The Falcon's Malteser

comes of buying a secondhand watch.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and made my way downstairs. The bell was still ringing. Whoever was down there was leaning on the button. I pressed the intercom to let him in, hoping he wouldn’t do the same to me. I don’t like being leaned on, and in the last few days I’d had more than enough of it. I went into the office and had just sat down when my client walked in.

Correction—he didn’t walk, he staggered. And I smelled him before I saw him. It must have been around lunchtime, but he’d been drinking since breakfast and he’d brought the stale reek of whiskey as his calling card.

I recognized him from somewhere. He was around sixty, small, fat, unshaven, owlish, with round glasses, dressed in a crumpled gray raincoat with bottle-size pockets.

He fumbled his way toward one of the chairs that Betty Charlady had repaired for us and sat down heavily, stretching out his legs. He was wearing green socks. I could see them through the holes in the soles of his shoes. I waited for him to say something, but he wasn’t in a hurry. He pulled a single cigarette out of his pocket, straightened it between his thumb and forefinger, and twisted it into his mouth. He lit it with a trembling hand. The match had almost burned itself out before he found the end of the cigarette. He wasn’t just a drunk. He was a nearsighted drunk. Suddenly I remembered where I’d seen him. He’d been at the Falcon’s funeral, standing— swaying—next to Beatrice von Falkenberg.

“It’s good to sit down,” he said.

“You tired?” I asked.

“No. It’s just that I keep falling over when I stand up. Or bumping into things.” He sucked in smoke. “You see, sir, I got this problem . . .”

“Drink?” I muttered sympathetically.

“Thanks. I’ll have a large Scotch.”

I shook my head and slid an ashtray toward him. He flicked the cigarette and scattered ashes across the top of the desk. “Who are you?” I asked.

“The name’s Quisling,” he said. “Quentin Quisling.”

“Your parents liked Qs,” I said.

“Yeah—bus queues, shopping queues . . . but that’s not why I’m here. You may have heard of me, sir. I used to be called the Professor.”

Sure I’d heard of the Professor. That had been another of the names on Snape’s blackboard. What had Snape told me? The Professor had been the Falcon’s tame scientist, something of a whiz-kid. But a year ago he’d gone missing. Looking at him now, I could see where he’d been. On the skids. Professor Quisling might have been smart once, but now he looked like a scarecrow grown old and sick. He had the skin of a five-year-old cheese and he spoke with a wheezy, grating voice. He puffed smoke into the air and coughed. Cigarettes were killing him while booze was arranging the funeral.

“I wanted to see your brother,” he said.

“He’s not here.”

“I can see that, sir. I don’t see much. But I can see that.” He pulled a half bottle of whiskey out of his pocket, unscrewed it, squinted, and tilted it toward his throat. The liquid ran down the side of his neck. He groped for the cigarette and found it. “All right,” he said. “I’ll split it with you. Fifty-fifty.”

“The cigarette?” I asked.

“That’s very funny, sir. I can see you have a sense of humor.” He screwed the cigarette between his lips and coughed. It was a horrible cough. I could hear marbles rattling in his lungs. “You know who I am?” he asked.

“You just told me.”

“I used to be the Falcon’s brains.” He stabbed at his chest with a bent thumb. “He wanted something fixed, I fixed it.”

“Lightbulbs?” I asked.

“Oh no, sir. I invented things for him. Things you wouldn’t understand.”

“So what happened to you?” I asked.

“This happened to me.” He waved the bottle. “But I know what you’ve got, sir. Indeed I do. I saw you at the funeral and I figured it out. A packet of Maltesers, would it be? Well . . . I know what to do with them. Together we could make money.”

“What are you suggesting, Professor?” I said.

“You give them to me and you wait here.” He smiled at me with crooked, sly eyes. “I’ll come back tomorrow with half the money.”

I nodded, pretending to consider the offer. In fact I was amazed. Here was a guy who was killing himself as sure as if he had a noose around his neck. He couldn’t afford a decent pair of shoes and he was dressed like a dummy in a thrift shop. But he thought he could pull a fast one on me just because I was a kid and he was a so- called adult. For a moment he reminded me of my math teacher. You know the sort. Just because they can work out the angles in an isosceles triangle, they think they rule the world. I decided to string him along.

“I give you the Maltesers,” I said. “And you come back with half the loot?”

“That’s right, sir,” Quisling said. He finished the half bottle and lobbed it toward the wastebasket. It missed and smashed against the wall. He didn’t seem to notice.

“But what do the Maltesers do?” I asked.

“They open the—” He stopped himself just in time. “I’ll tell you when I bring the money,” he said.

I knew that once I’d given him the Maltesers I’d never see him again. But I’d had an idea. I pulled open the drawer of the desk and took out the box that I’d hidden there a few days before. “This is what you want,” I said. He reached forward hungrily, but I didn’t let go. “You will come back?” I queried Quentin Quisling.

“Sure, sir. I’ll come back. On my mother’s grave.”

The old girl probably wasn’t even dead. “When?” I asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said.

I lifted my hand and he snatched the box away.

“In the morning,” he repeated.

The door slammed shut behind him.

I waited thirty seconds before I followed him. He wouldn’t see me behind him. With his eyesight he wouldn’t see me if I stood next to him. And if Quisling really did know where the Falcon’s diamonds were hidden, he would lead me to them. The box of Maltesers I’d given him would, of course, be useless. But perhaps I’d let him keep them—after he’d led me to the end of the rainbow. That was the way I’d planned it, but of course that was far too easy, and when nothing can go wrong that’s when everything always does. I’d reached the front door. I’d turned around to lock it behind me. I could hear an engine turning over—a van parked close by. There was a movement in the street. I glanced up just in time to see something short and unpleasant come thudding down. It hit me behind the ear. I was out like a light.

FAIRY CAKES

I wish somebody had told me it was Knock Out Nick Diamond Week in London. It had happened to me twice in two days and I was getting a bit tired of it. Being knocked out isn’t so bad. It’s waking up that’s the real problem. Your head hurts, your mouth is dry, and you feel sick. And if it’s pitch-dark and you’re locked up in the back of a van that could be going anywhere, it’s pretty scary, too.

I was still in London. I could tell from the sound of the traffic and from the number of times we stopped. Once—when we were at a traffic light or something—I heard vague voices outside and thought of hammering on the side of the van. But it probably wouldn’t have done any good, and anyway, by the time I’d made up my mind, the van had moved off. A few minutes later, we stopped again. The door was pulled open. There wasn’t a lot of light left in the day, but what there was of it streamed in and punched me in the eyes.

“Get out,” a voice said. It was a soft voice, the sort of voice you’d expect to float on the scent of violets. It had a slight German twang. I’d heard that voice once before.

I got out.

The first thing I saw was a road sign. It read: BAYLY STREET SE1, which put me somewhere on the south bank of the river, opposite the financial district. I looked around me. This was warehouse territory. The old brick