The Falcon's Malteser

by Anthony Horowitz

  “He didn’t tell us anything more than that …”

  Boyle’s hand clamped down on the back of my neck. He half-dragged me to my feet. Now I knew how a piece of scrap iron feels when it’s picked up by a mechanical grabber. I waited for him to crush me. “You’re lying,” he hissed.

  “Scouts honour!” I pleaded.

  “You knew about the key,” Snape reminded me.

  “Only because Naples mentioned it. But we haven’t got it. You can search the office if you like.”

  “We already have,” Boyle said.

  “Then you’ll know that somebody tore it apart. Look – if we knew anything, why do you think we went to the Hotel Splendide? The place was searched and we got scared. We went to see Naples to ask him what was going on, but by the time we got there, he was dead. Honest!”

  For a moment the only sound in the room was a vague creaking as my neck splintered in Boyle’s grip. But then he must have got some sort of signal from Snape. He released me and I collapsed in my chair. My legs had turned to jelly. I could hardly move my head.

  “OK. We’ll play it your way, son,” Snape said humourlessly. “We’ll let you go. I don’t believe you and nor will the Fat Man or any of the other nasties waiting for you out there. It’ll be interesting to see which one of them gets to you first.”

  “And I suppose you’ll stand by and watch,” I muttered, rubbing my neck.

  “Don’t worry,” Snape said. “We’ll be round to pick up the pieces.”

  GRANNIES

  It’s funny how the smell of police stations sticks on you long after you’ve gone. Snape was decent enough to get a police car to take us home and we carried the smell with us, down past the Albert Hall and through Earl’s Court. They say that good detectives have a “nose” for crime. They “sniff” out clues and when things are going well, they’re on the right “scent.” After a couple of hours in the Ladbroke Grove interrogation room, I could see what they mean. The strong arm of the law could do with a strong under-arm deodorant.

  We had a bath when we got in and changed into fresh clothes. Then Herbert suggested we should go out and get something to eat. I didn’t argue. He’d been very quiet since we’d walked in on the dead dwarf and I could tell something was brewing. Perhaps he was finally going to pack in the private detective business and send me packing too. All the same, I dug the Maltesers up from beneath the floorboard and took them with me. That was funny too. Before, when I hadn’t known what they were worth, I’d slung them about like you would any packet of sweets. Now that I knew they carried a three and a half million pound pricetag, I could feel them burning a hole in my pocket.

  We walked down the Fulham Road towards Kensington Station. Herbert was still quiet. And he was jumpy. When a guy stopped us to ask us the time, he jumped, disappearing behind a parked car. I found him there a minute later, crouching down, pretending to tie up his shoes. It would have been a bit more convincing if his shoes had had laces. The truth was, Herbert was afraid, certain we were being watched. The taxi-driver on the other side of the road, the old man walking his dog, the couple kissing at the bus stop … as far as Herbert was concerned, any one of them could have been working for the Fat Man, for Beatrice von Falkenberg, for the police … whoever.

  We stopped at a fast-food restaurant called Grannies. It got the name because all the hamburgers were served in granary bread buns. As a sort of publicity stunt, someone had also had the bright idea of only employing grannies – little old ladies with grey hair and glasses. The only trouble with all this was that for a fast-food restaurant, it was actually pretty slow. The chef must have been about a hundred and two. One of the waitresses used a walking-frame. But the food’s OK and we were in no hurry. We took a table by the window. Herbert chose the chair that looked out. There was no way he was going to sit with his back to the street.

  We ordered Grannyburgers and chips with chocolate milkshakes on the side and hardly said anything until it arrived. I picked up the tomato ketchup holder and squeezed it. The stuff spat out, missing the plate and splattering on to the white table. It looked like blood.

  Herbert put his knife and fork down. “Nick …” he began.

  “Herbert?” I said expectantly. Actually, I knew what to expect now. I should have seen it coming.

  “This case is getting out of hand,” he said. “I mean … it’s getting dangerous. The way things are going, I reckon somebody could soon get hurt.”

