The Falcon's Malteser

by Anthony Horowitz

  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.

  “Happy 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 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 round 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 Christian names. “How are you … Tim?” I asked.

  “I’m OK,” 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 body-warmer 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 three and a half million pounds 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 sweets could open up a fortune?

  “There was one thing, though. One fail-safe device. There was a number written on the box. I don’t know why. Maybe it appealed to the Falcon’s sense of humour. Or maybe it was a clue – a puzzle for his heirs to fight over. But that number was 352 1201 with a few zeroes added to stretch it out. I wrote that number down for my brother on the day of the Falcon’s funeral. It’s the phone number of this cemetery.”

  I walked forward to the monument. Nobody spoke but their eyes followed me like so many gun barrels. I stood on tip toe and wiped the cuff of my shirt across the eyes of the falcon. As I had guessed, they weren’t made of stone. They were glass.

  “And where is this ingenious safe?” I asked. “You’re looking at it. The Falcon had it designed like a memorial. You see the inscription? The ‘shining light’ it’s referring to is the light beam that opens it. Johnny Naples tried to tell me about that – the sun.

  “I won’t try to explain to you how a bar-code works. I only half understand it myself. But what you’re looking at here is the first solar-powered bar-code reader. You’ve got to hand it to the Professor. He may have been crooked. He may have been a drunk. But he was clever.

  “The sunlight goes in through the eyes of the stone falcon. You run the bar-code – at a guess – across the open beak. Somewhere inside all this there’s a photodetector, a small computer and an opening device – all solar-powered. If you’ve got the right bar-code, it’ll open the safe.” I pointed at the Maltesers, still clutched in the Fat Man’s hand. “That’s the right bar-code,” I added. “It’s as simple as that.”

  I stopped. Nobody spoke. Only Herbert looked puzzled. He obviously hadn’t understood a single word I’d said.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what was going to happen next, but I’ll tell you the general idea. The Fat Man isn’t going to share the diamonds with Gott and Himmell. Gott and Himmell clearly have no intention of sharing the diamonds with the Fat Man. But now everybody knows the secret. Herbert and I are forgotten. Nobody cares about us any more. We slip away to live happily ever after, leaving our three friends to sort themselves out as best they can. That was the general idea. But obviously I’d been talking to the wrong general.

  It all happened at once.

  Almost casually, the Fat Man had lifted his shooting stick so that the end was pointing at Himmell. At the same time, Gott’s hand had slid quietly into his jacket pocket. The two shots were almost simultaneous. Himmell looked down. There was a hole in his chest. The Fat Man lowered his shooting stick. And it was a shooting stick. The smoke was still curling out of the hole at the bottom. He smiled. The smile faded. He frowned. He raised a hand. He’d only just realized that he’d been shot in the neck. This time Gott hadn’t used a silencer.

  The Fat Man and Himmell slid to the ground together. The Maltesers fell on the grass. The last of the chocolates rolled out.

  “Pick it up,” Gott said.

  I picked up the box. Something was chattering. I was just thinking that it was a bit cold for grasshoppers when I realized what it was. It was Herbert’s teeth.

  “Give me the box,” Gott said.

  I gave it to him, then stepped back a pace. Now Herbert and I were standing close together. Gott’s gun was out of his jacket. There were too many plasters on his face to be sure, but I think his smile had grown even wider.

  “I’m going to enjoy this,” he said.

  There were two gunshots.

  Herbert’s hands came up to his stomach. He groaned and lurched forward. “Nick …” he whispered. He pitched on to the grave.

  I stared at him.

  “Get up, Tim
,” I said.

  “But I’ve been shot.”

  “No you haven’t.”

  He held his hands up to his face. There was no blood. He lifted up his shirt and looked underneath. There were no bullet holes. Now he was blushing. “Sorry …” he muttered.

  Gott had watched this performance with strange, empty eyes. Suddenly, he toppled forward. There were two holes in the back of his jacket. He hadn’t had time to fire his own gun.

  A figure appeared behind him, moving towards us. And that was the biggest surprise of the day.

  It was Betty Charlady.

  “Ello, Mr Nicholas,” she gurgled. She was still in her fluffy bedroom slippers, with a forest of artificial flowers on her head. “Wotcha, Mr Timothy. Blimey! What a turn-up … innit!”

