrot,” he muttered and stuck out a finger. The parrot squawked and bit it.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Mrs Bodega asked.
Snape turned to Tim. “Well?”
“She’s lying!” Tim exclaimed. “This shop wasn’t here.” He nudged me. “Tell him!”
I had a feeling I was wasting my time but I tried anyway. “It’s true,” I said. “This is all a fake. And this woman…” I pointed at Mrs Bodega. “She must be some sort of actress.”
“I’m no such thing. Who are you? What do you want?”
Boyle pulled his swollen finger out of his mouth and went over to Snape. “Give me five minutes, sir,” he pleaded. “Just five minutes. Alone with them.”
“No, Boyle,” Snape sighed.
“Five minutes with the parrot?”
“No.” Snape closed his eyes.
Tim was utterly confused. Mrs Bodega was watching us with a mixture of innocence and indignation. “All right,” Snape said. “Just tell me where these agents of yours took you.”
“They took us upstairs,” Tim said. He pointed. “There’s a staircase behind that door.”
“There’s no such thing!” Mrs Bodega muttered.
“I’ll show you!”
Tim marched forward and threw open the door. He’d taken two more steps before he realized what I’d seen at once. The staircase was no longer there. He’d walked into a broom cupboard. There was a crash as he collided with an assortment of buckets and brooms. A shelf gave way and clattered down bringing with it about five years’ supply of bird-seed. Tim simply disappeared in a gold-and-white shower of the stuff. It poured down on him, forcing him to his knees, burying him.
And then it was all over. There was a small mountain of bird seed on the floor with two legs jutting out of it. The mountain shifted and broke open. Tim stuck his head out and coughed. Bird seed trickled out of his ear.
Snape had seen enough. “So they took you into a broom cupboard, did they?” he snarled. He caught one of the brooms. “I suppose this was your brush with MI6?”
“Chief Inspector! Listen…”
It was too late for that. Snape dropped the broom and grabbed hold of Tim, and, at the same time, I winced as Boyle’s hand clamped itself onto my shoulder. A moment later my feet had left the floor. All around me, the birds were screeching and whistling and fluttering. It was as if they were laughing at us. But then maybe they knew. They weren’t the only ones who were going to be spending the night behind bars.
HIGH SECURITY
This time Snape locked us up for two days. Boyle wanted to throw the book at us but fortunately he didn’t have a book. I’m not even sure Boyle knew how to read.
As soon as we were released, we headed back to the office. Tim wasn’t talking very much. He didn’t say anything on the bus, not even when I took the window seat. And he only muttered a few words of surprise when he found a letter waiting for him on our doormat. Not many people ever wrote to Tim. There were the electricity and the gas bills, of course, but they weren’t exactly chatty. Mum and Dad sometimes dropped us cards: Australia’s hot, England’s not, we love you a lot … that sort of thing. But usually the only letters on the doormat read: Please wipe your feet.
This letter came in a smart white envelope, postmarked London. Tim finally opened it in the office while I poured the tea. To celebrate our release, I’d used new teabags. It was a short letter but he took a long time to read it. Maybe it was good news.
“So what is it?” I asked at last.
“It’s a job.” Tim smiled for the first time since we’d been locked up and passed the letter across to me. It came from the Canadian Bank in Pall Mall and was signed by a woman called Louise Meyer. Briefly, it invited Tim to an interview to discuss the position of Head of Security.
“What is this…?” I began.
“Don’t you remember?” Tim said. “I told you. I applied for the job a couple of months ago.” He snatched the letter back. “They need a new Head of Security.”
“But you don’t know anything about security,” I said.
“Yes I do!” Tim looked at me indignantly. “I put burglar alarms in the office,” he reminded me.
“And burglars stole them,” I reminded him.
Tim ignored me.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I went on. “What about Charon? What about MI6?”
“What about them?”
“You can’t just ignore them! You heard what McGuffin said. And you still don’t know what south by south east means…”
“I don’t think it means anything.” Tim sniffed. “Anyway, it’s none of my business. Banking is my business.”
I gave up. “When’s the interview?” I asked.
Tim quickly re-read the letter. “This Meyer woman wants to see me at two o’clock this afternoon,” he said. He sprang out of his chair. “This afternoon! That’s today!”
It was already half past twelve. The next twenty minutes were spent in a frantic attempt to prepare himself. He put on a suit, a tie and a shirt while I polished his shoes. I didn’t do a great job but then I was using furniture polish. Finally he dragged a leather attaché case out of a cupboard. Actually, it wasn’t leather – it was kangaroo skin; an unwanted Christmas present. Mum had given it to Tim. Tim had given it to me. I’d given it to Oxfam. They’d given it back. You can’t get much more unwanted than that. But now he took it because he thought it made him look good. The clock struck one. He was ready.
