For a long time neither of us said anything. Tim looked exhausted. His face was streaked with dust and his hair was standing on end.
“How could you do it, Nick?” he said at last. “My own brother! First the robbery . . . and then this. I mean . . . this Johnny Flowers. He’s insanely criminal. I mean, he’s criminally insane. And his mother! How could you do it? I’m wanted by the police! When they find me it’ll be the end. They’ll lock me up. I’ll never find the Purple Peacock. I won’t ever get another job. They’ll probably give me twenty years, Nick. Twenty years! That’s not to be sneezed at . . .” He pounded his fist into the pillow. Dust rose in a cloud and he sneezed loudly.
“Listen,” I said. “I didn’t do it, Tim. I never stole the carbuncle.”
“But, Nick. The judge—”
“I was framed, Tim. I didn’t know it at the time—although maybe I should have guessed . . .”
Slowly I explained everything that had happened. The visit from Snape and Boyle, the Fence, Woburn Abbey, Johnny Powers. Then I explained it again using words with fewer syllables. It took me about twenty minutes and all the time Tim sat there, grasping the mattress.
I wasn’t sure he’d grasped anything else. But when I finally stopped he stared at me and scratched his head.
“You mean . . . you didn’t do it?” he said.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Tim.”
“And the only people who know are Snape and Boyle? But Snape and Boyle . . .”
“Yeah. They bought it.”
“They bought the carbuncle?”
“No. They crashed. They’re dead.”
“So what do we do now?”
I stood up and went over to the door. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I suppose the only thing we can do is try to track down this Fence that everyone wants. If the police ever catch up with us, it might be something to bargain with. But in the meantime . . .” I swung around on Tim. “You’ve got to convince Johnny and Ma Powers that you’re a real crook. If they ever find out you’re a private eye, it’ll be curtains for us.”
Tim glanced at the window “This place could do with some curtains,” he said.
“They’ll kill us, Tim! I mean really kill us. You’ve got to think like a gangster. Act like a gangster. Be a gangster. And you’ve got to start now.”
Tim got to his feet and straightened his shoulders, drawing his hands across his chest. He gave me an ugly sneer and threw back his head. “I’m Al Capone,” he growled.
“Al Ka-seltzer more like,” I muttered, but I don’t think he heard me.
I left him there and went into the bathroom. I meant to wash up before I turned in. And that was where I had my first big break of the day. I’d turned on the tap and watched it cough out a trickle of brown sludge when I heard a door open underneath me. Quickly I turned it off again. I’ve mentioned that you could see the bath from the living room through a hole in the ceiling. Well, the same hole allowed me to eavesdrop on a conversation between Ma Powers and her son. And they thought they were alone.
“Your headache gone, Johnny boy?” she was saying.
“Yeah, Ma. Ya made it better for me.”
“Ya gonna be okay when the gang gets here?”
“I’m gonna be just fine.”
“Ya gotta show them who’s boss around here, Johnny boy. With Big Ed trying to move in on you—”
“I got plans for Big Ed, Ma.”
I knelt down and peeped through the hole. From that angle I could just make out the back of Johnny’s head. Ma Powers was somewhere out of my vision. That was just as well. If I couldn’t see her, she couldn’t see me.
“First we’re gonna do a raid,” Johnny went on. “Something really big . . . ya know, to put myself back on the map. Maybe the Bank of England or the Crown Jewels. I don’t know. Then I’m gonna go gunning for Big Ed.”
“Ya’ll need guns, Johnny.”
“Sure, Ma. That’s why I’m gonna see the Fence later today—before the meeting.”
My ears pricked up at that. It seemed almost too good to be true. And what Ma Powers said next was even better.
“So ya’re going to Penelope?” she asked.
“That’s right. I’ll buy enough guns to start a war.”
“Then ya’d better get some sleep, Johnny. I don’t want my boy starting no war with bags under his eyes.”
“Ya’re good to me, Ma.”
