The Falcon's Malteser db-1

by Anthony Horowitz

  “Come along and meet Santa Claus on the third floor in Santa’s Workshop.” The voice came out of invisible speakers, floating above the heat and the crowd.

  “See all your favorite nursery rhymes. On the third floor. It’s open now.”

  The food department was even worse than perfume and menswear. It was like nuclear war had just been announced. The shelves were being stripped, the salespeople bullied. I felt Lauren put her hand around my arm.

  “This way,” she said.

  “I’m with you.” But it was an effort. Relax for a minute and I’d have been swept away on a river of rampant consumerism, drowned in a lake of last-minute shopping.

  “If we get separated, we can meet outside Marks and Spencer,” she said. “It’s just across the road.”

  We made our way around the center section of the food department, which was more or less like any supermarket. There were separate bars here and there—juice, sandwiches, and cookies—but most people were ignoring them. The meat counter was at the back. There was a number in what looked like a car headlight, hanging from the ceiling. Every few seconds there was a loud buzzing and the number changed. NOW SERVING 1108, it read when we got there. It buzzed again: 1109. A clutch of housewives stared up at it. They were all clutching tickets like they’d just gone in for some sort of raffle.

  So Selfridges sold sausages. I could see them through the glass front of the cabinet. They looked very nice. I’m sure they tasted great. But I didn’t see what that had meant to Johnny Naples. What did sausages have to do with the Falcon?

  “Lauren . . .” I began.

  “He was standing here,” she said. “Then he suddenly turned around and went that way.” She pointed.

  “You mean he went straight ahead?”

  “No. We’d come from that way. He retraced his steps.”

  I followed in the footsteps of the dead dwarf. They took me completely around the central supermarket, past the nuts, and into the fruits, where some fancy items nestled among the plums and Granny Smiths. BRAZILIAN LOQUATS, $3.50 LB., a sign read. That was probably a bargain if you knew what to do with a loquat. After that it was chocolates and then the checkout aisles. There was a row of six of them—with six women in brown coats and white straw hats. Five of them were ringing up prices on their registers like they were typing a novel. The sixth was just passing the purchases over a little glass panel in the counter and the prices were coming up automatically.

  But I still hadn’t seen anything that made me any the wiser. As far as I could see, Selfridges didn’t even sell Maltesers.

  “It was here,” Lauren said.

  “Here—what?” I sounded tired and depressed. Maybe that was because I was. It had been a wild-goose chase and I didn’t even have enough money to go back to the meat counter and buy a wild goose.

  “He knew,” Lauren insisted. “He was standing where you were. And he suddenly smiled . . .”

  I looked around and suddenly I wasn’t smiling at all. There was a door opposite, leading into the street. Two men had just come in with the crowd. I think I saw them a few seconds before they saw me.

  “Lauren,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  I gestured. They’d changed since our first encounter, but I’d have recognized Gott and Himmell anywhere. They were still wearing identical suits—pale green with embroidered vests this time. But Himmell’s left arm was now in a cast. Gott was walking with a cane. Both men had so many bandages on their face that I could hardly see any skin. But the skin I could see wasn’t looking too healthy.

  “You told them about the sausages,” I said.

  “Of course I told them,” Lauren growled. “They were going to give me some more of their fairy cakes.”

  She’d told them. They’d come to look at the food department for themselves. And now they’d seen us.

  “Let’s move,” I said.

  We moved.

  We ducked to the left—through an archway and down a flight of stairs past wines and spirits. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Gott giving Himmell some hurried instructions. A moment later I collided with a pair of little old ladies. With a little old screech they flew into a pile of crystallized fruit, which collapsed all around them. I didn’t stop to apologize. “Manners maketh man,” my father used to say. But Gott and Himmell weren’t far behind. And they had every good reason to unmaketh me.

  “Which way?” Lauren asked.

  I stopped. There was a door leading out to Orchard Street, but it was blocked with about a dozen people fighting their way in. That left us a choice of three or four directions.

