“You’re dead,” Boyle whispered.
Snape sighed. “Thank you, Boyle.”
“Why don’t you arrest us?” I asked.
“Because you’re more useful to me outside. I mean, you’d be nice and safe in a cozy police cell, wouldn’t you?” He gestured at the other mourners now grouping themselves around the grave. “I’m still waiting to see what happens to you. Come on, Boyle!”
Snape and Boyle went over to the grave. We followed them. It turned out that the Falcon was to be buried in the old part of the cemetery, where the grass was at its highest, the gravestones half buried themselves. There was a vicar standing in the rain beside what looked like some sort of antique telephone booth. It was a stone memorial, about six feet high, mounted by a stone falcon, its beak slightly open, its wings raised. There was a stone tablet set in the memorial below, with a quotation from the Bible cut into it.
THE PATH OF THE JUST IS AS SHINING LIGHT,
THAT SHINETH MORE AND MORE
UNTO THE PERFECT DAY.
Proverbs 4:18
The names of the dead von Falkenbergs were written beneath it: a mother, a father, two grandparents, a cousin . . . there were seven of them in all. A rectangular hole had been cut into the earth to make room for an eighth. As we approached, the coffin was being lowered. Henry von Falkenberg had come to join his ancestors.
It was raining harder than ever. The vicar had begun the funeral service, but you could hardly hear him for all the splashing. I took the opportunity to examine the other mourners. It was a pity about the weather. What with the umbrellas, the turned-up collars, and the hunched shoulders, it was impossible to see half of them. If the sun had been shining I’d have gotten a better look.
But I did recognize Beatrice von Falkenberg. It had to be her—a tall, elegant woman in black mink with a servant holding an umbrella over her from behind. Her eyes and nose were hidden by a widow’s veil, but I could see a pair of thin lips set in an expression of profound boredom. She was dabbing at her eyes with a tiny white handkerchief, but she didn’t look too grieved to me. Snape had said that she had been Holland’s greatest actress. She wouldn’t have won any Oscar for this particular performance.
There was a man standing a short way from her and he caught my attention because he alone carried neither raincoat nor umbrella. He was short and pudgy with silver hair, round glasses in a steel frame, and a face like an owl. As the vicar droned on, he shuffled about on his feet, occasionally steadying himself against a gravestone. Like the widow, he didn’t look exactly heartbroken. His eyes were fixed on the von Falkenberg memorial, but it was easy to see that his mind was miles away.
Who else was there? I recognized a journalist who worked on the local newspaper and who had done a piece on Herbert and me when we’d set up the business. But apart from Snape, Boyle, and the widow, the rest of the crowd were strangers to me. The vicar was hurrying through the service now, tripping over the words to get to the end and out of the rain. His surplice was splashed with mud and pages of his Bible were straggling out of the spine. When he scooped holy dirt into the grave, the wind caught it and threw it back in his eyes. He blinked, spat out an “amen,” and ran. Beatrice von Falkenberg turned and went after him. Snape and Boyle hung back. Owl-face jammed his hands into his pockets and sauntered off in the other direction, toward the Brompton Road.
“Very moving. Very touching.”
It was a familiar voice and it came from beneath a multicolored golfing umbrella held by a man who had crept up to stand beside me. I looked round. It was the Fat Man. I should have known that he would be there. “How nice to see you again,” he said in a voice that said exactly the opposite.
“Come on,” I said to Herbert. I wanted to get back to the apartment, out of the rain.
But the Fat Man blocked my way. “Do you like funerals?” he asked. “I’m thinking of arranging one. Yours.”
“I’m too young to die,” I said. “What brings you here, Fat Man?”
“Von Falkenberg and I were old friends . . . very dear friends,” he explained. “There was something about him that I very much admired—”
“Yeah—his money,” I said. “Well, we still haven’t found your key. Perhaps you ought to ask Gott or Himmell.”
He obviously knew the names. His eyes narrowed and his mouth twitched as if he had just swallowed one of his poisoned corn pellets.
“We are looking for it, Mr. Fat Man,” Herbert said. “And we’ll let you know as soon as we’ve found it.”
“I gave you two days.” The Fat Man plucked the carnation out of his buttonhole and threw it into the grave. “You’ve run out of time.” Then he turned his back on us and walked away.
I’d had enough. Coming to the funeral had been a mistake—a dead end in every sense of the word. We hadn’t picked up anything apart, perhaps, from double pneumonia. And if it had been a chance to meet a few old friends, they were all old friends I’d have preferred to avoid. Herbert sneezed. “I need a shot of Scotch,” he said for the benefit of the undertaker or anyone else who might be listening. I knew that once we got back to the apartment, he’d actually fix himself with a shot of cod-liver oil.
But I was wrong there. Things didn’t turn out quite the way I expected.
We made a couple of stops on the way back. Herbert had cashed the check and we had enough money to go wild and buy some Alka-Seltzer and another box of Maltesers.
“What do you want them for?” Herbert asked.
“I’ve got a headache,” I said.
“No . . . the Maltesers.”
So I explained. Whoever had snatched Lauren Bacardi might know by now that Johnny Naples had spent the last month of his life traipsing around London with a box of Maltesers. And they might come looking for them. The dwarf’s box was still safely hidden underneath the floor. I’d bought the second box as a sort of insurance. I’d leave it somewhere nice and easy to find, just in case anyone else broke in.
We got back to the apartment and let ourselves in, dripping on the doormat. Maybe I noticed that the street door was unlocked when it wasn’t supposed to be. Maybe I didn’t. I don’t remember. What with the rain, I was just glad to be in. We went upstairs. Herbert sneezed again. The office door was open and this time I did notice.
“Herbert,” I said.
We went into the office. Herbert’s eyes must have gone straight to the desk because he went and picked something up. “What’s this doing here?” I heard him say.
But I didn’t look at him. My eyes were on the corpse stretched out beneath the window. It took me a minute before I remembered where I’d seen him before, but I should have known from the moment I saw the chauffeur’s uniform. It was Lawrence, the Fat Man’s driver. He was still wearing his one-way glasses, but one of the lenses had become a spiderweb of cracks, shattered by the bullet that had gone one way through it.
“Nick . . .” Herbert whimpered in a voice of pure jelly.
I looked up. And I saw it all.
“What’s this doing here?” Herbert had asked. I replayed the words in my head. “This” was a gun. It had been lying on the carpet beside the desk. Now he was holding it. At that moment, the door opened. Snape and Boyle had followed us in. And there was me kneeling beside another dead man. There was Herbert, again, holding the gun that had just killed him. And there were the two policemen looking at us in open-mouthed astonishment.
“You’re under—” Snape began.
“No . . .” Herbert moaned.
“I don’t believe it,” I said.
CROCODILE TEARS