“I love ya, Johnny.”
They went back into the bedroom after that and I heard no more. But as I straightened up and went back into my own bedroom, I was feeling better than I’d felt in a long, long time. Snape and Boyle might be dead. I might be wanted by the police. But at last I knew something about the Fence.
He wasn’t a man. He was a woman. And the woman’s name was Penelope.
VANISHING ACT
Tim woke me up six hours later, in time for lunch. I opened my eyes, then shut them again. Taking a deep breath, I opened them for a second time. I groaned. I really was seeing what I thought I was seeing. And I still couldn’t believe it.
I’d told Tim to act like a gangster. He’d taken me at my word and found a costume to match. He had changed into an old-fashioned gray suit, double-breasted with buttons running down both sides, a white shirt, and a narrow tie. There was a hat to match, a soft one with a band running all the way around. It was pulled low over his eyes. So low he could barely see. A handkerchief poking out of his top pocket almost completed the picture. All that was missing was a machine gun in a violin case.
“Wake up, kid,” he drawled out of the corner of his mouth. “This is Big Tim talking.”
“Tim . . .” I mumbled. “Where did you get that suit?”
“I found it in the wardrobe. There are plenty of clothes for you. So let’s move. It’s time to eat.”
I opened my mouth to call him back but he’d already gone. Hastily I dressed in a fresh shirt but the same trousers and shoes that I’d worn at Strangeday Hall. Then I went back downstairs and into the main room.
I’d wondered what Johnny and his mother would make of Tim’s performance and now I saw. They were in shock. Ma Powers had cooked some spaghetti and Johnny and Nails Nathan were both eating. But every now and then they glanced at Tim—“Big Tim,” as he called himself—and shook their heads in disbelief.
Johnny threw down his fork. “I gotta go out,” he said. He glanced at Tim. “Your brother okay, kid?” he asked.
“Sure, Johnny,” I said. “He’s just a bit overexcited.”
“Maybe ya’d better look after him.”
“I’ll do that, Johnny.”
He stood up and touched the back of his hand briefly against his mother’s cheek.
“Make sure ya get back in time for the meeting, Johnny boy,” she said.
“That’s right, Johnny boy,” Tim agreed.
Johnny’s eyes were suddenly cold, but he kept himself under control. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he said. “Nobody leaves the house until I get back. Ya got that?”
He went into the downstairs bedroom to put on a coat. At the same time I grabbed Tim and hurried back up to our room.
As soon as we were in, I went over to the window and opened it.
“What are you doing?” Tim asked.
“I’m going,” I said. “Johnny’s got an appointment with the Fence and I mean to be there.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll tell you later.” I swung a leg over the windowsill. “Cover for me until I get back.”
“What shall I tell them?”
“Tell them I’ve gone back to sleep.”
“But what if they find you gone?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Tell them I’ve gone out for a walk.”
I pulled myself over the ledge and looked around me, trying to find a way down. That wasn’t difficult. The window wasn’t that high up to start with and there was a pile of rubble climbing halfway up the wall. I let go and dropped on
all fours . . . as quiet as a cat. Actually I landed on a cat. It screeched and howled then shot away. So much for stealth! Johnny Powers would have heard it all on the other side of the river.
I crouched for a minute breathing heavily, wondering if anyone would come and look. If they found me there, I’d tell them I’d fallen out of bed. But nobody came. My luck was holding out. It must have been a black cat I’d landed on.
I hurried around the backs of the houses trying not to turn over too many loose bricks with my feet. I heard a door open and close at the front of the house.
“See ya, Ma.”
“Look after yaself, Johnny boy.”
As I reached the end of the terrace, Johnny Powers walked into sight, making steady progress toward the river. I ducked back around the corner and waited, my shoulders pressed against the brick until he passed. I let him get a short way ahead. Then I followed.
