Now, by this time, Herbert had finished with the police force or to put it more accurately, the police force had finished with Herbert. He’d finally got the sack for giving someone directions to the bank. I suppose it wasn’t his fault that the someone had robbed it, but he really shouldn’t have held the door for the guy as he came out. But in the meantime, he’d managed to save up some money and had rented this run-down flat in the Fulham Road, above a supermarket, planning to set himself up as a private detective. That’s what it said on the door:
TIM DIAMOND INC
PRIVATE DETECTIVE
Inside, you went up a staircase to a glass-fronted door which in turn led into his office, a long, narrow room with four windows looking out into the street. A second door led off from here into the kitchen. The staircase continued up to a second floor where we both had a bedroom and shared a bathroom. The flat had been made available to Herbert at a bargain basement price, probably because the whole place was so rickety it was threatening to collapse into the basement at any time. The stairs wobbled when you went up and the bath wobbled when you turned on the taps. We never saw the landlord. I think he was afraid to come near the place.
Dark-haired and blue-eyed, Herbert was quite handsome – at least from the opposite side of the street on a foggy day. But what God had given him in looks, He had taken away in brains. There may have been worse private detectives than Tim Diamond (the only inc in the building was the stuff he put in his pen). But somehow I doubt it.
I’ll give you an example. His first job was to find some rich lady’s pedigree Siamese cat. He managed to run it over on the way to see her. The second job was a divorce case – which you may think is run-of-the-mill until I tell you that the clients were perfectly happily married until he came along.
There hadn’t been a third case.
Anyway, Herbert was not overjoyed to see me that day when I turned up from Heathrow carrying a hold-all that held exactly nothing, but where else could I go? We argued. I told him it was a fait accompli. We argued some more. I told him what a fait accompli was. In the end he let me stay.
Mind you, I often wondered if I’d made the right decision. For a start, when I say I like a square meal a day I don’t mean a sawn-off Weetabix, and it’s no fun starting the winter term in clothes you grew out of the summer before, with more holes in your socks than a Swiss cheese. We could never afford anything. Her Majesty’s Government helped Herbert out a little, which is a fancy way of saying that he got the dole, and my parents sent the occasional cheque for my upkeep, but even so Herbert never managed to make ends meet. I tried to persuade him to get himself a sensible job – anything other than private detection – but it was hopeless. As hopeless as Herbert himself.
Anyway, we got back to the flat around eleven and were making our way up the stairs past the office when Herbert stopped. “Wait a minute, Nick,” he said. “Did you leave the door open?”
“No,” I said.
“That’s strange …”
He was right. The door of the office was open, the moonlight pouring out of the crack like someone had spilt a can of silver paint. We made our way back downstairs and went in. I turned on the light.
“Oh dear,” my brother said. “I think we’ve had visitors.”
That was the understatement of the year. A stampede of wild bulls would have left the place in better order. The desk had been torn open, the carpets torn up, the bookshelves torn apart and the curtains torn down. The old filing cabinet would have fitted into so many matchboxes. Even the telephone had been demolished, its various parts scattered around the room. Whoever had been there, they’d done a thorough job. If we’d been invited to a wedding, we could have taken the office along for confetti.
“Oh dear,” Herbert repeated. He stepped into the rubble and picked up what was now a very dead cactus. A moment later, he dropped it, his lower jaw falling at about the same speed. “My God!” he shrieked. “The envelope!”
He stumbled over to the remains of his desk and searched in the remains of the top drawer. “I put it here,” he said. He fumbled about on the floor. “It’s gone!” he moaned at last. He got back to his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists. “The first job I’ve had in six months and now I’ve gone and lost it. You know what this means, don’t you? It means we won’t get the other hundred pounds. I’ll probably have to pay back the two hundred we’ve already spent. What a disaster! What a catastrophe! I don’t know why I bother, really I don’t. It’s just not fair!” He gave the desk a great thump with his boot. It groaned and collapsed in a small heap.
