He stopped triumphantly and sneezed. Lauren reached out for the Maltesers and he gave them to her. She turned them over and examined the bar code.
“Could you use the bar code like a . . . a key?” I asked. That was the word the Fat Man had used. He had said he was looking for a key.
“Absolutely!” the journalist said. “That’s just what it is, really.”
“But could it open something—like a safe?”
“It depends how you programmed your computer. But the answer’s yes. It could open a safe. Play Space Invaders. Make the tea. And so on.”
They open the . . . I’d asked the Professor what the Maltesers did, and that was what he’d said before he caught himself. It was all clicking together. A key. A code known only to the Falcon. A safe. Johnny Naples had guessed the day he went to Selfridges. Now I remembered the words he’d written down on the scraps of paper I’d found in his room. Digital . . . photodetector . . . light-emitting diode. Clifford Taylor had used them all in his explanation.
I’d always thought that it was the Maltesers themselves that were the answer to the riddle. But I’d been wrong and I should have guessed. When Johnny Naples had bought the envelope at Hammetts, he’d done something else. He’d bought a pair of scissors. Why? To cut out the bar code. That was all he needed. He just had to feed it into . . .
But that was one thing I still didn’t know.
“I do hope I’ve been helpful,” the journalist said.
“Sure,” I said. “More helpful than you’d guess.”
“Is there a story in it?”
I nodded. “An international master criminal, a gang of crooks, a fortune in diamonds? There’s a story all right.”
Clifford Taylor sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t use it. It’s much too exciting for the Fulham Express. But look out for the next edition. I’m doing a very interesting piece on the effectiveness of one-way traffic systems in Chelsea.”
“I can hardly wait,” I said.
We left him at his desk and went back down the stairs. It was only when we got to the bottom that Lauren’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’ve left the Maltesers upstairs!” she exclaimed. “Hang on, honey . . .”
I watched her run up the stairs and into the newspaper office. About a minute later, she reappeared, waving the Maltesers. “I must be out of my mind!” she said. “How could I leave them?”
I thought no more of it. That was definitely a mistake.
We were near Herbert’s flat, so I decided to go in and get some fresh clothes. It was easier for Lauren to take the subway straight to Baron’s Court, so we parted company outside Fulham Broadway Station. It was a beautiful day. Cold but with a brilliant sun. Lauren stopped outside the station almost like she was afraid to go in.
“Nick . . .” she said.
“Yes?”
“What I said that night—I want you to know that I meant it. You’re a nice boy. You deserve the best.”
I stared at her, then laughed uneasily. “What is this?” I said. “I’ll only be an hour or so. You’re talking like I’m never going to see you again.”
“Sure.” She shook her head. “Forget it.”
She went into the station.
I walked all the way up the Fulham Road, past the cemetery, and on to the flat. As I walked, I thought. I understood so much now. What the Maltesers meant and why everybody wanted them. The only trouble was, if the Maltesers really were a sort of digital key, how was I to find the digital door? And there was something else that puzzled me. Who had shot Johnny Naples in the first place? My money was on the Fat Man. If it had been Gott and Himmell, they’d have told me when I was their prisoner. After all, they’d told me about Lawrence without blinking an eye. But at the same time, I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t see the Fat Man getting his hands dirty that way. It wasn’t his style. So if not him—who?
I checked the bag. At least the Maltesers were safe. Right now that was all that mattered.
It was around three when I reached the flat. I slipped in as quickly as I could. The fewer people who saw me go in, the better. I didn’t mean to stay there long—just long enough to pull on a fresh shirt and a new pair of socks and make a clean getaway. I went up the stairs. The office door was open. I went in.
There were four thugs in there waiting for me. One was behind the door. He kicked it shut after I’d gone through it, so when I turned around there was no way out. I’d have given my right arm for a way out. If I hung around there much longer they’d probably tear it off anyway. The four thugs were all wearing extra-large suits. That was because they were extra-large thugs. I was once taught at school that Man evolved from the ape and all I can say is that these four had a long way to catch up. They were big, heavy, and brutal, with unintelligent eyes and thick lips. They were all chewing gum, their lower jaws sliding up and down in unison. “Are you Nick Diamond?” one of them asked.
“Me?” I said. “No . . . no! I’m not Nick Diamond. I’m . . . er . . . the delivery boy.”
“What are you delivering?” a second demanded.
“Um . . .” I was having to think on my feet. Any minute now I’d be thinking on my back. If I was still conscious. “I’m a singing telegram!” I exclaimed, brilliantly. “Happy birthday to you, happy birth . . .” I tried to sing, but the words died in my throat. The four thugs weren’t convinced. “Come on, guys,” I pleaded. “Gimme a break.”
“Yeah—your legs,” the third one said.
They all laughed at that. I’d heard more cheerful sounds on a ghost train. They were still laughing as they closed in on me.
“You’re making a big mistake,” I said.
The man behind the door was the first to reach me. He grabbed my shoulder with one hand and lifted me clean off my feet. “There’s no mistake, sunshine,” he said. “The Fat Man wants to see you.”
IN THE FOG
I discovered that the four thugs were called Lenny, Benny, Kenny, and Fred. Lenny was in charge. He was the one with the driver’s license. He’d parked the car outside the flat. It was a Volkswagen Bug. After we’d all piled in it I was surprised it was able to move. I certainly wasn’t. I was on the backseat between Benny and Kenny. Things were so tight that if they’d both breathed in at the same time, I’d have been crushed. The Maltesers were still in my shoulder bag, but now the shoulder bag was on Fred’s lap. Lenny was driving. I was being “taken for a ride,” as they say. And I had a nasty feeling I’d only been given a one-way ticket.
We drove out of town, west toward Richmond. Lenny had made a telephone call before we left, so I knew the Fat Man would be waiting for me. It looked like he was going to have a long wait. These heavies really were heavy and the car could only manage thirty miles an hour on the level. Not that I was in any hurry. In fact, my only hope was that the engine would finally explode under the pressure. I could hardly see them “taking me for a ride” on a bus.
“You can’t do this to me,” I protested. “I’m underage. I’m only a kid. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me.”
“That’s what you think.” Lenny sneered.