  “You mean – like Johnny Naples?” I reminded him.

  “Right.” Herbert stared at the tomato sauce, his lip curling. “And he wasn’t just hurt,” he went on. “I mean, he probably was hurt. But he was also killed.”

  “You can’t get more hurt than that,” I agreed.

  He nodded. “So what I’m saying is, maybe it’s time you split. You’re a good kid, Nick. But you’re only thirteen. This is a case for Tim Diamond.”

  It was incredible. Maybe it was the shock of what had happened that day or maybe it was the milkshake, but Herbert was trying to get rid of me. “This is a case for Tim Diamond” – it was a line out of a bad movie, but Herbert really believed it. I could see him switching into his private detective role even as he sat there, shoulders slumped, eyes hard. He’d have had a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth if cigarettes didn’t make him throw up.

  “I figured I’d send you to Aunty Maureen in Slough,” he went on. I shuddered. Aunty Maureen, my mother’s sister, had a semi-detached house and a semi-detached false hip. She was only fifty-years-old but in need of round-the-clock nursing. Whenever I stayed with her, I ended up as her round-the-clock nurse. “Or you could always go to Australia,” Herbert added.

  I took a deep breath and pronged a forkful of french fries. Whenever Herbert got into these moods, I had to tread carefully. If I ever suggested that the great Tim Diamond needed any help from his thirteen-year-old brother, I’d have been on the next plane to Sydney faster than you could whistle “Waltzing Malteser.”

  “It’s nice of you to think of me, Tim,” I said. “And I don’t want to get in your way. But I reckon I’d be safer with you.”

  “Safer?” He took a bite out of his burger.

  “Sure. I mean, the Fat Man could come for me in Slough. I might get kidnapped, or brutally beaten with Aunty Maureen’s false hip.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But I feel safe with you,” I continued. “Back in the Hotel Splendide, for example. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

  Herbert smiled modestly.

  “The way you fainted. It was … heroic.”

  Now he scowled. “You’re not taking the mickey, are you?”

  “Me? No way.”

  I felt it was time to bring the conversation to a close so I took out the box of Maltesers and put them on the table.

  “That’s what we should be worrying about,” I said. “Three and a half million pounds, Herbert. And it’s our only clue.”

  “I don’t get it,” Herbert said. Herbert never did.

  “Look …” I spoke slowly, trying to make it easy for him. “Johnny Naples comes to England with the key to a fortune. That’s what the Fat Man asked us for – remember? A key. Now, all he’s got is this box of Maltesers, but maybe he doesn’t know what it means either.”

  “How do you know that?” Herbert asked.

  “Because Snape told us that the dwarf had been in England for a whole month before he was killed. Maybe the Falcon didn’t have time to tell him everything before he died. Naples had a rough idea and came over here to look.”

  “Go on.”

  “All right. So Naples comes to England. He checks into the Hotel Splendide. And he starts looking. But unfortunately for him, there are lots of people interested in him. The same people who are now interested in us. But Johnny Naples still manages to find out what the Maltesers mean. He takes them with him – like you’d take a treasure map. So that nobody will see what he’s carrying, he buys an envelope to put them
in. He goes from the hotel to Fulham. But then he sees that he’s followed. So what does he do?”

  “I don’t know,” Herbert said, breathlessly. “What does he do?”

  “He comes to us. He’s in the street and he happens to see your name on the door. You’re a private detective. That’s perfect. And maybe your name rings a bell.”

  “No, Nick,” Herbert interrupted. “It’s the little button by the door that rings the bell …”

  “No,” I groaned. “I mean Tim Diamond. Diamonds are what this is all about.”

  “Oh – I see.”

  “Johnny Naples comes in and gives us the envelope. You remember how scared he was? He knew that he was being followed. So he gives us the package – which is what everybody wants – and promises to come back when the heat is off.”

  “But he didn’t come back,” Herbert said.

  “No. Because he got killed.”

  “Oh yes!”