Then he looked at me. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he snapped.
“What am I meant to do?” I asked.
“Well … say something.”
“All right,” I said. “I didn’t think it was a very good idea to leave the package in your desk …”
“It’s a fat lot of use telling me now,” Herbert whined. It looked as though he was going to cry.
“I didn’t think it was a good idea,” I continued, “so I took it with me.” I pulled the envelope out of my jacket pocket where it had been resting all evening.
My brother seized it and gave it a big, wet kiss. He didn’t even thank me.
THE FAT MAN
We didn’t get much sleep that night. First we had to make our beds – and I’m not just talking sheets and blankets. Whoever had wrecked our office had done the same for the rest of the flat. It took about forty nails and two tubes of superglue before the beds were even recognizable, and then I found that Herbert had managed to stick himself to the door handle and had to spend another hour prising him free with a kitchen-knife. By then it was morning and I was too tired to sleep. Herbert sent me out for a loaf of bread while he put on the kettle. At least they hadn’t dismantled the kettle.
There were three letters on the doormat and I brought them up with the bread. One was a bill. One was postmarked Sydney, Australia. And the third had been delivered by hand. Herbert filed the bill under “W” for wastepaper basket while I opened the Australian letter.
Darling Herbert and Nicky (it read),
Just a quick note as Daddy and me are about to go to a barbecue. They have lots of barbecues in Australia. The weather’s lovely. The sun never stops shining – even when it’s raining. You really ought to come out here.
I hope you are well. We miss you both very, very much. Have you solved any crimes yet? It must be very cold in England so make sure you wrap up well with a vest. I know they tickle, but pneumonia is no laughing matter. I’m enclosing a little cheque so you can go to Marks & Spencer.
Must go now. Daddy’s at the door. He’s just bought a new one.
I’ll write again soon.
Love, Mumsy
It was written on the back of a postcard showing a picture of Sydney Opera House. There was a cheque attached with a paper-clip: seventy-five pounds. It wasn’t a fortune, but at least it would pay for a few more tubes of superglue. Herbert pocketed the cheque. I kept the card.
The third letter was the most interesting. It was typed on a single sheet of paper with no address at the top. It was a big sheet of paper, but it was a short letter.
DIAMOND –
TRAFALGAR SQUARE. 1.00 P.M.
BE THERE.
The Fat Man.
“Who the hell is the Fat Man,” I asked.
“The Fat Man …” Herbert muttered. His face had gone a sort of cheesey white and his mouth was hanging open. The last time I had seen him look like that had been when he found a spider in the bath.
“Who is he?”
Herbert was tugging at the letter. It tore in half. “The Fat Man is about the biggest criminal there is in England,” he croaked.
“You mean … the fattest?”
“No. The biggest. He’s involved in everything. Burglary, armed robbery, fraud, arson, armed burglary … You name it, he’s behind it.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“From when I was a police
man,” Herbert explained. “Every crook has a file at New Scotland Yard. But the Fat Man has a whole library. He’s clever. Nobody’s ever been able to arrest him. Not once. A traffic warden once gave him a parking ticket. They found her a week later, embedded in concrete, part of the M6 motorway. Nobody tangles with the Fat Man. He’s death.”
Herbert pressed the two halves of the letter together as if he could magically restore them. Personally, I was more puzzled than afraid. OK – so there was this master-criminal called the Fat Man. But what could he want with a no-hoper like Herbert? Obviously it had to be something to do with the dwarf’s mysterious package. Had the Fat Man been responsible for the destruction of the flat? It seemed likely and yet at the same time I doubted it. You don’t tear someone’s place apart and then casually invite them to meet you in Trafalgar Square. One or the other – but not both. On the other hand, if he hadn’t done it, who had?
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“Do?” Herbert looked at me as though I were mad. “We’re going! When the Fat Man invites you to jump in front of a tube train, you don’t argue. You just do it. And you’re grateful he wasn’t in a bad mood!”
