“Is she here?” I asked.
“You’ll see her soon enough. She told us about the Maltesers. Most . . . unusual. So we went back to your flat for a second time. That was the day of the Falcon’s funeral. We were certain that we would find the Maltesers then. But after we’d broken in, we were surprised. Who was the man waiting for us?”
“His name was Lawrence,” I said. “He was the chauffeur of the Fat Man. He was after the Maltesers, too.”
“It was unfortunate for him.” Gott sighed. “He said some very hurtful things. So Eric hurt him. In fact, he killed him. I have to tell you, Nicholas. Eric is a lovely person. Lovely. But he gets moody sometimes. And when he’s moody, he shoots people.”
I smiled at Himmell. “Nice fairy cakes,” I said.
“We still want the Maltesers,” Gott said. “We know your brother is in jail. And we know you know where they are. So either you tell us now or . . .”
“Or what, Gott?” I asked.
“It would be a terrible shame,” he replied. “You’re a very nice boy. Really very sweet. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Yes—far too young to end up in a plastic bag with six bullets in your chest. Would you like some more tea?”
Himmell filled my cup. He didn’t seem to have quite as good a grasp of the English language as his friend. They were both still smiling at me with their plastic smiles and I wondered if, after the face-lifts, they were capable of anything else. Gott finished his tea and smacked his lips.
“Thank you,” he said. “You do make a lovely cup, Eric.”
“Anudder cup?”
“Nein danke.” He turned to me. “So where are they?”
I’d been thinking. I’d have been happy to tell them if I thought it would get me out of there. But somehow I didn’t believe it. Once they’d gotten what they wanted, they wouldn’t need me and I’d be in that plastic bag like a shot. And I mean shot. I had to buy time. Given a bit of time, maybe I could find my way out of this jam.
I coughed. “Well, it’s a bit tricky . . .” Himmell’s face fell. He was still smiling, but I figure his nose and chin must have sunk a good half inch or so. “I mean, I do have them. They’re at Victoria Station. In a luggage locker. But Herbert has the key.”
“The number?”
“Um . . . one hundred and eighty!” I’d been making it up as I went along and I sang out that number like an auctioneer after a final bid.
“At Victoria Station?”
“Yes. But you can’t open it.”
He lifted the gun. “I think we can.”
Gott got to his feet and strolled over to the piano. Then he sat down on the stool and rubbed his hands over the keys. I stood up. “Thanks for the tea,” I said. “If that’s all you wanted to know—”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Gott played a chord. “Eric!”
Himmell had a few cords of his own. I don’t know where he’d gotten the rope from, but there was nothing I could do. While Gott played a tune on the piano Himmell tied me up. He did it very professionally. My hands went behind my back, where they were introduced to my feet. By the time he’d finished, I couldn’t even twitch in time to the music and I could feel my fingers and toes going blue as the blood was cut off. Gott finished his little recital and stood up.
“Well, Nicholas,” he said. “We’re going to Victoria Station.” He looked at his watch. “We’ll be back around five. And if you’ve been lying, we’ll bury you around five-thirty.”
I tried to shrug. I couldn’t even manage that with all the ropes. “If this is what they teach you at private school,” I said, “I’m glad I went public.”
“Take him into the back room,” Gott snapped. “It’s time he met our other guest.”
Himmell picked me up and carried me across the room. I’m not heavy, but he was still stronger than I thought. There was a door at the far end, beyond the piano. He drew back a metal bolt with one hand and opened it.
“When are you going to let me out of here?” a voice demanded. A voice I knew.
Himmell threw me down on the floor. I found myself sitting opposite Lauren Bacardi. She was tied up just like me.
“Company for you,” Gott said.
He closed the door and locked it behind him. A minute later I heard the two Germans leave for Victoria Station. I wondered what they’d find in Locker 180. I wondered if there even was a Locker 180. I just knew that I had until five to get out of here. I’d bought myself time okay. But I wasn’t too keen on paying the price.
With an effort, I tried to put them out of my mind. I looked around at Lauren. “Hi,” I said.
“I know you,” she said.
“Yeah. Nick Diamond. We met at the Casablanca Club—the night they came for you.”
She nodded. “I remember. Thanks a bunch, Nick. I was enjoying my life until you came along.”
She was still dressed in the glitzy clothes she had worn for her singing act, but the fake jewelry was gone and she had washed off some of the makeup. She looked better without it. She was sitting in the corner with her knees drawn up, a plate and a mug on the floor beside her. There was no furniture in the room, which was about as big as a large walk-in closet. It was lit by a single small window that would have been too high up to reach even if we hadn’t been tied up. I gave a cautious tug at the ropes. In the movies, there would have been a piece of broken glass or something for me to cut them with. But it looked like I was in the wrong movie.
I gave up. “I’m sorry about this,” I said. “But I didn’t lead them to you.”
“No? Then who did?”
It was a good question. How had they found out about her? “You told them about the Maltesers?” I said.
She sniffed. “Why else do you think I’m still alive?”
“Enjoy it while you can,” I said. “They’re going to be back at five and they’re not going to be very happy. I strung them a line out there. When they get back, I reckon they’re going to want to string me up with one.”
“Then we’d better move.”
“Sure. If I can just get across to you, maybe you can get at my ropes with your teeth and—”
I stopped. Lauren Bacardi had wriggled. That was all she had done, but now the ropes were falling away from her like overcooked spaghetti. It was incredible. I tried it myself. But while she got to her feet, unhooking the last loop from her wrist, I stayed exactly where I was.
“That’s a real trick,” I said. “How did you do it?”
“Before I became a singer I worked in cabaret,” she told me. “I was the assistant to an escape artist . . . Harry Blondini. I spent two and a half years being tied up. Harry loved ropes. He used to wear handcuffs in bed and he was the only guy I ever knew who took his showers hanging upside down in a straitjacket. He taught me everything he knew.”
By now she was kneeling beside me, pulling the knots undone. “Why didn’t you escape before?” I asked.
“There was no point. The door’s barred from the outside. There’s nothing I can do about that. And even if I could reach the window, it’s too small for me to get through.”
Too small for her, but when she gave me a leg up about fifteen minutes later, I found I could just squeeze through. Gott and Himmell hadn’t bothered to lock it. Why should they? They’d left me tied up, and anyway, it didn’t lead anywhere. It was five stories up and just too far below the roof for me to be able to scramble up there. I paused for a moment on the window ledge, my legs dangling inside, my head and shoulders in the cold evening air. I could see men working on a construction site in the distance and I shouted, trying to attract their attention. But they were too far away and, anyway, there was too much noise.