The Falcon's Malteser

D FOR “DWARF”

Maltesers. That’s what it said on the box. You can buy them just about anywhere in the world even if the name isn’t always the same. Maltesers are those chocolate malt balls that crunch when you eat them. Personally, I’ve never been that keen on eating them at all. I’ve got better things to spend my pocket money on. New pockets, for example. The old ones are full of holes.

The question was, why had Johnny Naples paid out five hundred dollars to have us look after a box of candy? Why had someone gone to so much trouble—wrecking the apartment—to get his hands on them? And how had the Fat Man gotten mixed up in all this? Chocolates were the last things he needed—he was on a diet. It just didn’t make sense.

We’d opened up the box. In for a penny, in for a pound (or 5.15 ounces, to be exact). The contents certainly looked like ordinary Maltesers. They smelled ordinary. And they tasted ordinary. Herbert had some sort of idea that they might be chocolate-covered diamonds or something. It was only after I’d eaten half a dozen of them that he changed his mind and suggested that they might contain some sort of newfan gled poison. If looks could kill, I’d have buried my brother.

“What we’ve got to do,” Herbert said, “is find Naples.”

For Herbert that was a pretty brilliant piece of deduction. The Fat Man had given us two days to get back to him. Johnny Naples had said he’d return in about a week. That left five days in which all sorts of unpleasant things could happen. The only trouble was, Naples hadn’t told us where we could reach him. We had no address, no telephone number.

Herbert echoed my thoughts. “I wonder how we could get hold of him?” he asked.

“We could try the Yellow Pages,” I suggested. “V for ‘ver tically challenged’?”

“Yes!”

I groaned as he reached for the telephone book. “I was only joking,” I said.

“Were you? Of course you were!” Herbert dropped the book and gazed out of the window.

Meanwhile, I was fingering the envelope. The Maltesers hadn’t told us anything, but looking underneath the flap, I found a small white label. The dwarf, in a hurry to seal the package, must have missed it. “Look at this,” I said.

Herbert took the envelope. “It’s an envelope,” he said.

“Yes. But look at the label.”

Herbert found it and held it up to the light. “Hammett’s,” he read. “Eighteen cents.” He frowned. “That’s cheap for a box of Maltesers.”

I shook my head. “That’s the price of the envelope, not the candy,” I explained. “Look—the price is handwritten, but the name is printed. Hammett’s . . . that must be the stationer’s or newsstand where he bought the envelope to put the Maltesers in.”

“That’s terrific!” Herbert exclaimed. “That’s great, Nick.” He paused. “But how does it help us?”

“If the dwarf wanted to buy an envelope, he probably bought it fairly near wherever he’s staying,” I said. “So all we have to do is find out how many Hammett’s shops there are in London, visit them all, and ask them if they remember selling an envelope to Naples.”

Herbert sighed. “They probably sell hundreds of envelopes,” he said. “And they must have thousands of customers.”

“Yeah. But how many of their customers are dwarfs?”

“That’s true.” He considered. “So how do we find Ham mett’s?”

“We look in the Yellow Pages.”

Herbert snatched up the book again. Then he turned and looked at me disdainfully. “That was my idea in the first place,” he said.

I didn’t argue. Arguing with someone like Herbert is a bit like hitting yourself with a brick.

As it turned out, there were six Hammett’s in London.

We found them under the section headed Newsstands and News Vendors. There were three south of the river, one in Notting Hill Gate, one in Kensington, and one in Hammersmith. By now it was too late to visit them all, so we decided to take the three in the south first and pick up some secondhand furniture from a friend with a shop near Clapham Common at the same time. It took us a couple of hours and a lot of wasted shoe leather, but at least that evening we were able to sit down again.

The next day was a Saturday. We left the flat for a second time, but struck out in Kensington and Hammersmith. That just left Notting Hill Gate. The last Hammett’s was a run-down place on the Portobello Road in the middle of a famous antiques and bric-a-brac market. The sun was shining and the market was busy with young couples shelling out for Victorian brass towel holders and Edwardian stripped-pine blanket boxes. The air was thick with the smell of french fries and overcooked kebabs. Outside the shop there was an old boy selling genuine antique license plates. Doubtless they had fallen off a genuine antique truck.

