The Falcon's Malteser

“Sure. Sure.”

“It’s a sort of scientific question. Do you know anything about shopping?”

“Shopping?” He frowned. “I don’t think I know anyone called Shopping. There’s Chopin . . . but he was a composer, not a scientist.”

“No.” I sighed. “I’m talking about shops. And about bar codes. I want to know how they work.”

Clifford ran a hand through his hair. There wasn’t that much left for him to run it through. In fact, he had more dandruff than actual hair. “Okay.” He leaned back and put his feet up on the desk. “Technology is mainly about one thing: information. The electronic storage and transmission of information. Computers store information. Satellites send information. But all this information isn’t written out like a book. No way. It’s turned into what’s known as digital information.

“What does digital information look like? Well, in the old days it would have been a hole punched into a computer tape. There are holes in the modern compact disc, too—although they’re too small to see. And a bar code is another form of digital information. It’s as simple as that.

“All products have a bar code on them these days. If you look at them, you’ll see that there’s a number with thirteen digits underneath it. That’s all a bar code is. A number—a unique number that can tell the computer everything it needs to know.”

I’d taken out the box of Maltesers again while he talked. Clifford’s eyes lit up when he saw it. He leaned forward and took it.

“Take this box,” he said. “Here’s the bar code on the bottom.” He pointed to the strip of blue-and-white lines in the left-hand corner. “Part of it would tell the computer that this is a product made by Mars. Another part of it would tell the computer that it’s a box of Maltesers, that it weighs so much and costs so much. It could even remind the shopkeeper to stock up.”

“How does the computer read the bar code?” I asked.

“Well, that’s all done with lasers,” Clifford explained. “There’s a sort of little window built into the counter near the cash register. The person who’s sitting there passes the box of Maltesers—or whatever—over it. Now, behind the window there’s a laser scanner. The salesclerk could use a light-emitting diode, which is the same sort of thing, but either way, the light hits the bar code. Are you with me so far?”

I wasn’t sure, but I nodded anyway. If I’d learned one thing from science lessons at school, it was this. When scientific types start explaining things, it’s hard enough to follow. But when they start explaining the explanations, that’s when you really get lost.

“All right.” He nodded. “The light beams hit the bar code. Now, the dark lines don’t reflect light. Only the white ones do that. So only some of the light gets reflected. And somewhere inside that little window there’s a photodetector, which is a clever machine that produces a pulse of electricity whenever you shine a light on it. Do you see? As you slide the bar code over the window, the shining light hits the lines. Some of it is reflected back onto the photodetector, which gives out a ‘bleep’ for every white line. It’s the ‘bleep’ that’s the digital information sent to the computer. Almost like Morse code. And that’s how the computer knows what the product is!”

He stopped triumphantly and sneezed. Lauren reached out for the Maltesers and he gave them to her. She turned them over and examined the bar code.

“Could you use the bar code like a . . . a key?” I asked. That was the word the Fat Man had used. He had said he was looking for a key.

“Absolutely!” the journalist said. “That’s just what it is, really.”

“But could it open something—like a safe?”

“It depends how you programmed your computer. But the answer’s yes. It could open a safe. Play Space Invaders. Make the tea. And so on.”

They open the . . . I’d asked the Professor what the Maltesers did, and that was what he’d said before he caught himself. It was all clicking together. A key. A code known only to the Falcon. A safe. Johnny Naples had guessed the day he went to Selfridges. Now I remembered the words he’d written down on the scraps of paper I’d found in his room. Digital . . . photodetector . . . light-emitting diode. Clifford Taylor had used them all in his explanation.

I’d always thought that it was the Maltesers themselves that were the answer to the riddle. But I’d been wrong and I should have guessed. When Johnny Naples had bought the envelope at Hammetts, he’d done something else. He’d bought a pair of scissors. Why? To cut out the bar code. That was all he needed. He just had to feed it into . . .

But that was one thing I still didn’t know.

“I do hope I’ve been helpful,” the journalist said.

“Sure,” I said. “More helpful than you’d guess.”

“Is there a story in it?”

I nodded. “An international master criminal, a gang of crooks, a fortune in diamonds? There’s a story all right.”

Clifford Taylor sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t use it. It’s much too exciting for the Fulham Express. But look out for the next edition. I’m doing a very interesting piece on the effectiveness of one-way traffic systems in Chelsea.”

“I can hardly wait,” I said.

We left him at his desk and went back down the stairs. It was only when we got to the bottom that Lauren’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’ve left the Maltesers upstairs!” she exclaimed. “Hang on, honey . . .”

I watched her run up the stairs and into the newspaper office. About a minute later, she reappeared, waving the Maltesers. “I must be out of my mind!” she said. “How could I leave them?”

I thought no more of it. That was definitely a mistake.

We were near Herbert’s flat, so I decided to go in and get some fresh clothes. It was easier for Lauren to take the subway straight to Baron’s Court, so we parted company outside Fulham Broadway Station. It was a beautiful day. Cold but with a brilliant sun. Lauren stopped outside the station almost like she was afraid to go in.

“Nick . . .” she said.

“Yes?”

“What I said that night—I want you to know that I meant it. You’re a nice boy. You deserve the best.”

I stared at her, then laughed uneasily. “What is this?” I said. “I’ll only be an hour or so. You’re talking like I’m never going to see you again.”

“Sure.” She shook her head. “Forget it.”

She went into the station.

I walked all the way up the Fulham Road, past the cemetery, and on to the flat. As I walked, I thought. I understood so much now. What the Maltesers meant and why everybody wanted them. The only trouble was, if the Maltesers really were a sort of digital key, how was I to find the digital door? And there was something else that puzzled me. Who had shot Johnny Naples in the first place? My money was on the Fat Man. If it had been Gott and Himmell, they’d have told me when I was their prisoner. After all, they’d told me about Lawrence without blinking an eye. But at the same time, I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t see the Fat Man getting his hands dirty that way. It wasn’t his style. So if not him—who?

I checked the bag. At least the Maltesers were safe. Right now that was all that mattered.

It was around three when I reached the flat. I slipped in as quickly as I could. The fewer people who saw me go in, the better. I didn’t mean to stay there long—just long enough to pull on a fresh shirt and a new pair of socks and make a clean getaway. I went up the stairs. The office door was open. I went in.

There were four thugs in there waiting for me. One was behind the door. He kicked it shut after I’d gone through it, so when I turned around there was no way out. I’d have given my right arm for a way out. If I hung around there much longer they’d probably tear it off anyway. The four thugs were all wearing extra-large suits. That was because they were extra-large thugs. I was once taught at school that Man evolved from the ape and all I can say is that these four had a long way to catch up. They were big, heavy, and brutal, with unintelligent eyes and thick lips. They were all chewing gum, their lower jaws sliding up and down in unison. “Are you Nick Diamond?” one of them asked.

“Me?” I said. “No . . . no! I’m not Nick Diamond. I’m . . . er . . . the delivery boy.”

“What are you delivering?” a second demanded.