Tim picked up a newspaper on the way back. Someone had left it on a bench and now that the adventure was over he was keen to cut out any photographs of himself. But there wasn’t even a mention of him. He was yesterday’s news, already forgotten.
We climbed the stairs into the office and while Tim went through the paper again I put on the kettle and made us some tea. By the time I’d carried it into the office and sat down opposite Tim, my mind had begun to click into action. Carefully, I set out the pieces of the puzzle and tried to make sense of them.
Charon.
A white hammer.
A mirror in a drawer.
South by south east.
We still didn’t know what McGuffin had been trying to tell us. Had he really wanted us to travel south on the South East rail network? Was that all it boiled down to? I still couldn’t believe it could have been as unimportant as that. I thought back to the moment he had died, struggling to speak in Tim’s arms, with the train thundering past overhead.
“They’re auctioning that painting today,” Tim said. He folded the paper in half and tapped one of the articles.
South by south east.
“There’s a story about it here.”
“A story about what?”
“The painting.” He read out the headline.
“Sotheby’s. ‘Tsar’s Feast’.”
South by…
I sat up. “What?”
Tim sighed. “I was just telling you-”
“I know. What did you say? The headline…”
Tim waved the paper in my direction. “‘The Tsar’s Feast’! It’s the first lot to come under the hammer this afternoon.”
I snatched the paper. “Of course!” I shouted. “You’ve done it, Tim! You’re brilliant!”
Tim smiled. “Yeah. Sure I am.” The smile faded. “Why? What have I done?”
“You’ve just said it. The hammer…!”
“Where?”
“At Sotheby’s!” I turned the paper round and showed him the headline. “That’s what McGuffin was trying to tell you. But what with the train and everything you didn’t hear him properly.”
“What?”
“He didn’t say south by south east. He said Sotheby’s… ‘Tsar’s Feast’.”
I grabbed Tim’s wrist and twisted it round so that I could look at his watch. It was half past one. “When does the auction start?” I yelled.
“Two o’clock.”
“Half an hour. Maybe we can still get there in time…”
I was already moving for the stairs but Tim stayed where he was, his eyes darting from the newspaper to me then back to the paper. “The auction?” he muttered. “Why do you want to go there?”
I stopped with my hand on the door. “Don’t you see?” I said. “We’ve got to stop it.”
“Stop the auction?”
“Stop Charon. He’s planning to blow up Kusenov.”
UNDER THE HAMMER
We managed to catch a bus outside the office — but were we going to make it? The traffic was heavy and the bus was slow. I looked at Tim’s watch. It was already twenty to two. We weren’t going to make it.
Tim must have read my thoughts. “Why don’t we telephone them?” he said.
“They’d never believe me.”
Tim shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I stared at him. “You don’t believe me either!” I exclaimed.
“Well, it does seem a bit-”
“Listen.” I knew I was right. I’d worked it out. I had to be right. “You remember the hammer we saw at the Winter House? An antique white hammer…?”
“Yes.”
“It was an auctioneer’s hammer. The painting is going under the hammer. That means, when it’s sold, the auctioneer will hit down with the hammer.”
“Yes!”
“Well, Charon’s going to swap the real hammer with the one we saw. That must have been what they were talking about. The fake hammer will make some sort of electrical contact…”
Tim’s eyes lit up. “You mean… Charon’s going to electrocute the auctioneer?”
“No. It must be a bomb. The hammer will detonate it. That’s how he plans to kill Kusenov. The moment the painting is sold, the whole place will be blown sky high!”
The bus slowed down again. This time it was another bus-stop and the oldest woman in the world was waiting to get on. Worse still, she had about fourteen shopping bags with her. It would take all day. Quarter to two. If the bus moved off at once and didn’t stop again we might just make it. But the traffic was as thick as ever. I made a decision.
“We’ll run,” I said.
“What — all the way?” Tim cried.
But I was already moving. We had fifteen minutes, and a bus that was going nowhere. This was clearly not the time for a chat.
Sotheby’s main auction house is in New Bond Street, right in the middle of Mayfair. If you ever find yourself in the area, don’t try to go window-shopping. You won’t even be able to afford the window. It’s at number thirty-five, just one more smart door among all the others.
As we spun round the corner from Oxford Street and staggered down the last hundred metres, I could hear the chimes of clocks striking two. There was no security in sight on the door. Kusenov had to be there. The auction had begun. But Mr Waverly must have thought he was safe.
I reached the door, but even as my hand stretched out to push it open I was struck by a nasty thought. If there was a bomb — and I was pretty sure there was — it could go off at any time. The moment the auctioneer struck his hammer, that would be it. Did I really want to go inside? I glanced at Tim who must have had much the same thought. He was standing on the pavement, kicking with his heels as if they’d somehow got glued to the surface.
“We have to go in,” I said.
“Nick…”
I left him out there. I’d made up my mind. I had to stop the auction. He could do as he pleased.
The auction house was busy that day. There were people moving up and down the stairs and along the corridor which must have led to a secondary auction room. Somebody pushed past carrying an antique doll, a label still attached to its leg.
Someone else went the other way with a bronze-framed mirror. For a moment I caught sight of my own reflection. I looked tired and bedraggled.
And young. Would they even allow a fourteen-year-old into the auction?
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen…”
The voice crackled over an intercom system that had been installed above the reception desk. It was a plummy voice — the sort that belongs to someone who’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Maybe Sotheby’s were auctioning that, too. “Lot number one is by a painter who made an explosive impact on surrealism in Europe,” it went on. “Salvador Dali. It is entitled ‘The Tsar’s Feast’ and is painted in oils on canvas. I shall open the bidding at?100,000.”
I turned to Tim who had decided to come in after all. He was standing next to me. “It’s begun…” I said.
“Where?” he asked.
I looked around. “Upstairs.”
But Mr Waverly hadn’t completely relaxed his guard on Boris Kusenov. MI6 might not be involved any more, but he had handed the case over to the police and before we’d even reached the first step two uniformed officers had moved out of an alcove to block our way.
“Now where do you think you’re going?” one of them asked.
“?200,000…” The first bid had been made. I heard it over the intercom.
I tried to push forward. “I want to go to the auction…” I explained.
“Bit young for that, aren’t you?” The second policeman laughed. “Run along, sonny. It’s adults only.”
“You don’t understand.” I was speaking through gritted teeth. “You’ve got to let me pass…”
“?300,000 to the gentleman from Moscow.”
“You heard what I said.” The second policeman wasn’t laughing any more. He was blinking at me with small, unintelligent eyes. I knew the sort. If he was reincarnated as an ape, it would be a step up.
“Please…” Tim muttered. “We want to see Mr Grooshamov.”