The shop was small and dark. That seemed to be the trademark of the entire Hammett’s chain. You probably know the sort of place: candy and chocolates on one side, newspapers and magazines on the other, with the dirty stuff on the top shelf. Herbert made straight for it, thumbing through a copy of Playboy, “looking for clues,” as he put it. Meanwhile, I took a quick look at the stationery and odds-and-ends section. This was the first branch we’d visited that actually stocked the right-size envelopes. I examined a price label. The handwriting was the same.

There was only one man behind the counter. He was about forty, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, his skin the unhealthy shade of white that comes from sitting in a dingy newsstand all day smoking. While Herbert continued his own private investigation, I took the envelope and went over to him.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but do you remember selling one of these envelopes to a dwarf?”

The man looked past me at Herbert. “Are you going to buy that?” he barked. Herbert pushed the magazine away from him and blushed. Then he came over and joined us. “Now, what do you want, son?” the newsagent asked.

“My brother’s a private detective,” I explained. “We’re trying to find a dwarf . . . greasy hair, suntan. We think he bought an envelope here a couple of days ago.”

“Yeah . . . I remember that.” The newsagent nodded. “A short guy . . .”

“Most dwarfs are,” I muttered.

“Came in here . . . last Thursday.”

It had been Thursday when Johnny Naples came to see us. I was beginning to get excited, but then Herbert had to pipe up. “Diamond’s the name,” he said. “Tim Diamond.”

“He didn’t tell me his name,” the newsagent said.

“No. I’m telling you my name.”

The newsagent frowned at me. “Is he all right?” he asked.

“Sure.” I scowled at Herbert. “Look—this is important. Did the dwarf buy anything else here? Like some Maltesers, for example.”

I could see that the man was beginning to have second thoughts about the state of my own sanity, but he knew I was serious. He considered for a minute. “He didn’t buy any candy,” he said. “But . . . now I remember. He had a box of Maltesers with him when he came in. I saw him put them in the envelope. What else did he buy? There was something . . .” He snapped his fingers. “It was a pair of scissors.” Now it all came back. “He was in a hurry. Nervous sort. Kept on looking out into the street. Like he was being followed or something. He bought an envelope and a pair of scissors. Then he went.”

“We need to find him,” I said.

“Is he in some sort of trouble?” the newsagent asked.

“He might be if we don’t find him,” I replied.

“But he won’t necessarily be if we do,” Herbert added unnecessarily.

The newsagent hesitated. He didn’t trust us. If I had been him, I wouldn’t have trusted us either. Just then the door opened and somebody else came in—to buy a pack of cigarettes or something. “Look, I don’t have time to waste with you two jokers,” the newsagent said. “You want to speak to the dwarf, you’ll find him at the Hotel Splendide at the bottom of the Portobello Road.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“I know the owner. He told me he had a dwarf staying there.”

“And what’s the owner’s name?” Herbert asked.

“Jack Splendide.”

The farther you go down the Portobello Road, the crummier it gets. It’s just about okay until you reach the Electric Cinema, but after that it’s downhill all the way. You come to an overpass at the bottom, by which time you’re in a different world. You’ve left the antique shops and the bustling stalls behind you. Now you’re in a flat wasteland, up to your ankles in litter. It’s amazing how quickly a short walk can take you from one side of London to the other.

The Hotel Splendide was the sort of place that would be hard to find unless you knew it was there—perhaps the sort of place you might choose if you didn’t want to be found. It was right at the far end of the Portobello Road, halfway down a narrow cul-de-sac, nestling in the armpit of the overpass, which swept around the building as if holding it in a clammy, concrete embrace. You wouldn’t get much sleep at the Hotel Splendide, not with the traffic roaring past only a couple of yards from your bedroom window. Because the top floor of the building, beneath the flat roof, was level with the raised highway. Roll over in bed and you risked being run over by a truck. That is, if the bedbugs and cockroaches didn’t get to you first.

It was a square, ugly building, the color of moldy cheese. A red neon sign with the name glowed behind a first-floor window, only the glass was so dirty you could hardly read it. A row of garbage cans stood outside the entrance, their overflowing garbage adding to the delightful atmosphere. You know how some travel guides award symbols of knives and forks to hotels in recognition of their quality? Well, the Hotel Splendide wouldn’t even have merited a toothpick.