  “Wait a minute, Lauren . . .” I said.

  I was about to say that this was ridiculous. Gott and Himmell might be crazy, but there was no way they were going to try anything. Not in the middle of Selfridges on Christmas Eve. I was going to say that they’d wait for us outside and that we’d have to give them the slip when we left. I was going to say—

  But right then a cabinet of watches behind my head exploded. Just like that. Glass flew out in glittering fragments. A salesgirl screamed. I spun around. Gott was standing at the top of the stairs. He was holding a gun. It was silenced, so there had been no bang. But it was smoking. And nobody had noticed. They hadn’t heard anything and they were too busy with their shopping to stop anyway.

  “That way!” I cried.

  Lauren went one way. I went another.

  She must have missed the way I was pointing. She ran down a corridor back into menswear while I made for the escalator. There was no time to hesitate. And perhaps it was for the best. We had a better chance of getting away if we split up.

  “The meeting place for customers who have lost their companions is on the lower ground floor . . .” The voice poured soothingly out of the speakers. Lauren had certainly lost me. But unless I lost the Germans, our only meeting place would be the morgue.

  The escalator was slow. Impossibly slow. And I couldn’t run up it as I was hemmed in by shoppers on both sides. I squatted down and looked back, wondering if Gott and Himmell had missed me. They hadn’t. There was no sign of Gott, but Himmell was standing there, taking aim. This time I think I heard the phutt as the bullet came out. Just above my head, a white box with the figure “1” on it suddenly shattered and the light went out inside. I reached the top of the escalator and swung around past a collection of hats, then onto a second escalator with a third after that. On the third floor, not even knowing if Himmell was still behind me, I ran forward—through the children’s clothes department.

  I stopped to catch my breath at another of the archways. There were fewer people up here. After all, who buys children clothes for Christmas except relatives who should know better? I couldn’t see Himmell and I thought I’d lost him, but then a plastic dummy about three inches away from me suddenly lurched over backward with a hole in its forehead and fell with a clatter of broken plastic. Gott had gone after Lauren. But Himmell was still after me. I turned and ran.

  And now there were more people. I didn’t mind that. The more the merrier, as far as I was concerned. It took me a few seconds to realize where I was heading and by then it was too late to go anywhere else. There was a sign:

  To Santa’s Workshop

  Now I remembered the loudspeaker announcement. Santa Claus and my favorite nursery rhymes. I’d almost prefer to spend the afternoon with Himmell.

  The straggle of people had become a line. I ignored them. A few people protested as I ran past them, but most had little children with them and they weren’t going to start a fight. I ran on, past a red screen and down a brightly lit corridor. It led into a day-care area where a woman was standing behind a desk, gently controlling the crowd. She called out to me, but I ignored her, sliding down a ramp to crash into a brick wall. Fortunately, the brick wall was made out of cardboard. I glanced back, hoping that I’d at last shaken Himmell. But there he was, one arm in a white cast jutting out of his body as if he’d been caught in the middle of a karate chop. His other
arm was jammed into his pocket. I knew what it was holding.

  I dived into Santa’s workshop. I didn’t like it. But I had no choice.

  It was packed inside, with everyone talking in low voices while nursery rhymes played on the loudspeaker system. There were a lot of models—Elizabethan villages and that sort of thing, illustrating the rhymes. They’d fixed them up with those little dolls that do jerky movements. They didn’t fool me. Jack and Jill looked slightly ill, while Miss Muffet seemed to be having convulsions. The models were arranged so that the passage swerved around with dark sections and light sections. I moved as quickly as I could, pushing aside anyone who got in the way. Nobody complained. With their arms full of little kids asking inane questions, they had more than enough to worry about.