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
“Sure.” Tim nodded. “You can wait outside.”
We got another bus back into town and this time Tim was in a better mood. He was rehearsing his answers all the way there, whispering to himself and nodding. The other passengers must have thought he was mad. I wasn’t even sure myself. But he’d completely forgotten about McGuffin and Charon. That much was obvious. And that was his big mistake.
It happened just as we got off at Pall Mall. There had been about a dozen people on the top deck with us and I hadn’t really noticed any of them. But one of them had followed us down and just as we stepped off the bus, he reached out and tapped Tim on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he said. “You’ve forgotten this.” And he gave Tim back his kangaroo-skin attaché case. That was all there was to it. I got a flash of a dark face and a beard. Then the bus had moved off and we were standing on the pavement. That was all there was to it. But I was uneasy. I didn’t know why.
“Tim…” I called out.
But Tim had already arrived outside the Canadian bank. I could tell it was Canadian because of the flag on the roof and the bronze moose on the door. It was a small, square building, one floor only. In fact it looked more like a high-class jeweller’s than a High S
treet bank. Everything about it was quiet and discreet. Even the alarms were muffled so they wouldn’t disturb the neighbours. I caught up with Tim just before he went in.
“I think we ought to talk,” I said.
“I know what to say,” he replied. “You wait here.”
He went in. I looked at the clock above the door. There wasn’t one. And that was strange because when I’d been standing next to Tim, I’d definitely heard the sound of ticking. I thought about the attaché case again. And suddenly the skin on my neck was prickling and my mouth had gone dry. Either Tim was in serious trouble or I was going down with the flu.
It wasn’t the flu. I’d never felt better in my life. And now I had to act quickly. I’d hardly glimpsed the man on the bus but I knew now why he had taken the case and what he had put inside it.
I also knew that if I’d stopped to count his fingers, I wouldn’t have reached ten.
Tim had disappeared into the bank. I plunged in after him, off the street and into the white marble banking hall. It was cool inside, out of the summer heat. The marble was like ice and even the potted plants seemed to be shivering in the air-conditioning. My eyes swept past the cashiers, the plush leather furniture, the tinkling chandeliers. I saw Tim just as he walked through a door at the far left corner. That had to be Mrs Meyer’s office. Gritting my teeth, I prepared to follow him. Somehow I had to get him out of there. Already it might be too late.
I’d taken just one step before a hand clamped down on my shoulder and I was twisted round to face the biggest security guard I’d ever seen.
“What do you want then?” he demanded.
“I want to open an account,” I said. It was the first thing to come into my head. He smiled mirthlessly. “Oh yes? I suppose you think this is some sort of piggy-bank?”
“Well they certainly seem to employ a few piggies.”
Five seconds later I found myself back out on the street with a neck that felt as though it had been through a mangle. I wondered if the Canadian security guard had ever worked as a lumberjack. He would have only had to smile at a tree to knock it down.
Maybe it was the sun, but the sweat was beginning to trickle down my neck as I walked round behind the bank. It was on a corner, separated from the pavement by a narrow line of flower-beds. Slowly, I tiptoed through the tulips peering in through the ground floor windows. Fortunately, they were fairly low down and because of the hot weather some of them were partly open. I heard snippets of conversation, the jangle of coins, telephones ringing. At the sixth window I heard Tim’s voice. He was already being interviewed by Louise Meyer.
“Tell me, Mr Diamond,” the manager asked. “Do you have any experience of security?”
“Not exactly security, Lucy,” Tim replied. He paused. “Do you mind if I call you Lucy?”
“I prefer to be more formal.”
“That’s OK, Lucy. You can call me Mr Diamond.”
Another tulip snapped underneath my feet as I shifted closer to the window. I reached up to the window-sill, then pulled myself up and looked through the glass.
I could see Tim sitting right in front of me, facing the window. Louise Meyer was opposite him, behind her desk. She was a tough, no-nonsense businesswoman. She was wearing a dark blue suit cut so sharply she could have opened a letter with her sleeve.
“I don’t have much experience of security, Lucy,” Tim went on. “But I do have the security of experience.”
I looked round the office. It was a big room, dominated by the desk, with a few chairs, a cocktail cabinet, a map of Canada and a heavy filing cabinet. There was a sort of alcove just outside the office, a miniature reception area, and I could make out an old-fashioned iron safe jutting out from the wall. Tim had forgotten to bring his case into the office. He had left it on top of the safe.
“So you’ve never worked in a bank,” Louise Meyer said.
“You could say that,” Tim replied.
“Well – have you?”
“No.”
I waved. Tim was staring right at me but he was so wrapped up in himself that he didn’t notice anything. I thought of tapping on the glass but I didn’t want Meyer to hear. I just wanted Tim out of there and the attaché case with him.
