“You little …!”he began.
I didn’t want to hear him. I found another fire exit and this time I managed to get out of Selfridges without being stopped. I crossed the road and made my way around the front of Marks and Spencer. I was relieved to find Lauren waiting for me.
“What kept you?” she said.
“You got away OK?” I asked.
“Sure. Gott could hardly walk, let alone run. Himmell was in better shape.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “He was.”
Lauren sighed. “Well, that was a waste of time,” she said. “We didn’t learn anything.”
I thought back to the food department, to the things I had seen. And suddenly I understood. It was as if I’d known all along, only someone had to sock me on the jaw to make me realize it. I smiled. Johnny Naples must have smiled that way. Lauren saw it. “Come on …” I said.
The same taxis and the same buses were jammed in the same place as we crossed Oxford Street again. We got back on the tube. It would take us to South Kensington where we’d get a bus.
I knew. But I had to be sure.
INFORMATION
“The bar-code,” I said.
“The what?”
“Those little black and white lines you get on the things you buy.”
“What about them?”
I pulled the Maltesers out of the shoulder-bag and showed them to Lauren. “Look,” I said. “You see? It’s got a bar-code.”
“So what?”
“That’s what they were using in Selfridges. The girl was passing her products over a scanner and the scanner was telling the cash-till how much the products cost.” Lauren looked blank so I went on. “Maybe if you pass this bar-code over a scanner, it’ll do something different.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. That’s what we’re going to find out.”
I needed a science lesson in a hurry and for once in my life I was sorry school had shut for the holidays. But I had another idea. Journalists write about technology and things like that. They know a little bit about everything. And I knew a journalist: Clifford Taylor, the guy who’d interviewed Herbert and me. He’d been at the Falcon’s funeral too, so I figured he must still work on the same newspaper, the Fulham Express. That was where we were heading now. I had to be sure that I was right.
Nobody reads the Fulham Express but everybody who lives in Fulham gets it. They don’t have any choice. It’s one of those free newspapers that come uninvited through the letterbox in a shower of plumber’s business cards, minicab telephone numbers and special offers from the Reader’s Digest. It’s delivered every Wednesday in the morning. And you can see it every Wednesday, in the afternoon, stuffed into litter bins or drinking up the dirt in the gutter.
We took a bus all the way down the Fulham Road, past Herbert’s flat, to the bottom – Fulham Broadway. This was the Fulham Road at its worst: dirty in the rain, dusty in the sun, always run-down and depressing. I’d occasionally walked past the office of the Fulham Express but I’d never been inside before. It was on the main road, next to a bank. Lauren and I climbed up a flight of stairs and found ourselves in a single, rectangular room with a printing press at one end and a photocopying machine at the other. In the middle there were two tables, piled high with newspaper clippings. The room must have been a dance studio at one time because it had mirrors all the way down one wall, making it seem twice as big as it was. Even so, it was small.
Clifford was there, feverishly working on a story that in a few days someone would use to wrap their fish and chips. I coughed and when he didn’t respond, I walked up to him. He was the only person there.
“Clifford …” I said.
“Yes?” He looked up.
“You don’t remember me?”
“If you’re from the dance class, you’re too early. The newspaper has the room until five—”
“I’m Nick Diamond.”
He took his glasses off and wiped them. There were sweat patches under his arms and his acne had got worse. He was a mess. I doubted if he could even spell personal hygiene. “Nick who?” he asked.
“Diamond.” I glanced at Lauren who shrugged. “You interviewed me,” I reminded him. “My brother’s a private detective.”
Now he did remember. “Of course! Absolutely! How’s it going? There’s not much call for private detectives in Fulham—”
“I know,” I interrupted. Clifford liked talking. When he’d interviewed us, he’d talked more than we had. “I wondered 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’s 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. “OK.” He leant 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 leant 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-till. 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 shop assistant 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 learnt 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 on to 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 … 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 …”
“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 could 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 OK.”
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 tube 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 round 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 …” 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 driving licence. They’d parked the car outside the flat. It was a Morris Minor. After we’d all piled in it I was surprised it was able to move. I certainly wasn’t. I was on the back seat 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 towards Richmond. Lenny had made a telephone call from the flat 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 Morris Minor 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 under-age. 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 reckoned it hadn’t been industrial for a hundred years. It was a network of Victorian buildings, most of them burnt out. Another bit of London that was falling down. The lane led down to the river. Suddenly we came to the end of the tarmac and I could hear gravel crunching underneath the tyres. The Morris Minor 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 car-park, only the Morris Minor was the only car
parked there. It was another building site, more luxury houses for the Thames. But they’d only got 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 amphitheatre, 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 four metres 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. Grey 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 – and I liked it even less.
“Sit down,” Lenny said.
He waved the gun towards 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.
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