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 gray 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 walker. But the food’s okay 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 fries with chocolate milk shakes on the side and hardly said anything until it all arrived. I picked up the ketchup holder and squeezed it. The stuff spat out, missing the plate and splattering onto the white table. It looked like blood.
Herbert put down his knife and fork. “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 ketchup, 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 milk shake, 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 figure I’ll send you to Auntie Maureen in Slough,” he went on. I shuddered. Auntie Maureen, my mother’s sister, had a semidetached house and a semidetached artificial hip. She was only fifty years old but was 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 and stay with Mum and Dad,” 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 Auntie Maureen’s artificial 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 goofing on me, 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. “Five million dollars, 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 Johnny’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 being 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.”
“Not to mention hurt!”
“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 Auntie 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 five million dollars’ worth inside, and anyway, I’ve already eaten six of them and they certainly didn’t taste like diamonds.”
“What do diamonds taste like?”
“That’s not the point, Herbert!”
“So what is the point?”
It was a good question. You can go and buy a box of Maltesers in any candy store, but to save you the money, let me just describe the box we had. It had the name of the candy 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 centers 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 product 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 28-12-08. 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.