The Falcon's Malteser

THE SHINING LIGHT

There are only about three or four days in the year when the Brompton Cemetery is more or less empty—and Christmas Day, of course, is one of them. That would suit my plans. Witnesses were one thing I could do without. It was eleven forty-five when I walked up to the Falcon’s grave. There was nobody in sight. Fortunately it was another crisp, cloudless day. The sun had no warmth, but it was bright. At least the weather was on my side.

I stood beside the Falcon’s grave. The earth was still fresh where they’d buried him, like a sore that hadn’t healed. It would take the grass time to grow over it—but where better to find time than in a cemetery? I looked at the memorial, that Victorian telephone booth with the stone falcon perched on top. There’s an old saying I thought of. “You can’t take it with you.” But the Falcon had—or at least, he’d tried his best to. I read the inscription on the memorial. I’d read it before.

THE PATH OF THE JUST IS AS SHINING LIGHT, THAT SHINETH MORE AND MORE UNTO THE PERFECT DAY.

The Falcon must have smiled when he had that cut in. I wondered if he was still smiling in his grave.

I heard the gate grind open down at the Fulham Road. That had to be the Fat Man. Sure enough, he appeared a few moments later, wearing a camel-hair coat with real humps. He carried a shooting stick and walked at a jaunty pace, for all the world like a man taking a little exercise before his Christmas lunch.

He saw me standing by the grave, raised the shooting stick, and sauntered over. He was smiling, but only with his lips. His eyes didn’t trust me.

“Merry Christmas, Fat Man,” I said.

“I hope so,” he replied. “And I hope you’re not wasting my time, my boy. You should know by now that I don’t take kindly to—”

“Have you got the Maltesers?” I cut in.

He nodded. “In my pocket.”

“Let me see them.”

He took them out but held on to them like he was afraid I was going to grab them.

“Read me the number on the bottom,” I said.

He turned the box over: “3521 201 000000.” It was the right number. “You say you know what these chocolates meant to the Falcon,” he said in a graveyard voice. “You say you want to make a deal. What deal?”

“We’ll split the money,” I said. “Fifty-fifty.”

“Eighty-twenty.”

“Sixty-forty.”

We were juggling figures. It didn’t matter to me. I knew that once I showed the Fat Man what to do with the Maltesers, I’d be dead. But it was important that he hung on to them. They had to be out in the open.

“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.

“Beatrice von Falkenberg,” I said. “The Falcon’s widow. Snape told us that she used to be a great actress. It looks like Mrs. Charlady was one of her performances.”

“That’s right, boys,” Beatrice said.

I took a quick look around the cemetery. The way things were going, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the alligator had turned up—perhaps disguised as a hedgehog.

“But . . . but why?” Herbert asked.

“I had to find the diamonds,” she said. “My late husband’s fortune. When the dwarf gave you the package, I had to get close to you—to find out what you knew. Then I saw your advertisement for a cleaning woman. That gave me the idea.”

“And Gott and Himmell were working for you,” I said.

“That’s very clever of you, Nicholas,” she muttered. “How do you know?”

I shrugged. “I told you we were going to the Casablanca Club. You were the only person who knew. But somehow Gott and Himmell managed to turn up just in time to snatch Lauren Bacardi. We led them to her.”

Herbert looked at me in astonishment. “That’s brilliant,” he said.

“There’s more. They learned about the Maltesers from Lauren and they told you, Beatrice. That’s how you knew what to ask for when I visited you in Hampstead. You were all in it together.”

“Until their use ran out,” Beatrice said.

“It’s incredible,” Herbert said.

“Not really,” I said. “I almost guessed when I visited Beatrice. She knew your real name. She called you Herbert—not Timothy. And she was wearing the same perfume as Betty. Lavender. That was something she forgot to change.”

“You’re very clever,” Beatrice said.

“Maybe. But there’s one thing I don’t get. Why did you kill Johnny Naples in the first place?”

She shrugged. “It was an accident. Gott and Himmell had tracked him down to the Hotel Splendide. They were going to snatch him, but I went to see him first. I walked in as Betty Charlady. Nobody looked twice. I wanted to persuade him to share what he’d found with me. I told him I was his only hope. I could keep Gott and Himmell off his back. And I could use them to stay ahead of the Fat Man. But he was greedy. He wouldn’t listen. He had a gun. There was a fight. Like I say, it was an accident.” She sighed. “There can’t be any more accidents. You two can’t leave the cemetery. No witnesses.” For a moment she slipped back into her Betty Charlady voice. “Cheerio, then, Mr. Nicholas. Ta, ta, Mr. ’erbert.”

She lifted the gun.

“Oh no!” Herbert whimpered.

“I don’t think so, Beatrice,” I said.

She looked beyond me and her face jerked back like she’d been slapped. But then she lowered the gun and laughed. Suddenly the cemetery was full of uniformed policemen. They were springing up everywhere—out of the long grass and from behind the gravestones. At their head, running to be the first ones to reach us, were Snape and Boyle.

“Well . . . that’s a lucky coincidence,” Herbert said.

“What do you mean—coincidence?” I said. “I called Snape last night. I told him everything.” Herbert’s mouth fell open. “Well, I wasn’t going to come here alone.”

By this time Boyle had reached Beatrice von Falkenberg. She stretched out her hands elegantly for the cuffs, but he threw himself at her anyway—a flying tackle that sent her crashing to the ground.

“You could have come out sooner, Chief Inspector,” I said as Snape arrived. “We were nearly killed.”

“That’s true, laddie,” Snape agreed. “But . . . well, it was Boyle. He wanted to see what would happen. He asked me to hold back. And as it’s Christmas . . .”

The policemen began to clear away bodies. Snape leaned down and picked up the Maltesers box.

“Now let’s see about this,” he said.

The three of us gathered around the memorial. The stone falcon waited, its wings spread, its beak open, its glass eyes blinking in the sun. Carefully, Snape tore off the bar code. He threw the rest of the box away. Then he laid the strip faceup in the falcon’s beak and pulled it through.

Behind the eyes, inside the falcon’s head, a lens focused the sun’s beams onto the bar code. The white stripes reflected some of them back onto a photodetector hidden inside the falcon’s body. We heard the click as a connection was made. There was a soft hum. A solar-powered generator had sprung to life. It activated a motor. There was another click and the entire front of the memorial—along with the inscription—swung open to reveal a solid metal container.

And that was the last surprise of the day. There was to be no Christmas bonus for Snape, no reward for us. Because there weren’t any diamonds. There wasn’t even a lump of coal. The container was empty. We were looking at five million dollars’ worth of nothing.