So later that morning we took the number 14 bus into the West End. This time I left the package – carefully hidden – back at the flat. It had been ransacked once and I figured that nobody would think of looking for it there a second time.
“How will we recognize the Fat Man?” I asked.
“I’ve seen mugshots,” Herbert said.
“You mean – you even had pictures of him on your mugs?”
Herbert didn’t laugh. You could have tickled the soles of his feet with an ostrich feather and he wouldn’t have laughed. He was so scared, he could barely talk. And he ate the bus tickets.
The bus dropped us in Piccadilly Circus and we walked across to Trafalgar Square. It was another cold day with a bite in the air that bit all the way through. The tourist season had ended weeks before but there were still a few of them around, taking photographs of each other against the grey December sky. The Christmas decorations had gone up in Regent Street – it seemed that they’d been up since July – and the stores were wrapped in tinsel and holly. Somewhere, a Salvation Army band was playing “Away in a Manger.” I felt a funeral march would have been more appropriate.
Trafalgar Square is a big place and the Fat Man hadn’t been too specific about the meeting-point so we positioned ourselves right in the middle, under Nelson’s Column. There were a few tourists feeding the pigeons. I felt sorry for them. Who’d be a pigeon in London… or for that matter a tourist? I had a Picnic bar so I pulled out a couple of peanuts and fed them myself. I ate the rest of it. It was ten to one and in all the excitement I’d missed out on breakfast. Taxis, buses, cars and lorries rumbled all around us, streaming down to the Houses of Parliament and across to Buckingham Palace. I leant against a lion, looking out for anyone with a hundred centimetre waist. A pigeon landed on my shoulder and I gave it another peanut.
Big Ben struck one. According to my watch, it was five minutes fast.
“There he is,” Herbert said.
I didn’t see him at first. At least, I saw him but I didn’t see him. A pink Rolls Royce had pulled up at the kerb, ignoring the blasts of the cars trapped behind it. A chauffeur got out, strolled round to the back and opened the door for one of the thinnest men I had ever seen. He was so thin that, as he moved towards us, he was like a living skeleton. His clothes – an expensive Italian suit and fur-lined coat – hung off him like they were trying to get away. Even his rings were too big for his pencil fingers. As he walked, he kept adjusting them to stop them sliding off.
I looked from him to Herbert and back again. “That’s the Fat Man?” I asked.
Herbert nodded. “He’s lost weight.”
He reached us and stopped, swaying slightly as if the wind was going to blow him away. Close to, he was even more peculiar than far away. Hollow cheeks, hollow eyes, hollow gut. The man was a drum with the skin stretched tight over bones that you could probably see when the light was behind him.
“Mr Diamond?” he said.
“Yes,” Herbert admitted.
“I’m the Fat Man.”
There was a long silence. Herbert was too afraid to talk, but I don’t like long silences. They make me nervous. “You don’t look fat to me,” I said.
The Fat Man chuckled unpleasantly. Even his laughter was hollow. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Nick Diamond,” I told him, adopting my brother’s name. “I’m his kid brother.”
“Well, my dear boy, might I suggest that you keep your young mouth closed? I have business with your brother.”
I kept my young mouth closed. The Fat Man didn’t bother me, but I was interested to know what his business was. Meanwhile, the chauffeur had followed him from the Rolls, carrying a folding chair and a tub of corn. The chauffeur was wearing glasses that were so dark they didn’t show his eyes but two reflections of yourself. He unfolded the chair and handed his master the corn.
“Thank you, Lawrence,” the Fat Man said. “You can wait in the car.”
The chauffeur grunted and walked away. The Fat Man sat down, then dug a hand into the tub and threw a spray of pods across the concrete. The pigeons came at us in a rush. He smiled briefly.
“You look well,” Herbert muttered.