“But let’s talk about your bank, Lou,” Tim went on. “Frankly, I’d feel safer leaving my money in a paper bag at a public swimming pool.”
“You would?” Mrs Meyer was astonished.
“You’ve got more holes here than a fishing net. If you ask me, a robber could crack this place in about fifteen seconds flat.”
“You think so?”
“I know it.” Tim slumped into his chair. He was obviously enjoying himself.
I waved harder, jumped up and down and whistled. Tim ignored me. “Have you checked who I am, Lulu?” he asked the manager. “I could be a crook myself.”
“Well…” I saw Mrs Meyer’s hand reaching out for the alarm button under her desk.
“I could have a gun on me right now.”
“Wait a minute, Mr Diamond.” Mrs Meyer was getting nervous and anyone except Tim would have seen it.
“I could have a partner waiting outside…”
“Could you?” Louise Meyer turned in her seat to look out of the window. That was when she saw me. I was frozen with one hand in the air like I was about to punch my way through the glass. I opened my mouth to explain.
“And I could have a bomb,” Tim added.
And that, of course, was when the bomb went off.
I didn’t even realize what had happened at first. There was a flash of red light and the window seemed to curve out towards me. I must have been off-balance from the start because my legs jackknifed under me and I was thrown back onto the flower-bed. This was just as well. A torrent of burning air and jagged glass missed my head by a fraction as half the office was blown out into the street.
Somehow I managed to get back to my feet. I was glad they were still at the end of my legs. I gave myself a quick examination. There was blood on my shirt and it looked like my colour but otherwise I seemed to be in one piece. It was raining. I blinked. The rain was made of paper. I looked closer and realized what was happening. It was raining money, Canadian dollars and English pounds blown out of the manager’s personal safe. As I staggered round to the front door, I snatched a few notes and put them in my pocket. I had a feeling I was going to need them.
Inside, the calm of the bank had been shattered. So had the marble floor. The cashiers were in hysterics, the alarm-bells jangling, the air thick with dust. I couldn’t see the security guard, which was probably just as well.
Then I saw Tim. He had walked back into the main banking hall as if he were in a daze, which, in fact, he probably was. His clothes were in rags, his face was black, and he seemed half-stunned. But like me, he was still in one piece.
Then the security guard staggered towards him. At the same time Louise Meyer appeared in the shattered doorway. Her two-piece suit was now a four-piece suit. Her make-up had been blown off. And she was completely covered in dust. Now, with the security guard only millimetres away from Tim, she shouted out, “Don’t go near him! He’s got a gun!”
“No I haven’t,” Tim protested.
Suddenly I knew there was only one way out of this. “Yes you have!” I shouted.
“Have I?” Tim saw me. And he understood. “Yes I have!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got a gun!”
It worked. The cashiers began screaming again and the security guard backed away. For a moment the way out was clear but already I could hear the first police sirens slicing their way through the London traffic. It was time to go.
“Tim!” I shouted. He saw me and ambled over to the door. “Let’s get out of here!”
We went. Nobody tried to stop us. As far as they were concerned, we were dangerous criminals. I didn’t know where we were going or what we were going to do. I was just glad to be out of there. But as we passed through the front door, Tim stopped and turned round.
“Wait
a minute, Nick,” he said. “I still haven’t heard if I’ve got the job.”
A police car turned the corner. I grabbed Tim and ran.
CHAIN REACTION
One hour after the bank blast, Tim was a wanted man. Suddenly his picture was in the papers and on TV. Identikit pictures had appeared so fast you’d think the police had had them printed in advance just in case they needed them. Once again we were Public Enemies – but all we’d managed to take from the bank was two hundred dollars and some travellers’ cheques. I changed the dollars and used some of the money to buy Tim a new shirt. That hardly left enough to get us a room for the night.
We couldn’t go back to the office. That was the first place they’d come looking for us. We needed a cheap hotel somewhere quiet, where they didn’t look at their guests too closely. Somewhere that needed guests so badly they wouldn’t look at all.
We found the hotel on the wrong side of Paddington. In fact it wasn’t a hotel but a guest house; a narrow, grimy building with no name on the door, but a “Vacancies” sign in the window. It was halfway down a cul-de-sac so there would be no passing traffic. And you couldn’t reach it from the back either. The Paddington railway tracks cut right through the garden. Try mowing the lawn and you’d be run over by a train.
“What do you think?” Tim asked.
“It’s fine,” I said. I rang the bell.
The door was opened by a thin, elderly woman in a grey cardigan that she had knitted herself. About halfway through she must have lost the pattern. Underneath it there was a shabby dress hanging over a hideous pair of slippers with pink pom-poms.
“Yes?” she said.
“You got a room?” Tim asked.
“Oh yes! Come in! I’ve got lots of rooms.”
The lady led us through a dark, depressing hallway and into a reception room that wasn’t much better.
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