There was a drunk lying half asleep next to the garbage cans, the top of a wine bottle poking out of the brown paper bag that he clutched in one hand. A dog—an Alsatian—lay sprawled beside him. It was drunk, too. We stepped past them and went into the hotel. The door was hanging off its hinges. The interior smelled of sweat and disinfectant.

We found ourselves in what passed for a reception area. Some hotels advertise theaters and restaurants. In this one the posters advertised soup kitchens and delousing clinics. There was a counter opposite the door, and behind it an unshaven man reading a cheap paperback. He was wearing a grimy shirt and jeans with a stomach that managed to force its way over the top of the belt and sag down to his thighs. He was sucking on a cigar that had gone out perhaps a week ago. He didn’t look up as we approached. Instead, he flicked a page in his book, grunted, and went on reading.

“You Jack Splendide?” Herbert asked.

“Who wants to know?” He talked without moving his lips. But the cigar waggled between his teeth.

“The name’s Diamond,” Herbert said. “I’m a private eye.”

“Ya don’t say!” Splendide yawned and went back to the book.

“We’re looking for someone who’s staying here,” I explained. “A dwarf. His name’s Johnny Naples. He owes a client of ours a lot of bread.”

“That’s right,” Herbert said. “And if we find him, we’ll cut you in for a slice.”

We were making it all up, of course, but it was the only way to get past the hotel manager. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the stairs. “Room thirty-nine,” he said.

We climbed five flights of stairs, trying to stop them from creaking beneath our feet. The carpet was threadbare, the walls damp and discolored. We could hear TV sets blaring away in the distance and a baby crying. I suppose I’d have cried, too, if I’d had to stay there. Room 39 was at the back of the hotel, at the bottom of a corridor. We guessed it was 39 because it came after 37 and 38. But the number had fallen off. The door was closed.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” Herbert whispered.

“Have you got a better one?” I asked.

“We could go home . . .”

“Come on, Tim,” I said. “We’ve found him now. It can’t hurt to—”

That was as far as I got. The gunshot wasn’t loud, but it was close enough to make me jump the way you do when a car backfires or somebody drops a plate. It had come from the other side of the door. Herbert froze, then tried to lurch away, but fortunately I managed to grab hold of his jacket. I didn’t want to go into the room by myself. I didn’t want to go into the room at all. But if I’d run away then, I’d never have forgiven myself.

Still clutching Herbert, I opened the door. It wasn’t locked. In the Hotel Splendide, the rooms didn’t have locks. Some of them didn’t even have doors.

The first thing I saw was a flapping curtain and a shadowy figure disappearing outside. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. There was just the flash of a leg hanging over the edge of the sill and then it was gone.

It was a small room, just big enough for a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, and a corpse. I closed the door behind me. Johnny Naples was lying on the bed. He wasn’t dead yet, but the big red splotch on his shirt told me that his time was running out about as quickly as his blood. I went over to the window and looked outside. But I was too late. Whoever had climbed out had jumped the short distance to the overpass and run for it. Maybe they’d had a car waiting for them. Anyway, they were gone.

The dwarf groaned and I looked back again. The room was probably in a mess to begin with, but I guessed there had been a fight. There was a chair upturned on the floor and a lamp had been knocked over on the table. My eyes fell on a pack of matches. I don’t know why I picked them up and put them in my pocket. I knew we didn’t have a lot of time and that any clue—no matter how small—might help. Maybe it was just that I didn’t want to look at the dwarf. Anyway, that’s what I did.

Johnny Naples opened his mouth and tried to speak.

“The falcon . . .” he said. Then a nasty, bubbling sound.

Then: “The sun . . .” And that was it. His eyes closed. The mouth stayed open.

D for “dwarf.” D for “dead.”

Herbert had picked something up off the carpet.

“Nick . . .” he began.

It was a gun. And it was still smoking.

And he was still standing there, holding it, when the door crashed open. The man who had been drunk outside the Hotel Splendide was standing there and he had a gun, too. The Alsatian was with him, growling softly.

There were two more people behind him.

“Police!” he shouted.

Herbert fainted.

The man swung around to cover him. “You’re under arrest,” he said.