THE FALCON’S MALTESER

“But, Nicholas, I still don’t understand.”

“I’ve gone through it all twice, Herbert.”

“Well, if you wrote it all down . . . That might help.”

“Maybe I will.”

It was the second day of the New Year. It didn’t feel much different from the old year. It was cold. There wasn’t any gas in the apartment. And, as usual, we were down to the last handful of change. We’d had a great Christmas, Herbert and me. Two frozen turkey croquettes and the Queen’s speech—only we’d missed the Queen’s speech. Mum and Dad had sent us a card and a couple of presents, but they hadn’t cheered us up. The card showed two koalas in a Christmas tree. The presents were a boomerang for me and a hat with corks for Herbert.

I threw the boomerang away. It came back.

There were still a couple of weeks until school began and I’d have liked to have gone skiing. A lot of the guys in my class had made it to Switzerland or Austria or wherever and they’d be full of it when they got back. It didn’t seem fair. After all I’d been through I couldn’t even afford the bus fare to the travel agent.

And then the parcel came. Special delivery. From the South of France. It was addressed to me.

I think I knew who it was from before I opened it. There was only one reason I could think of why the Falcon’s safe had been empty. I hadn’t mentioned it to Snape or Boyle. I hadn’t even mentioned it to Herbert.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, open it.”

I opened it. Inside the brown wrapping paper there was a carton about the same shape and size as a film box. It was filled with tissue paper, but nestling in the center was a round ball of milk chocolate . . .

“A Malteser!” Herbert said. The color walked out of his face. Herbert didn’t much like chocolates anymore. And he hated Maltesers.

There was a card attached to the box. The message was short and not so sweet. It was written in a flowing, looping hand.


No hard feelings? L.B.

No hard feelings? I wasn’t so sure. Lauren had sold me the sob story of her life—and okay, she hadn’t had the breaks—but then she’d double-crossed me. All along she’d known more than she’d let on. Maybe she’d worked it out for herself or maybe Johnny Naples had told her. But she’d known about the cemetery and she’d known about the Falcon’s memorial. I’d given her the last piece of the puzzle when I told her about the bar code. And that day, in the office of the Fulham Express, she’d made up her mind to steal the diamonds. She’d accidentally left the Maltesers upstairs. And when she’d gone up to get them, she’d made a simple copy of the key: a photocopy.

She’d never gone into Fulham Broadway Station—at least, not down to the trains. The moment I’d left, she’d doubled back to the cemetery. Perhaps she’d overtaken me in a taxi. The sun had been shining that day. She’d slid her photocopy through the falcon’s beak. And the diamonds had been hers.

I reached down and squeezed the Malteser between my finger and thumb. I was angry. I wanted to see it shatter. But it wouldn’t. There was something hard in the center.

“Herbert . . .” I said.

He looked. The chocolate had squashed. It wasn’t a Malteser at all. There was something sparkling inside. “What is it?” he asked.

“What does it look like?” I said.

The last of the chocolate had crumbled away. I was left holding a diamond the size of a peanut. What would it be worth? Ten thousand dollars? Twenty thousand? Certainly not peanuts.

So we would go skiing after all. And Herbert would break his leg as he got onto the plane and we’d blow all the money we got from the diamond before we’d even gotten around to paying the gas bill. But what did I care? It was the New Year and we’d come out of it all alive, and although diamonds may be forever, you’ve got to grab every good minute and enjoy it while it’s there.

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