Public Enemy Number Two
( Diamond Brothers - 2 )
Anthony Horowitz
From School Library Journal
Grade 5-8–In this second book in the series, 13-year-old Nick Diamond refuses to be enlisted in Chief Inspector Snape's plan to make him the undercover cellmate of the notorious Johnny Powers in order to worm out the name of the Fence, the 15-year-old's partner in crime. But when Nick is mysteriously caught with a famous jewel in his pocket during a class field trip and he is arrested, tried, and sent to Strangeday Hall for young offenders with great expediency, it becomes clear to him that the Scotland Yard inspector wouldn't take no for an answer. Nick soon finds himself fleeing prison with Johnny and sneaking around London's underground to save himself (and his hapless brother, Tim). Horowitz has a knack for puns and humor, and he successfully combines it with a nonstop action mystery that has everything from hydraulically controlled buses to secret caverns. A readable and exciting adventure.
About the Author
Anthony Horowitz has been called "the busiest writer in Britain" by a major British newspaper—and with good reason. He is passionate about his work, often writing ten hours a day as he tries to balance multiple careers as a novelist, playwright, and screenwriter for television and movies. He is also the author of The Devil and His Boy and the Alex Rider Adventures.
Caught red-handed!
I walked toward the door. At the same moment there was a crash of breaking glass. A bell went off. I turned and looked back.
It was impossible. A minute ago I’d been looking at a glass-topped cabinet with twelve red carbuncles inside. Now I was looking at a shattered cabinet with only eleven carbuncles lying in the wreckage. But apart from the security guards, there was nobody in the room. Someone had just stolen part of the Woburn windfall. The alarm bell was still ringing. But I knew it wasn’t me and it couldn’t have been them, so . . .
“All right, sonny. Stay where you are . . . Give it back, son,” the security guard muttered, holding out one hand. He was moving very slowly, like I was dangerous or something. “You can’t get away with it.”
“Get away with what?” I squeaked. My voice seemed to have climbed up my nose and hidden behind my eyes.
I pushed my hands into my pockets. I wanted to show them that they were empty, that it was all a terrible mistake. But before I could say another word, my palm came into contact with something cold and round. I took it out. It glittered in the sunlight.
BOOKS BY ANTHONY HOROWITZ
THE ALEX RIDER ADVENTURES:
Stormbreaker
Point Blank
Skeleton Key
Eagle Strike
THE DIAMOND BROTHERS MYSTERIES:
Public Enemy Number Two
The Falcon’s Malteser
Copyright © Anthony Horowitz, 1987, 1997
All rights reserved
eISBN : 978-1-101-17664-1
http://us.penguingroup.com
FRENCH DICTATION
I didn’t like Peregrine Palis from the start. It’s a strange thing about French teachers. From my experience they all have either dandruff, bad breath, or silly names. Well, Mr. Palis had all three, and when you add to that the fact that he was on the short side, with a potbelly, a hearing aid, and hair on his neck, you’ll agree that he’d never win a Mr. Universe contest . . . or a Combat Monsieur Univers as he might say.
He’d only been teaching at the school for three months—if you can call his brand of bullying and sarcasm teaching. Personally I’ve learned more from a stick of French bread. I remember the first day he strutted into the classroom. He never walked. He moved his legs like he’d forgotten they were attached to his waist. His feet came first, with the rest of his body trying to catch up. Anyway, he wrote his name on the blackboard—just the last bit.
“My name is Palis,” he said. “Pronounced ‘pallee.’ P-A-L-I-S.”
We all knew at once that we’d gotten a bad one. He hadn’t been in the place thirty seconds and already he’d written his name, pronounced it, and spelled it out. The next thing he’d be having it embroidered on our uniforms. From that moment on, things got steadily worse. He’d treat the smallest mistake like a personal insult. If you spelled something wrong, he’d make you write it out fifty times. If you mispronounced a word, he’d say you were torturing the language. Then he’d torture you. Twisted ears were his specialty. What can I say? French genders were a nightmare. French tenses have never been more tense. After a few months of Mr. Palis, I couldn’t even look at French doors without breaking into tears.
Things came to a head as far as I was concerned one Tuesday afternoon in the summer term. We were being given dictation and I leaned over and whispered something to a friend. It wasn’t anything very witty. I just wanted to know if to give a French dictation you really had to be a French dictator. The trouble was, the friend laughed. Worse still, Mr. Palis heard him. His head snapped around so fast that his hearing aid nearly fell out. And somehow his eyes fell on me.
“Yes, Simple?” he said.
“I’m sorry, sir?” I asked with an innocent smile.
“Is there something I should know about? Something to give us all a good laugh?” By now he had strutted forward and my left ear was firmly wedged between his thumb and finger. “And what is the French for ‘to laugh’?”
“I don’t know, sir.” I winced.
“It is rire. An irregular verb. Je ris, tu ris, il rit . . . I think you had better stay behind after school, Simple. And since you seem to like to laugh so much, you can write out for me the infinitive, participles, present indicative, past historic, future, and present subjunctive tenses of rire. Is that understood?”
“But, sir . . .”
“Are you arguing?”
“No, sir.”