  So had I. I was trapped in Santa’s workshop and I needed an exit. I saw one, but it was blocked by a security guard. I turned another corner past Little Jack Horner and stopped again next to Humpty-Dumpty. There was no sign of Himmell. Perhaps he was waiting for me outside. Some of the children were more interested in me than in the models. I suppose I must have looked pretty strange, panting and sweating—the way you do when you’re running for your life. I took a couple of steps farther into the workshop. At the same moment, Humpty-Dumpty exploded in all directions, his arms and legs soaring into the air. All the king’s soldiers and all the king’s men certainly won’t be able to put that one together again, I thought as I forced my way through the crowd.

  And still nobody knew anything was wrong. It was incredible. But it was also gloomy. And if you’ve got your eyes on a ship with thirty or so white mice on it, maybe you won’t notice when a private detective’s younger brother is being murdered behind you. I looked around. Himmell had been held up by a tough-looking gang of seven-year-olds. Still walking backward, my eyes fixed on him, I turned a corner. Somebody seized me. I was jerked off my feet. I twisted around again. I couldn’t believe it. I’d bumped into Santa Claus and he’d pulled me onto his lap.

  Now he looked at me with cheerful eyes and a white-bearded smile. He really was the complete department-store Santa: red hat, red suit, bulging stomach, and bad breath.

  “You’re a bit big for Santa, aren’t you?” he asked in a jolly Santa voice.

  “Let me go,” I said, squirming on his lap.

  But he held on to me. I got the feeling he was enjoying himself. “And what do you want for Christmas?” he asked.

  “I want to get away from a guy who wants to kill me.”

  He laughed at that. There were a whole lot of people in Santa’s chamber, and if I hadn’t been so angry I’d have been red with embarrassment. A little girl—she couldn’t have been more than six—pointed at me and laughed. Her parents took a photograph.

  “Ho-ho—” Santa boomed out.

  He didn’t make the third “ho.”

  There was another quiet phutt and he keeled over. I threw myself onto the floor. Himmell was on the other side of the chamber, reloading his gun. Nobody was looking at him. They were looking at Santa, at the body twitching on the chair, at the red stuff that was staining his beard. The little girl began to cry.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Santa’s okay.”

  Santa died. I fled.

  I got out of the workshop just as the people began to scream in earnest. I could still hear them as I ran across a floor of women’s clothes, searching for a way out.

  “Security to third floor, please. Security to third floor.” The calm, unruffled voice came over the loudspeakers as I spotted a fire exit, pulled it open, and found myself in a quiet stairwell. I wanted to go back down to the street level, but even as I stood there, I could hear the tramp of feet coming up. They didn’t sound like shoppers. They were too fast, too determined. It had to be the security guards. I looked up. The stairway was clear. I made for the fourth floor.

  Through a door, along a corridor, through another door, and suddenly I’d burst into the toy department. I was tired now. I couldn’t run much more. And the noise and the color of the toys somehow drained away the last of my strength. Robots buzzed and clicked. Electric organs played hideous tunes. Computer games bleeped and whined. Something whipped past my head. I thought it was another bullet and jerked back, sending a whole pile of robots flying. But it was only a sales clerk with a paper glider. The robots writhed on the floor. I shrugged and staggered off into the toys.

  I was sure I’d lost Himmell now. From toys I went into sports—first the clothes, then billiard tables, weights, golf clubs, and hockey sticks. I rested against a counter that had been set up for a special promotion. There was a sign reading:

  DISCOVER THE DELIGHTS OF DEEP-SEA DIVING

  A young salesman was showing an American couple the latest equipment: masks, wet suits, harpoons.

  “The harpoon works on compressed air,” I heard him say. “You just pull the lever here, load it like this, and then—”

  And then Himmell appeared. He’d come from nowhere. He was only about ten feet away from me. I had nowhere else to run. He had his hand in his pocket and now he brought it up, the jacket coming with it. He smiled. He was going to shoot me through the pocket. Then he would just walk away. And no one would know.

  I lunged to one side, grabbed the harpoon gun, then wheeled around. The salesman shouted. I pressed the trigger.