He reached Wapping High Street and turned right. I let him turn a corner before I ran on. This was a Saturday and the road was deserted, the construction sites still empty. On the one hand that was good news. With my face on TV and doubtless back in the papers, I didn’t want to be seen by any passersby. But on the other hand, it made it doubly difficult to follow Powers without being spotted by him. If he turned around there would be no one between us, no crowd for me to melt into. Apart from a few cars parked along the side of the road—as ancient and as dusty as the buildings themselves—there was no cover.
I reached the corner just in time to see Powers walk into a subway station—Wapping Station on the East London Line. What did I do now? I didn’t have any money on me, so I couldn’t buy a ticket, and anyway someone would be sure to recognize me in the crowded subway. But that was also true of him. The more I thought about it, the crazier it seemed. Powers was Public Enemy Number One. He couldn’t just get on a train with a return ticket to the West End.
I didn’t think about it long. I’d come this far and I wasn’t going to give up now. Maybe he was meeting this Penelope woman on the platform. Maybe there was an exit leading to the river on the other side.
There was a small kiosk on the right but with no one in it. The way down to the platforms was on the other side. I slipped past quickly without being stopped. And now I could hear Johnny Powers, walking ahead of me, his footsteps echoing upward. A staircase led down into the gloom and there were also two elevators. I thought of taking one of them, but that would have meant arriving ahead of him. If he doubled back, I would miss him. I made for the stairs.
A central shaft plummeted downward with the concrete staircase sweeping around the edge in a great curve. The walls were white, the paint blistered and flaking. The air was cold and dank, carrying with it the smell of the Thames. And yet in the middle, the elevators, bright red and modern, soared smoothly up and down. They were time capsules. The rest of the station had gotten stuck in the Victorian age.
From above, I saw Johnny Powers head off for the south-bound platform. So he was planning to travel away from the center of London—over to Rotherhithe and New Cross! I took the last twenty steps two at a time, afraid now that a train would come and I would miss him. But there was no train. I caught my breath at the bottom of the staircase and then, keeping close to the wall, edged toward the platform. Carefully, I peered round.
Johnny Powers had vanished.
I continued down the platform. A bare brick ceiling curved over the station, open to the sky at the far end. The only sound was the drip of water from above. It was trickling through a confusion of plants and weeds that had somehow found some sort of life to cling onto against the old bricks. A rat scurried along between the rails and disappeared under the platform. There was no sign of Powers. But there was no other way out either. So he had to be here somewhere.
There was a drawing of the tunnel on the wall in front of me. The panel told me that it was the oldest tunnel in London, built by Marc Brunel between 1825 and 1842. In those days you’d have walked through or, I suppose, ridden in a horse-drawn carriage. Could you walk through now?
I went right up to the tunnel entrance and peered inside. There was no sound and somehow I didn’t think Powers was inside. It was too dark, too dangerous. One false step, brush against the electric rail, and you’d fry. And there were the trains themselves, hurtling toward you through the darkness. You’d have to be crazy to walk down there. True, Johnny Powers was crazy. But the Fence surely wasn’t—and neither was I.
I was about to leave when I noticed a door. A few steps led down from the platform at the very edge of the tunnel. There was a narrow walkway past three fire buckets and an antique fuse box. Then a brown door.
It seemed worth a try and there was no one around. I slid past the sign warning passengers not to proceed beyond this point and proceeded beyond it. At first I thought the door was locked. I pushed and I pulled without success. Just when I was about to give up, I realized that it was a sliding door. It slid open. I found a light switch and turned it on.
But the door was another disappointment. It opened into a small room, empty but for two telephones, a few scraps of litter, and about fifty years’ worth of dust. One side led into a storage area. The other was covered by white tiles with a tap jutting out. If Powers had come in here, he wasn’t here now. It led exactly nowhere. I turned the light off. Powers had lost me and I knew it. But I still didn’t know how.