“Thank you … Timothy, if I may so call you.” The Fat Man was genuinely pleased. “My doctor advised me to lose weight.” He shrugged. “One must bow to the voice of reason – although some might say I have taken it a touch far. For the past year I have eaten nothing but yogurt and have shed a hundred and thirty-five kilograms. I have, however, retained my old nickname for professional purposes.” The hand dug again, scattering more corn for the pigeons. “On the subject of which,” the Fat Man continued, “I will be brief. You were visited yesterday by an old friend of mine. A small friend. I am led to understand that he might have entrusted you with something, something that I want. Something that I’m willing to pay for.”
Herbert said nothing so I chipped in. “How much?”
The Fat Man smiled at me a second time. He had dreadful teeth. In fact he was pretty dreadful all over.
“You seem a bright lad,” he said. “I’m sure the nurses will just adore you in the casualty ward.”
I shrugged. “We don’t have it,” I said.
“You don’t?” His eyebrows lifted themselves towards his bald head. At the same time, he fed the pigeons.
“Our place was turned over last night,” I explained. “Perhaps you know about that already. Whoever did it, took what you’re looking for.”
“That’s right!” Herbert agreed. “That’s what happened.”
The Fat Man looked at us suspiciously. He was pretty sure that we were lying. But he couldn’t be certain. A pigeon landed on his head with a flutter of grey feathers. He punched it off, then threw corn at it. At last he spoke. “Taken?” he murmured.
“Absolutely,” Herbert said. “When we got back from the cinema, it wasn’t there. Otherwise we’d love to give it to you. Really we would.”
I groaned silently. We’d have been all right if only Herbert had kept his mouth shut. But he couldn’t have convinced a six-year-old and I could tell that the Fat Man had seen right through him. I glanced nervously at the chauffeur, who was watching us from the front seat of the Rolls. Was he armed? Almost certainly. But would he try anything in the middle of Trafalgar Square?
“Very well,” the Fat Man said, and suddenly his voice was colder than the winter wind. “We shall play the game your way, my friends. If you want to find out what the bottom of the Thames looks like on a December night, that’s your affair.” He stood up and now his face was ugly. Actually, it had been ugly before he had even started but now it was even worse. “I want the key,” he growled. “Perhaps, soon, you will find it again. Should such a happy event take place, I’m confident you won’t be foolish enough to keep it from me.” He dipp
ed two fingers into his top pocket. When he pulled them out again, he was holding a card which he gave to Herbert.
“My number,” he went on. “I am a patient man, Timothy. I can wait all of forty-eight hours. But if I haven’t heard from you in two days, I think you may wake up to find that something very unpleasant has happened to you. Like you no longer have any feet.”
“Why do you want this … key so badly?” I demanded.
The Fat Man didn’t answer me. We’d hit it off – him and me. The way he was looking at my head, I figured he’d like to hit that off too. But then his eyes wandered. He jerked his hand, sending the rest of the corn flying. The pigeons were all around him, bowing their heads at his feet.
“I hate pigeons,” he said in a faraway voice. “Flying rats! London is infested with them. I hate the noise they make, day and night, the filth that they leave behind them. The government ought to make them illegal. And yet they’re encouraged! It makes me sick to think of them scuttling across the pavements, infesting the trees, carrying their germs and diseases …”
“So why do you feed them?” I shouldn’t have asked, but I had to know.
The Fat Man laughed briefly, mirthlessly. Then he spun the empty carton in my direction. “Poisoned corn,” he said.
He walked back to the car and got in. A few feet away, a pigeon suddenly gurgled and keeled over on its side. A moment later, two more joined it, their feet sticking up in the air. By the time the Rolls Royce had reached the corner of Trafalgar Square and turned off towards Hyde Park, we were surrounded by corpses.
“Do you think he’s trying to tell us something?” I said.
Herbert didn’t answer. He wasn’t looking much better than the pigeons.
OPENING TIME
The Falcon's Malteser Page 2