Nobody argued with Mr. Palis. Not unless you wanted to spend the rest of the day writing out the infinitive, participles, and all the restiples of the French verb argumenter.
So that was how I found myself on a sunny afternoon sitting in an empty classroom in an empty school struggling with the complexities of the last verb I felt like using. There was a clock ticking above the door. By four-fifteen I’d only gotten as far as the future. It looked as if my own future wasn’t going to be that great. Then the door opened and Boyle and Snape walked in.
They were the last two people I’d expected to see. They were the last two people I wanted to see: Chief Inspector Snape of Scotland Yard and his very unlovely assistant Boyle. Snape was a great lump of a man who always looked as if he was going to burst out of his clothes, like the Incredible Hulk. He had pink skin and narrow eyes. Put a pig in a suit and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference until one of them went oink. Boyle was just like I remembered him: black hair—permed on his head, growing wild on his chest. Built like a boxer and I’m not sure if I mean the fighter or the dog. Boyle loved violence. And he hated me. I was only thirteen years old and he seemed to have made it his ambition to make sure that I wouldn’t reach fourteen.
“Well, well, well,” Snape muttered. “It seems we meet again.”
“Pinch me,” I said. “I must be dreaming.”
Boyle’s eyes lit up. “I’ll pinch you!” He started toward me.
“Not now, Boyle!” Snape snapped.
“But he said—”
“It was a figure of speech.”
Boyle scratched his head as he tried to figure it out. Snape sat on a desk and picked up an exercise book. “What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s French,” I said.
“Yeah? Well, it’s all Greek to me.” He threw it aside and lit a cigarette. “So how are you keeping?” he asked.
“What are y
ou doing here?” I replied. I had a feeling that they hadn’t come to inquire about my health. The only inquiries those two ever made were the sort that people were helping them with.
“We came to see you,” Snape said.
“Okay. Well, you’ve seen me now. So if you don’t mind . . .” I reached for my book bag.
“Not so fast, laddie. Not so fast.” Snape flicked ash into an inkwell. “The fact is, Boyle and me, we were wondering . . . we need your help.”
“My help?”
Snape bit his lip. I could see he didn’t like asking me. And I could understand it. I was just a kid and he was a big shot in Scotland Yard. It hurt his professional pride. Boyle leaned against the wall and scowled. He would rather be hurting me.
“Have you heard of Johnny Powers?” Snape asked.
I shook my head. “Should I have?”
“He was in the papers last April. The front page. He’d just been sent down. He got fifteen years.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Sure, especially as he was only fifteen years old.” Snape blew out smoke. “The press called him Public Enemy Number One—and for once they were right. Johnny Powers started young . . .”
“How young?”
“He burned down his kindergarten. He committed his first armed robbery when he was eight years old. Got away with four crates of Mars bars and a barrel of Gatorade. By the time he was thirteen he was the leader of one of the most dangerous gangs in London. They were called the Slingshot Kids ... which was quite a joke as they were using sawed-off shotguns. Johnny Powers was so crooked he even stole the saw.”
There was a long silence.
“What’s this got to do with me?” I asked.
“We got Powers last year,” Snape went on. “Caught him red-handed trying to steal a million dollars’ worth of designer clothes. When Johnny went shoplifting, you were lucky if you were left with the shop.”
“So you’ve got him,” I said. “What else do you want?”
“We want the man he was going to sell the clothes to.” Snape plunged his cigarette into the inkwell. There was a dull hiss . . . but that might have been Boyle. “The Fence,” he went on. “The man who buys and distributes all the stolen property in England . . . and in most of Europe, too.
“You see, Nick, crime is big business. Robberies, burglaries, hijacks, heists . . . every year a mountain of stuff goes missing. Silver candlesticks. Scotch whiskey. Japanese stereos. You name it, somebody’s stolen it. And recently we’ve become aware that one man has set up an operation, a fantastic network to handle it—buying and selling.”
“You mean . . . like a shopkeeper?”
“That’s just it. He could be a shopkeeper. He could be a banker. He could be anyone. He doesn’t get his hands dirty himself, but he’s got links with every gang this side of the Atlantic. If we could get our hands on him, it would be a disaster for the underworld. And think of what he could tell us! But he’s an invisible man. We don’t know what he looks like. We don’t know where he lives. To us he’s just the Fence. And we want him.”
“We want him,” Boyle repeated.
“I think I get the general idea, Boyle,” I said. I turned back to Snape. “So why don’t you ask this Johnny Powers?” I asked.
Snape lit another cigarette. “We have asked him,” he replied. “We offered to cut his sentence in half in return for a name. But Powers is crazy. He refused.”
“Honor among thieves,” I muttered.
“Forget that,” Snape said. “Powers would sell his own grandmother if it suited him. In fact he did sell her. She’s now working in an Arabian salt mine. But he wouldn’t sell her to a policeman. He hates policemen. He wouldn’t tell us anything. On the other hand, he might just slip the name to someone he knew. Someone he was friendly with . . .”
“What are you getting at?” I asked. I was beginning to feel uneasy.
