buildings rose five stories high on both sides of the road, the narrow gap of sky in between crisscrossed by corrugated iron walkways, hooks and chains, pipes and loading platforms. A hundred years ago, Bayly Street would have been on its feet. Twisted fuel cans, broken roof tiles, and yards of multicolored cables spilled out of the deserted buildings like entrails. The street was pitted with puddles that seemed to be eating their way into the carcass.
Another sign caught my eye, bright red letters on white: MCALPINE. It was a death warrant in one word for Bayly Street. There’s nothing more destructive than a construction company. They’d gut the warehouses and build fancy apartments in the shell. Each one would have a river view, a quarry-tiled garage, and a five-figure price tag. That’s the trouble with London. The rich have got it all.
There was a man standing beside the van, holding a silenced gun that he was pointing in my direction. He might have been a gangster, but he went to a smart tailor. He was dressed in a pale gray suit with a pink tie. His shoes were as brightly polished as his smile. A moment later, the driver’s door opened and a second man got out. He was dressed identically to the first, except that his tie was a powder blue. They were both short and thin and both wore their hair parted down the middle—one dark, one blond. They were both approaching fifty and had spent a lot of money trying to back away again. Their slightly plastic faces had to be the work of a slight plastic surgeon. Know what I mean? Cut out the fat, take up the wrinkles, retone the flesh, thank you, sir, and make sure you don’t sneeze too violently.
“This way,” Blondie said, gesturing with the gun.
“After you,” I replied.
“I don’t think so.”
There had to be men at work on a construction site nearby. I could hear them now, their hydraulic drills jabbering away in the distance, the mechanical grabbers churning up the mud. I thought of making a break for it. But there was no chance. There was nobody in sight and they’d have shot me down before I’d gone ten feet. The driver had walked across to a heavy wooden door and unlocked a padlock the size of a soup plate. It led into a room like an abandoned garage: bare concrete floor, burned-out walls, junk everywhere. For a nasty minute I thought that this was it and that I was about to reach the last full stop, but there was a staircase in one corner and Blondie steered me toward it. We went up five flights. Each floor was the same—derelict and decaying. But then we came to another door and another padlock. The fifth floor was different.
It was a single, undivided space and about as big as a tennis court, only it would be difficult to have a game—not with a grand piano parked in the middle. It had a large, wide window—more like a French door really— reaching from floor to ceiling, but being five stories up, it didn’t lead anywhere. The room was furnished with a gray carpet, gray silk curtains, and a silvery three-piece suite arranged around a white marble table. There was an unpatitioned-off kitchen with a tray loaded with cups and plates for tea.
The dark-haired man went into the kitchen while Blondie waved me over to the sofa.
“And who are you?” I asked, although I already had a good idea.
“I’m William,” Blondie said. “And that’s Eric.” He gestured.
“Gott and Himmell,” I muttered. The two German schoolboys from Eton. That gave me a complete score on Snape’s blackboard.
“We thought it was time we invited you to tea,” Gott went on. “I do hope you like fairy cakes.”
The kettle boiled. Himmell filled the pot and brought the tray over to the table. “Who’s going to be mother?” I asked. They both raised their eyebrows at that. I couldn’t believe it. These were meant to be the Falcon’s two right-hand men, but they looked about as dangerous as my two maiden aunts. But then I remembered the way they’d brought me here and the fact that there were two dead bodies to be accounted for. They might look like a joke. But they could still make you die laughing.
Himmell poured the tea into china cups decorated with roses interlaced with swastikas, and then handed out the fairy cakes. I didn’t feel like eating, but it looked like he’d made them himself and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
“Who plays the piano?” I asked. Polite conversation seemed like a good idea.
“We both do,” Gott said. “But now, my friend, it’s your turn to sing.” Himmell laughed at that. I didn’t. I’ve found funnier lines in a Latin dictionary. “You have something we want,” Gott went on. “Let me explain, Nicholas . . . if I may call you Nicholas? A charming name.”
I bit into the fairy cake. It tasted like dish soap.
“We were following the dwarf the day he visited you and your brother. We didn’t know then what he was carrying. We searched your apartment that evening, but we found nothing. Then we ran into Miss Bacardi.”
“Is she here?” I asked.
“You’ll see her soon enough. She told us about the Maltesers. Most . . . unusual. So we went back to your flat for a second time. That was the day of the Falcon’s funeral. We were certain that we would find the Maltesers then. But after we’d broken in, we were surprised. Who was the man waiting for us?”
“His name was Lawrence,” I said. “He was the chauffeur of the Fat Man. He was after the Maltesers, too.”
“It was unfortunate for him.” Gott sighed. “He said some very hurtful things. So Eric hurt him. In fact, he killed him. I have to tell you, Nicholas. Eric is a lovely person. Lovely. But he gets moody sometimes. And when he’s moody, he shoots people.”
I smiled at Himmell. “Nice fairy cakes,” I said.
“We still want the Maltesers,” Gott said. “We know your brother is in jail. And we know you know where they are. So either you tell us now or . . .”
“Or what, Gott?” I asked.
“It would be a terrible shame,” he replied. “You’re a very nice boy. Really very sweet. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Yes—far too young to end up in a plastic bag with six bullets in your chest. Would you like some more tea?”
Himmell filled my cup. He didn’t seem to have quite as good a grasp of the English language as his friend. They were both still smiling at me with their plastic smiles and I wondered if, after the face-lifts, they were capable of anything else. Gott finished his tea and smacked his lips.
“Thank you,” he said. “You do make a lovely cup, Eric.”
“Anudder cup?”
I’d been thinking. I’d have been happy to tell them if I thought it would get me out of there. But somehow I didn’t believe it. Once they’d gotten what they wanted, they wouldn’t need me and I’d be in that plastic bag like a shot. And I mean shot. I had to buy time. Given a bit of time, maybe I could find my way out of this jam.
I coughed. “Well, it’s a bit tricky . . .” Himmell’s face fell. He was still smiling, but I figure his nose and chin must have sunk a good half inch or so. “I mean, I do have them. They’re at Victoria Station. In a luggage locker. But Herbert has the key.”
“The number?”
“Um . . . one hundred and eighty!” I’d been making it up as I went along and I sang out that number like an auctioneer after a final bid.
“At Victoria Station?”
“Yes. But you can’t open it.”
He lifted the gun. “I think we can.”
Gott got to his feet and strolled over to the piano. Then he sat down on the stool and rubbed his hands over the keys. I stood up. “Thanks for the tea,” I said. “If that’s all you wanted to know—”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Gott played a chord. “Eric!”
Himmell had a few cords of his own. I don’t know where he’d gotten the rope from, but there was nothing I could do. While Gott played a tune on the piano Himmell tied me up. He did it very professionally. My hands went behind my back, where they were introduced to my feet. By the time he’d finished, I couldn’t even twitch in time to the music and I could feel my fingers and toes going blue as the blood was cut off. Gott finished his little recital and stood up.
“Well, Nicholas,” he said. “We’re going to Victoria Station.” He looked at his watch. “We’ll be back around five. And if you’ve been lying, we’ll bury you around five-thirty.”
