“That’s right, sir,” Quisling said. He finished the half bottle and lobbed it toward the wastebasket. It missed and smashed against the wall. He didn’t seem to notice.
“But what do the Maltesers do?” I asked.
“They open the—” He stopped himself just in time. “I’ll tell you when I bring the money,” he said.
I knew that once I’d given him the Maltesers I’d never see him again. But I’d had an idea. I pulled open the drawer of the desk and took out the box that I’d hidden there a few days before. “This is what you want,” I said. He reached forward hungrily, but I didn’t let go. “You will come back?” I queried Quentin Quisling.
“Sure, sir. I’ll come back. On my mother’s grave.”
The old girl probably wasn’t even dead. “When?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said.
I lifted my hand and he snatched the box away.
“In the morning,” he repeated.
The door slammed shut behind him.
I waited thirty seconds before I followed him. He wouldn’t see me behind him. With his eyesight he wouldn’t see me if I stood next to him. And if Quisling really did know where the Falcon’s diamonds were hidden, he would lead me to them. The box of Maltesers I’d given him would, of course, be useless. But perhaps I’d let him keep them—after he’d led me to the end of the rainbow. That was the way I’d planned it, but of course that was far too easy, and when nothing can go wrong that’s when everything always does. I’d reached the front door. I’d turned around to lock it behind me. I could hear an engine turning over—a van parked close by. There was a movement in the street. I glanced up just in time to see something short and unpleasant come thudding down. It hit me behind the ear. I was out like a light.
FAIRY CAKES
I wish somebody had told me it was Knock Out Nick Diamond Week in London. It had happened to me twice in two days and I was getting a bit tired of it. Being knocked out isn’t so bad. It’s waking up that’s the real problem. Your head hurts, your mouth is dry, and you feel sick. And if it’s pitch-dark and you’re locked up in the back of a van that could be going anywhere, it’s pretty scary, too.
I was still in London. I could tell from the sound of the traffic and from the number of times we stopped. Once—when we were at a traffic light or something—I heard vague voices outside and thought of hammering on the side of the van. But it probably wouldn’t have done any good, and anyway, by the time I’d made up my mind, the van had moved off. A few minutes later, we stopped again. The door was pulled open. There wasn’t a lot of light left in the day, but what there was of it streamed in and punched me in the eyes.
“Get out,” a voice said. It was a soft voice, the sort of voice you’d expect to float on the scent of violets. It had a slight German twang. I’d heard that voice once before.
I got out.
The first thing I saw was a road sign. It read: BAYLY STREET SE1, which put me somewhere on the south bank of the river, opposite the financial district. I looked around me. This was warehouse territory. The old brick buildings rose five stories high on both sides of the road, the narrow gap of sky in between crisscrossed by corrugated iron walkways, hooks and chains, pipes and loading platforms. A hundred years ago, Bayly Street would have been on its feet. Twisted fuel cans, broken roof tiles, and yards of multicolored cables spilled out of the deserted buildings like entrails. The street was pitted with puddles that seemed to be eating their way into the carcass.
Another sign caught my eye, bright red letters on white: MCALPINE. It was a death warrant in one word for Bayly Street. There’s nothing more destructive than a construction company. They’d gut the warehouses and build fancy apartments in the shell. Each one would have a river view, a quarry-tiled garage, and a five-figure price tag. That’s the trouble with London. The rich have got it all.
There was a man standing beside the van, holding a silenced gun that he was pointing in my direction. He might have been a gangster, but he went to a smart tailor. He was dressed in a pale gray suit with a pink tie. His shoes were as brightly polished as his smile. A moment later, the driver’s door opened and a second man got out. He was dressed identically to the first, except that his tie was a powder blue. They were both short and thin and both wore their hair parted down the middle—one dark, one blond. They were both approaching fifty and had spent a lot of money trying to back away again. Their slightly plastic faces had to be the work of a slight plastic surgeon. Know what I mean? Cut out the fat, take up the wrinkles, retone the flesh, thank you, sir, and make sure you don’t sneeze too violently.
“This way,” Blondie said, gesturing with the gun.
“After you,” I replied.
“I don’t think so.”
There had to be men at work on a construction site nearby. I could hear them now, their hydraulic drills jabbering away in the distance, the mechanical grabbers churning up the mud. I thought of making a break for it. But there was no chance. There was nobody in sight and they’d have shot me down before I’d gone ten feet. The driver had walked across to a heavy wooden door and unlocked a padlock the size of a soup plate. It led into a room like an abandoned garage: bare concrete floor, burned-out walls, junk everywhere. For a nasty minute I thought that this was it and that I was about to reach the last full stop, but there was a staircase in one corner and Blondie steered me toward it. We went up five flights. Each floor was the same—derelict and decaying. But then we came to another door and another padlock. The fifth floor was different.
It was a single, undivided space and about as big as a tennis court, only it would be difficult to have a game—not with a grand piano parked in the middle. It had a large, wide window—more like a French door really—reaching from floor to ceiling, but being five stories up, it didn’t lead anywhere. The room was furnished with a gray carpet, gray silk curtains, and a silvery three-piece suite arranged around a white marble table. There was an unpatitioned-off kitchen with a tray loaded with cups and plates for tea.
The dark-haired man went into the kitchen while Blondie waved me over to the sofa.
“And who are you?” I asked, although I already had a good idea.
“I’m William,” Blondie said. “And that’s Eric.” He gestured.
“Gott and Himmell,” I muttered. The two German schoolboys from Eton. That gave me a complete score on Snape’s blackboard.
“We thought it was time we invited you to tea,” Gott went on. “I do hope you like fairy cakes.”
The kettle boiled. Himmell filled the pot and brought the tray over to the table. “Who’s going to be mother?” I asked. They both raised their eyebrows at that. I couldn’t believe it. These were meant to be the Falcon’s two right-hand men, but they looked about as dangerous as my two maiden aunts. But then I remembered the way they’d brought me here and the fact that there were two dead bodies to be accounted for. They might look like a joke. But they could still make you die laughing.
Himmell poured the tea into china cups decorated with roses interlaced with swastikas, and then handed out the fairy cakes. I didn’t feel like eating, but it looked like he’d made them himself and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
“Who plays the piano?” I asked. Polite conversation seemed like a good idea.
“We both do,” Gott said. “But now, my friend, it’s your turn to sing.” Himmell laughed at that. I didn’t. I’ve found funnier lines in a Latin dictionary. “You have something we want,” Gott went on. “Let me explain, Nicholas . . . if I may call you Nicholas? A charming name.”
I bit into the fairy cake. It tasted like dish soap.
“We were following the dwarf the day he visited you and your brother. We didn’t know then what he was carrying. We searched your apartment that evening, but we found nothing. Then we ran into Miss Bacardi.”