  The gun shuddered in my hands. The harpoon shot out, snaking a silver rope behind it. For a moment I thought I’d missed. The harpoon seemed to sail over Himmell’s shoulder. But then I saw that one prong had gone through his suit, pinning him to the wall. The American stared at me.

  “Good gun!” I said. And dropped it. Himmell lunged forward, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He was stuck there like a German calendar.

  “You little . . . !” he began.

  I didn’t want to hear him. I found another fire exit and this time I managed to get out of Selfridges without being stopped. I crossed the road and made my way around the front of Marks and Spencer. I was relieved to find Lauren waiting for me.

  “What kept you?” she said.

  “You got away okay?” I asked.

  “Sure. Gott could hardly walk, let alone run. Himmell was in better shape.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “He was.”

  Lauren sighed. “Well, that was a waste of time,” she said. “We didn’t learn anything.”

  I thought back to the food department, to the things I had seen. And suddenly I understood. It was as if I’d known all along, only someone had to sock me on the jaw to make me realize it. I smiled. Johnny Naples must have smiled that way. Lauren saw it. “Come on . . .” I said.

  The same taxis and the same buses were jammed in the same place as we crossed Oxford Street again. We got back on the subway. It would take us to South Kensington, where we’d get a bus.

  I knew. But I had to be sure.

  INFORMATION

  “The bar code,” I said.

  “The what?”

  “Those little black-and-white lines you get on the things you buy.”

  “What about them?”

  I pulled the Maltesers out of the shoulder bag and showed them to Lauren. “Look,” I said. “You see? It’s got a bar code.”

  “So what?”

  “That’s what they were using in Selfridges. The girl was passing her products over a scanner and the scanner was telling the cash register how much the products cost.” Lauren looked blank, so I went on. “Maybe if you pass this bar code over a scanner, it’ll do something different.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  I needed a science lesson in a hurry and for once in my life I was sorry school had shut for the holidays. But I had another idea. Journalists write about technology and things like that. They know a little bit about everything. And I knew a journalist: Clifford Taylor, the guy who’d interviewed Herbert and me. He’d been at the Falcon’s funeral, too, so I figured he must still work on the same newspaper,
the Fulham Express. That was where we were heading now. I had to be sure that I was right.

  Nobody reads the Fulham Express, but everybody who lives in Fulham gets it. They don’t have any choice. It’s one of those free newspapers that come uninvited along with a shower of plumbers’ business cards, taxi telephone numbers, and special offers from Reader’s Digest. It’s delivered every Wednesday in the morning. And you can see it every Wednesday, in the afternoon, stuffed into trash cans or drinking up the dirt in the gutter.

  We took a bus all the way down the Fulham Road, past Herbert’s flat, to the bottom—Fulham Broadway. This was the Fulham Road at its worst: dirty in the rain, dusty in the sun, always run-down and depressing. I’d occasionally walked past the office of the Fulham Express, but I’d never been inside before. It was on the main road, next to a bank. Lauren and I climbed up a flight of stairs and found ourselves in a single, rectangular room with a printing press at one end and a photocopying machine at the other. In the middle there were two tables, piled high with newspaper clippings. The room must have been a dance studio at one time because it had mirrors all the way down one wall, making it seem twice as big as it was. Even so, it was small.

  Clifford was there, feverishly working on a story that in a few days someone would use to wrap their fish and chips. I coughed, and when he didn’t respond, I walked up to him. He was the only person there.

  “Clifford . . .” I said.

  “Yes?” He looked up.

  “You don’t remember me?”

  “If you’re from the dance class, you’re too early. The newspaper has the room until five—”

  “I’m Nick Diamond.”

  He took his glasses off and wiped them. There were sweat stains under his arms and his acne had grown worse. He was a mess. I doubted if he could even spell “personal hygiene.” “Nick who?” he asked.

  “Diamond.” I glanced at Lauren, who shrugged. “You interviewed me,” I reminded him. “My brother’s a private detective.”

  Now he did remember. “Of course! Absolutely! How’s it going? There’s not much call for private detectives in Fulham—”