  “Betty!” Herbert exclaimed. “What are you doing—” But then he plugged his mouth with his thumb, stopping himself in mid-sentence.

  Betty was holding a gun. The gun had just killed Gott.

  With a smile, she pulled off her hat and threw it on to the grass. Her wig, with the electric curls, went next. Once more her hand reached up and this time it pulled at the very skin of her face. It stretched, then tore loose, carrying the wrinkles and make-up with it. The gun in her other hand remained steady but otherwise, in front of our eyes, she was changing.

  Betty Charlady was gone. Another woman stood in her place.

  “Who is she?” Herbert whispered.

  “Beatrice von Falkenberg,” I said. “The Falcon’s widow. Snape told us that she used to be a great actress. It looks like Mrs Charlady was one of her performances.”

  “That’s right, boys,” Beatrice said.

  I took a quick look round the cemetery. The way things were going, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the alligator had turned up – perhaps disguised as a hedgehog.

  “But … but why?” Herbert asked.

  “I had to find the diamonds,” she said. “My late husband’s fortune. When the dwarf gave you the package, I had to get close to you – to find out what you knew. Then I saw your advertisement for a daily. That gave me the idea.”

  “And Gott and Himmell were working for you,” I said.

  “That’s very clever of you, Nicholas,” she muttered. “How do you know?”

  I shrugged. “I told you we were going to the Casablanca Club. You were the only person who knew. But somehow Gott and Himmell managed to turn up just in time to snatch Lauren Bacardi. We led them to her.”

  Herbert looked at me in astonishment. “That’s brilliant,” he said.

  “There’s more. They learnt about the Maltesers from Lauren and they told you. That’s how you knew what to ask for when I visited you in Hampstead. You were all in it together.”

  “Until their use ran out,” Beatrice said.

  “It’s incredible,” Herbert said.

  “Not really,” I said. “I almost guessed when I visited Beatrice. She knew your real name. She called you Herbert – not Timothy. And she was wearing the same perfume as Betty. Lavender. That was something she forgot to change.”

  “You’re very clever,” Beatrice said.

  “Maybe. But there’s one thing I don’t get. Why did you kill Johnny Naples in the first place?”

  She shrugged. “It was an accident. Gott and Himmell had tracked him down to the Hotel Splendide. They were going to snatch him, but I went to see him first. I walked in as Betty Charlady. Nobody looked twice. I wanted to persuade him to share what he’d found with me. I told him I was his only hope. I could keep Gott and Himmell off his back. And I could use them to stay ahead of the Fat Man. But he was greedy. He wouldn’t listen. He had a gun. There was a fight. Like I say, it was an accident.” She sighed. “There can’t be any more accidents. You two can’t leave the cemetery. No witnesses.” For a moment she slipped back into her Betty Charlady voice. “Cheerio then, Mr Nicholas. Ta, ta, Mr ‘erbert.”

  She lifted the gun.

  “Oh, no!” Herbert whimpered.

  “I don’t think so, Beatrice.” I said.

  She looked beyond me and her face jerked back like she’d been slapped. But then she lowered the gun and laughed. Suddenly, the cemetery was full of uniformed policemen. They were springing up everywhere – out of the long grass and from behind the gravestones. At their head, running to be the first one to reach us, were Snape and Boyle.

  “Well … that’s a lucky coincidence,” Herbert said.

  “What do you mean – coincidence?” I said. “I called Snape last night. I told him everything.” Herbert’s mouth fell open. “Well, I wasn’t going to come here alone.”

  By this time Boyle had reached Beatrice von Falkenberg. She stretched out her hands elegantly for the cuffs but he threw himself at her anyway – a flying rugby tackle that sent her crashing to the ground.

  “You could have come out sooner, Chief Inspector,” I said as Snape arrived. “We were nearly killed.”

  “That’s true, laddy,” Snape agreed. “But … well, it was Boyle. He wanted to see what would happen. He asked me to hold back. And as it’s Christmas …”

  The policemen began to clear away bodies. Snape leant down and picked up the Maltesers box.

  “Now, let’s see about this,” he said.