  “And now we’ve got the Maltesers. And if we can work out where he was going and what he was going to do with them when he got there, we’ll be rich.”

  “That’s terrific!” Herbert exclaimed. As I had hoped, all thoughts of Slough and Aunty Maureen had left his head. Quickly, he finished his meal. Then he picked up the box. “Perhaps the diamonds are inside,” he suggested. “Covered in chocolate.”

  “No,” I said. “I doubt if you could fit three and a half million’s worth inside and anyway, I’ve already eaten six of them and they certainly didn’t taste like diamonds.”

  “Then what …?”

  It was a good question. You can go and buy a box of Maltesers in any sweetshop, but to save you the money, let me just describe the box we had. It had the name written in white letters on a red background, surrounded by pictures of the chocolate balls themselves. This was on the top and on all four sides. On one side it also carried the inspiring message – “The lighter way to enjoy chocolates” and on the other, the weight: 146g 5.15 oz.

  There was more on the bottom. It read “Chocolates with crisp, light honeycombed centres” and then there was the usual blurb about the milk solids and the vegetable fat that had achieved this miracle. In addition there was a guarantee: “This confectionary should reach you in perfect condition …” and a line asking you to keep your country tidy.

  After that, there was a red code number: MLB 493 and, in a red panel, “Best before 28-12-96.” In the left-hand corner, painted in blue, was the bar-code, the series of thick and thin lines that you get on all products these days. There was a number beneath that too: 3521 201 000000. And that is about as complete a description of a box of Maltesers as you are ever going to find in a library or bookshop.

  It was not very helpful.

  The waitress hobbled over and we ordered two Grannypies. We sat in silence, waiting for them to arrive. The question was, how could you hide the location of a fortune in diamonds on a box of sweets – and for that matter, why choose a box of sweets in the first place? The answer was in our hands and even then I might have been able to guess, for the truth is, I had forgotten one important detail. One thing that Johnny Naples had done had slipped my mind. I was still trying to work it out when Herbert spoke.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “No.”

  We finished our puddings and ordered the bill.

  “How about the little dots?” Herbert asked.

  “Little dots?”

  “Under the letters.” He pointed at the Maltesers. “They could spell out another message.”

  “But there aren’t any little dots,” I said.

  “They could be written in invisible ink.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “That’s because it’s invisible.” He smiled triumphantly.

  “Listen,” I said. “If Johnny Naples didn’t know what the Maltesers meant, he’d have had to find out – right?”

  “Right,” Herbert agreed.

  “So if we can work out where he went while he was in England, maybe we’ll find out, too.”

  “Right.” Herbert frowned. “But he’s dead. So where do we start?”

  “Maybe here,” I said.

  I took out the book of matches that I had found in the hotel and gave it to him. They belonged to a place called the Casablanca Club with an address in the West End. There was a map on the inside of the cover and three matches left.

  “Where did you get this?” Herbert asked.

  “I picked it up in the dwarf’s room at the hotel,” I said. “I thought it might be useful.”

  “Yes.” Herbert considered. “We’ll go there tomorrow,” he said. “If we can work out where Johnny Naples went while he was in England, maybe we can find out what the Maltesers mean.”

  I nearly choked on my milkshake. “That’s brilliant!” I exclaimed.

  “Sure thing, kid,” Herbert said.

  I didn’t remind him that I’d said exactly the same thing only a few moments before. But nor did he remind me about Slough. This might be a case for Tim Diamond, but so long as I played my cards right, it seemed there was still room for his little brother Nick.

  THE CASABLANCA CLUB

  We were woken up at nine the next morning by the engineer who’d come to mend the phone and we just had time to fall asleep again before we were woken up by Betty Charlady who’d come to mend the flat. She had brought with her a sack of tools and was soon assembling Herbert’s desk, hammering away at the wood with a mouth full of nails. It seemed incredible that she should do all this for a lousy ten pounds a day, but I assumed I brought out the motherly instinct in her. Strange how I could never do the same for my mother.