There was nothing for it but to go back to the house before I was missed. I took the elevator back to street level and hurried out of the station without being seen. Where had Powers gone? He hadn’t taken a train and he couldn’t have walked through the tunnel. There was nowhere to hide, no way could I have missed him. It seemed unfair. I’d thought he was going to lead me to the Fence. But it had just turned out to be a blind alley.
I kicked at an empty cigarette pack and walked back down the road with my hands in my pockets. If I hadn’t been so disappointed I might have been a bit more alert. I remember that I heard the car coming but didn’t think twice about it. When it slowed down, I should have reacted. I turned around when I heard its doors opening—but by then it was too late.
Somebody leaped on me from behind. I was pulled off my feet. I shouted out and tried to twist free. Then a fist hit me in the jaw. The strength drained out of me. Helpless, I was bundled into the car. And then we were away.
My mind was reeling. Half my teeth felt like they were about to say good-bye to the other half. I’d thought at first that I’d been caught by the police. But already I knew that it wasn’t the police. No. This was something worse.
BIGED
There were three of them in the car. I was in the backseat wedged between two of them. The third drove. There was a nodding dog on the ledge behind me. Only it wasn’t nodding anymore because somebody had pulled off its head. That was the sort of people they were. The sort who could visit the Chamber of Horrors and upstage the exhibits.
The driver was a punk. He had close-cropped, bright green hair and two studs in his ear. There was a scorpion tattooed on the back of his neck. He was chewing gum and every time he moved his mouth the scorpion writhed like it was trying to find a way out of his skin. That was all I could see of him from where I was sitting. It was enough to make me wish that I was sitting someplace else.
The two other men—they were both in their thirties—could have been brothers. Or sisters. They were somewhere in between. The fat, unshaven cheeks, the enormous biceps, the beer guts, and the balding heads . . . that was all definitely masculine. I wasn’t so sure about the handbags and the floral dresses. One of them had a scar running from his eye to his cheekbone. He’d tried to hide it with a dab of powder, but it needed something more. A large paper bag for example.
Nobody said anything for about five minutes, by which time we’d crossed the river, heading southwest. I shifted in my seat and one of the heavies dug an elbow into my ribs.
“Keep still, pretty boy,” he said in a voice so deep that it seemed to come from his knees.
&n
bsp; “Where are we going?” I asked. “Who are you guys working for?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
The punk giggled, making the scorpion dance. I gritted my teeth. This wasn’t the first time I’d been taken for a ride. But if I didn’t make a move soon, it could well be the last. It didn’t seem fair. I was too young to die. And to be murdered by two men in women’s clothes! What would my parents say?
I made my move when the car slowed down for a red traffic light. I thought I’d timed it perfectly. We were in heavier traffic. One of the thugs was staring out of the window. The other was sitting back with his eyes half closed. Grab the handle, slam the door open, and I’d be out before they knew it. That was the idea.
But I’d underestimated them. I lurched forward. My hand moved a fraction. Then one of them grabbed me. I tried to shout out, to get the attention of the other drivers. I hadn’t even opened my mouth before something hit me, hard, on the side of the neck. I think it was a handbag. The car spun. I thought of the nodding dog. Then I was out.
When I came to, I was back behind bars—but not exactly in a prison. It was a long narrow building that wasn’t quite a building but was somehow familiar. My head was hurting and there was a nasty taste in my mouth. Otherwise I was more or less okay.
There was a sound outside. A rush and a shudder and a loud clinking. It told me what sort of building I was in. I should have known from the bare planks, the metal grille, the corridor almost as narrow as my prison cell, the square windows, and the communication cord. This was the guard’s van of a train. But it was a train that wasn’t moving. So where were we, then? Victoria Station?
I sat there for about two hours. It had been almost dark when I woke up, but now it was darker. I could see the light fading behind the screens that covered the windows. I expected the train to jolt forward at any time, but it never did. I was getting hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and I was beginning to hope that a guard might wander through with a sandwich when the door opened and the punk appeared in the corridor.
Public Enemy Number Two Page 8