  The three of us gathered around the memorial. The stone falcon waited, its wings spread, its beak open, its glass eyes blinking in the sun. Carefully, Snape tore off the bar-code. He threw the rest of the box away. Then he laid the strip face up in the falcon’s beak and pulled it through.

  Behind the eyes, inside the falcon’s head, a lens focused the sun’s beams on to the bar- code. The white stripes reflected some of them back on to a photodetector hidden inside the falcon’s body. We heard the click as a connection was made. There was a soft hum. A solar-powered generator had sprung to life. It activated a motor. There was another click and the entire front of the memorial – along with the inscription – swung open to reveal a solid metal container.

  And that was the last surprise of the day. There was to be no Christmas bonus for Snape, no reward for us. Because there weren’t any diamonds. There wasn’t even a lump of coal. The container was empty. We were looking at three and a half million pounds worth of nothing.

  THE FALCON’S MALTESER

  “But Nicholas, I still don’t understand.”

  “I’ve gone through it all twice, Herbert.”

  “Well, if you wrote it all down … That would help.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  It was the second day of the New Year. It didn’t feel much different to the old year. It was cold. There wasn’t any gas in the flat. And, as usual, we were down to the last handful of change. We’d had a great Christmas, Herbert and me. Two frozen turkey croquettes and the Queen’s speech – only we’d missed the Queen’s speech. Mum and Dad had sent us a card and a couple of presents but they hadn’t cheered us up. The card showed two koalas in a Christmas tree. The presents were a boomerang for me and a hat with corks for Herbert.

  I threw the boomerang away. It came back.

  There were still a couple of weeks until term began and I’d have liked to have gone skiing. A lot of the guys in my class had made it to Switzerland or Austria or wherever and they’d be full of it when they got back. It didn’t seem fair. After all I’d been through I couldn’t even afford the bus fare to the travel agent.

  And then the parcel came. Special delivery. From the South of France. It was addressed to me.

  I think I knew who it was from before I opened it. There was only one reason I could think of why the Falcon’s safe had been empty. I hadn’t mentioned it to Snape or Boyle. I hadn’t even mentioned it to Herbert.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, open it.”

  I opened it. Inside the brown wrapping-paper there was a carton about the same shape and size as a film-box. It was filled with tissue paper but nestling in the centre was a round ball of milk chocolate …

  “A
Malteser!” Herbert said. The colour walked out of his face. Herbert didn’t much like chocolates any more. And he hated Maltesers.

  There was a card attached to the box. The message was short and not so sweet. It was written in a flowing, looping hand.

  No hard feelings?

  L.B.

  No hard feelings? I wasn’t so sure. Lauren had sold me the sob story of her life – and OK she hadn’t had the breaks – but then she’d double-crossed me. All along she’d known more than she’d let on. Maybe she’d worked it out for herself or maybe Johnny Naples had told her. But she’d known about the cemetery and she’d known about the Falcon’s memorial. I’d given her the last piece of the jigsaw when I told her about the bar-code. And that day, in the office of the Fulham Express, she’d made up her mind to steal the diamonds. She’d accidentally left the Maltesers upstairs. And when she’d gone up to get them, she’d made a simple copy of the key: photocopy.

  She’d never gone into Fulham Broadway Station – at least, not down to the trains. The moment I’d left, she’d doubled back to the cemetery. Perhaps she’d overtaken me in a taxi. The sun had been shining that day. She’d slid her photocopy through the falcon’s beak. And the diamonds had been hers.

  I reached down and squeezed the Malteser between my finger and thumb. I was angry. I wanted to see it shatter. But it wouldn’t. There was something hard in the centre.

  “Herbert …” I said.

  He looked. The chocolate had squashed. It wasn’t a Malteser at all. There was something sparkling inside. “What is it?” he asked.

  “What does it look like?” I said.

  The last of the chocolate had crumbled away. I was left holding a diamond the size of a peanut. What would it be worth? Ten thousand pounds? Twenty thousand? Certainly not peanuts.

  So we would go skiing after all. And Herbert would break his leg as he got on to the plane and we’d blow all the money we got from the diamond before we’d even got round to paying the gas bill. But what did I care? It was the New Year and we’d come out of it all alive, and although diamonds may be for ever, you’ve got to grab every good minute and enjoy it while it’s there.