  While Herbert got dressed and shaved, I nipped out for eggs, milk and bread. We hadn’t had time to cash the cheque and money was running low so I had to squeeze more credit out of the supermarket owner. The owner – Mr Patel – is a decent old stick. He also owns a decent old stick which he tried to hit me with as I ran out without paying, but at least I was able to rustle up a decent breakfast for Herbert and me, and a cup of tea for Mrs Charlady.

  After breakfast, Herbert rang the Casablanca Club and I discovered that it would be open that night – although to members only. Betty Charlady was screwing a chair back together in the office at the time and she must have overheard the call for when she came into the kitchen she was scowling

  “Wassis Casablanca Club?” she asked.

  “It’s in Charing Cross,” I said. “We’re going there tonight.”

  “You shouldn’t do it, Master Nicholas,” Betty muttered. “At your age.”

  I handed her a cup of tea. She took it and sat down, her eyes searching across the table for a biscuit. “It’s part of our investigation,” I explained. “A client of ours may have gone there so we have to go there, too.”

  But Mrs Charlady wasn’t impressed. “These London clubs,” she said. “They’re just dens of innik-witty.” She shook her head and the grey curls of her hair tumbled like lemmings off a cliff. “You go if you have to. But I’m sure no good will come of it …”

  Nonetheless, Herbert and I made our way to the Casablanca Club that same night, arriving just after twelve. There’s a corner of Charing Cross, just behind the station, that comes straight out of the nineteenth century. As the road slopes down towards the river, you leave the traffic and the bright lights behind you and suddenly the night seems to creep up on you and grab you by the collar. Listen carefully and you’ll hear the Thames water gurgling in the distance and as you squint into the shadows you’ll see figures shuffling slowly past like zombies. For this is down-and-out territory. Old tramps and winos wander down and pass out underneath the arches at the bottom, wrapped in filthy raincoats and the day’s headlines.

  The Casablanca Club was in the middle of all this. A flight of steps led down underneath a dimmed green bulb and if you didn’t know what you were looking for, there was no way you’d find it. There was no name, no fancy sign. Only the tinkle of piano music that seemed to seep out of the cracks in the p
avement hinted that in the dirt and the dust and the darkness of Charing Cross, somebody might be having a good time.

  We climbed down to a plain wooden door about five metres below the level of the pavement. Somebody must have been watching through the spyhole for it opened before we had time to knock.

  “Yes?” a voice said.

  Friendly place, I thought.

  “Can we come in?” Herbert asked.

  “You members?”

  “No.”

  “Then beat it!”

  The door swung shut. At the last moment, Herbert managed to get his foot in the crack. There was a nasty crunching sound as his shoe, and possibly his foot too, got chewed up in the woodwork, but then the door swung open again and I managed to push my way through and into the hall. A bald man in a dinner jacket gave me an ugly look. If he ever wanted to give anyone a pretty look, he’d need major plastic surgery.

  “We’re friends of Johnny Naples,” I said.

  The man shrugged. “Why didn’t you say so before?” he asked.

  “You didn’t ask,” I said.

  He opened the door again. Herbert was writhing on the concrete outside, clutching his mangled foot. “Instant membership – ten quid,” the bald man said. He glanced at me. “You’re under-age,” he muttered.

  “You don’t look too good yourself,” I replied.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five?” He sneered. “You got a driving licence?”

  “No. I got a chauffeur.”

  I walked on, leaving Herbert to find the money and pay. In the dim light I could have been any age. Anyway, I was taller than Johnny Naples had ever been and they’d allowed him in.

  Funnily enough, the first waiter who saw me mistook me for the dwarf in the half-light. “Mr Naples!” The words were two drops of oil squeezed into my ear and I was led to a table at the front of a large room. There was so much smoke in the air that my eyes had more water in them than the house whisky. I loosened my tie and sat down. It felt like there was more smoke in the air than there was air in the smoke. Another waiter passed. “Good evening, Mr Naples.”