“Johnny Powers is fifteen,” Snape went on. “Too young for prison—but too dangerous for reform school. So he was sent to a special maximum-security center just outside London—Strangeday Hall. It’s for young offenders. No one there is over eighteen. But they’re all hardened criminals. We want you to go there.”
“Wait a minute . . . !” I swallowed. “I’m not a criminal. I’m not even hardened. I’m a softy. I like cuddly toys. I’m—”
“We’ll give you a new name,” Snape cut in. “A new identity. You’ll share a cell with Powers. And as soon as you’ve found out what we want to know, we’ll have you out of there. You’ll be back at school before you even know it.”
Out of one prison into another, I thought. But even if I could have skipped the whole term, I wouldn’t have considered the offer. Snape might call Powers crazy, but that was the craziest thing I’d ever heard.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You want to lock me up with some underage Al Capone in a maximum-security jail somewhere outside London. I’m to get friendly with him, preferably before I get my throat cut. And I’m to find out who this Fence is so you can arrest him, too.”
“That’s right.” Snape smiled. “So what do you say?”
“Forget it! Absolutely not! You must be out of your mind, Snape! Not for a million bucks!”
“Can I take that as a no?” Snape asked.
I grabbed my bag and stood up. Mr. Palis and his irregular verbs could wait. I just wanted to get out of there. But at the same time Boyle lurched forward, blocking the way to the door. The look on his face could have blocked a drain.
“Let me persuade him, Chief,” he said.
“No, Boyle . . .”
“But—”
“He’s decided.”
Snape swung himself off the desk. Boyle looked like he was going to explode, but he didn’t try to stop me as I reached for the door handle.
“Give me a call if you change your mind,” Snape muttered.
“Don’t wait up for it,” I said.
I left the two of them there and walked home. I didn’t think I’d hear from them again. I mean, I’d told them what I thought of their crazy idea—and they could always find some other kid. The way I figured it was, they’d just forget about me and go and look for somebody else.
Which just shows you how much I knew.
THE PURPLE PEACOCK
It was teatime when I got back. But that’s not a great time when you can’t afford the tea.
I was still living with my big brother Herbert—although that’s not what he calls himself. He was born Herbert Simple but he changed his name to Tim Diamond and that’s what it said on the door—
TIM DIAMOND INC.
PRIVATE DETECTIVE
We were still paying for the paint. Tim had only ever successfully solved one case and it was me who had done all the work. That had brought in a bit of cash, but we’d spent most of it on a skiing holiday and medical bills for Tim’s broken leg. We’d have claimed some health-insurance money, but it was someone else’s leg he broke. The rest of the money had gone on new furniture and carpets for the flat. And now, as they say, we were flat broke.
Tea that day turned out to be beans on toast. We’d had beans on toast on Saturday and on Sunday, too. On Monday I’d complained, so Tim had served toast on beans . . . just for a change. There were still sixteen cans of beans left in the larder. What worried me was what we were going to do when we ran out of toast, although the way the bread was looking—curling at the edges and slightly green—it was more likely the toast would run out on us.
There were two letters waiting for me in the hall. One was a card from the local library—an overdue book. It was three months overdue and now it would cost me more to pay the fine than it would have to buy the book in the first place. It was called How to Make Money in Your Spare Time. Obviously it hadn’t worked. The second letter was postmarked Australia. I could hear Tim whistling in the kitchen. He was about as musical as the kettle. I took the letter to my bedroom, threw my bag onto the floor and myself onto the bed. Then I read it.
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Dearest Nicky [it began],
Just a quick note as Daddy and me are off to another barbecue. It’s being given by someone who works with Daddy, selling doors. We’ve just had three more doors fitted in my bedroom, which is a bit peculiar, as they don’t lead anywhere. But you know your father. He adores doors.
I hope you are well. I miss you very much and wish you were here with us. I’m sure you’d like Australia. The sun shines all the time (except at night) and there are lots of friendly people. Are you remembering to change your underpants once a week? I am sending you three pairs of Australian underpants in the next mail. Just be sure you don’t put them on upside down!
I wish I could come and visit you and Herbert, but I’m very busy with the new baby. We’ve decided to call her Dora.
Keep well,
Love, Mumsy
I felt sorry for Dora. If she could have seen what lay ahead of her, she’d have probably toddled back to the orphanage. It’s not that there was anything wrong with my parents. But you know how it is. Brush your hair. Clean your teeth. Don’t slouch. Don’t talk with your mouth full. There were more rules and regulations in my life than the highway code and I couldn’t even cough without reference to paragraph three, subsection five of the Bringing Up Children Act. When my parents emigrated to Australia, I slipped away to live with Tim. It wasn’t much of a choice.
I threw the letter into a drawer and went into the kitchen. Even as I opened the door I realized there was a strange smell in the flat. Any smell that wasn’t baked beans would have been strange, but this . . . ? Either I was going mad (from hunger) or this was fried onions.
Tim was standing by the stove wearing a pink apron, stirring something in a pan. I glanced at the table. There were two bulging shopping bags spilling out the sort of stuff I’d have dreamed about if I hadn’t been too hungry to sleep. Biscuits, cakes, sausages, eggs, apples, and oranges . . .
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