“Seventy-thirty,” the Fat Man said. “It’s my last offer.”
It was his last offer. There was a movement on the path behind him, and when he turned around there were Gott and Himmell with Herbert between them. It had been a week since I’d last seen him and Herbert had lost weight.
I smiled at him. “Hello, Herbert,” I said.
He looked at me reproachfully. “The name is Tim,” he muttered.
There are times when my brother really amazes me. I’d been kidnapped, tied up, chased around London, threatened, and half killed. He’d been arrested for murder and kidnapped himself. We were unarmed and surrounded by three psychopathic killers. And he was worried about names. “How are you . . . Tim?” I asked.
“I’m okay,” he said. He considered. “Actually I’ve got a runny nose and—”
“All right,” the Fat Man interrupted. “What is this?”
“It’s a cemetery,” Herbert said.
The Fat Man gritted his teeth.
“Do you know them?” I asked him.
He glanced at Gott and Himmell. “I know them,” he said.
“If that little swine is trying to trick us—” Gott began.
“I’m doing what I said I would,” I cut in. “I promised I’d lead you to the Maltesers in return for Herbert—I mean— Tim.” I pointed at the Fat Man, who was still holding them. “There they are. And I promised the Fat Man that I’d tell him their secret. If you’ll let me, I will.”
Nobody said anything. The wind ruffled my hair. I was wearing a warm coat, but my body was far from warm. I just wanted the whole thing to be over.
“Go ahead,” Gott said.
“Yes, go ahead,” the Fat Man repeated. “And it had better be good.”
“All right,” I said. “This is how it goes. Henry von Falkenberg was a very careful man, a man who trusted no one. He had five million dollars in diamonds stashed here in England. It was in a safe that had been specially built for him. Even the key to the safe was special. It was designed so that nobody would even know it was a key. Only the Falcon knew. It was the only way he could feel safe himself.
“The Professor built the safe for him—the late Quentin Quisling. I guess we’ll never know, but I suppose he built in some sort of device so that Henry von Falkenberg could choose his own combination. That wouldn’t have been difficult. The key was a bar code. It could be on a tin of baked beans, a pack of playing cards—a box of Maltesers. The Falcon brought the key with him every time he came to England. If he was searched by the police, he had nothing to fear. Who would suspect that a few black lines on the bottom of a box of candy could open the door to a fortune?
“There was one thing, though. One fail-safe device. There was a number written on the box. I don’t know why. Maybe it appealed to the Falcon’s sense of humor. Or maybe it was a clue—a puzzle for his heirs to fight over. But that number was 352-1201 with a few zeroes added to stretch it out. I wrote that number down for my brother on the day of the Falcon’s funeral. It’s the phone number of this cemetery.”
I walked forward to the monument. Nobody spoke, but their eyes followed me like so many gun barrels. I stood on tiptoe and wiped the cuff of my shirt across the eyes of the falcon. As I had guessed, they weren’t made of stone. They were glass.
“And where is this ingenious safe?” I asked. “You’re looking at it. The Falcon had it designed like a memorial. You see the inscription? The ‘shining light’ it’s referring to is the light beam that opens it. Johnny Naples tried to tell me about that—the sun.
“I won’t try to explain to you how a bar code works. I only half understand it myself. But what you’re looking at here is the first solar-powered bar-code reader. You’ve got to hand it to the Professor. He may have been crooked. He may have been a drunk. But he was clever.
“The sunlight goes in through the eyes of the stone falcon. You run the bar code—at a guess—across the open beak. Somewhere inside all this there’s a photodetector, a small computer, and an opening device—all solar-powered. If you’ve got the right bar code, it’ll open the safe.” I pointed at the Maltesers, still clutched in the Fat Man’s hand. “That’s the right bar code,” I added. “It’s as simple as that.”
I stopped. Nobody spoke. Only Herbert looked puzzled. He obviously hadn’t understood a single word I’d said.
I wasn’t exactly sure what was going to happen next, but I’ll tell you the general idea. The Fat Man isn’t going to share the diamonds with Gott and Himmell. Gott and Himmell clearly have no intention of sharing the diamonds with the Fat Man. But now everybody knows the secret. Herbert and I are forgotten. Nobody cares about us anymore. We slip away to live happily ever after, leaving our three friends to sort themselves out as best they can. That was the general idea. But obviously I’d been talking to the wrong general.
It all happened at once.
Almost casually, the Fat Man had lifted his shooting stick so that the end was pointing at Himmell. At the same time, Gott’s hand had slid quietly into his jacket pocket. The two shots were almost simultaneous. Himmell looked down. There was a hole in his chest. The Fat Man lowered his shooting stick. And it was a shooting stick. The smoke was still curling out of the hole at the bottom. He smiled. The smile faded. He frowned. He raised a hand. He’d only just realized that he’d been shot in the neck. This time Gott hadn’t used a silencer.
The Fat Man and Himmell slid to the ground together. The Maltesers fell on the grass. The last of the chocolates rolled out.
“Pick it up,” Gott said.
I picked up the box. Something was chattering. I was just thinking that it was a bit cold for grasshoppers when I realized what it was. It was Herbert’s teeth.
“Give me the box,” Gott said.
I gave it to him, then stepped back a pace. Now Herbert and I were standing close together. Gott’s gun was out of his jacket. There were too many bandages on his face to be sure, but I think his smile had grown even wider.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said.
There were two gunshots.
Herbert’s hands came up to his stomach. He groaned and lurched forward. “Nick . . .” he whispered. He pitched onto the grave.
I stared at him.
“Get up, Tim,” I said.
“But I’ve been shot.”
“No, you haven’t.”
He held his hands up to his face. There was no blood. He lifted up his shirt and looked underneath. There were no bullet holes. Now he was blushing. “Sorry . . .” he muttered.
Gott had watched this performance with strange, empty eyes. Suddenly he toppled forward. There were two holes in the back of his jacket. He hadn’t had time to fire his own gun.
A figure appeared behind him, moving toward us. And that was the biggest surprise of the day.
It was Betty Charlady.
“ ’Ello, Mr. Nicholas,” she gurgled. She was still in her fluffy bedroom slippers, with a forest of artificial flowers on her head. “Wotcha, Mr. Timothy. Blimey! What a turn-up . . . innit!”
“Betty!” Herbert exclaimed. “What are you doing—” But then he plugged his mouth with his thumb, stopping himself in midsentence.
Betty was holding a gun. The gun had just killed Gott.
With a smile, she pulled off her hat and threw it onto the grass. Her wig, with the electric curls, went next. Once more her hand reached up and this time it pulled at the very skin of her face. It stretched, then tore loose, carrying the wrinkles and makeup with it. The gun in her other hand remained steady, but otherwise, in front of our eyes, she was changing.
Betty Charlady was gone. Another woman stood in her place.
“Who is she?” Herbert whispered.