Public Enemy Number Two

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.

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 . . .

“What’s happened?” I asked. “No . . . let me guess. You won a raffle? The Salvation Army called? You got a government grant?” I snatched up an apple. “It’s a miracle.”

“No, it isn’t,” Tim said indignantly. “I got a job.”

“That is a miracle. You mean . . . somebody paid you?”

“As of today I’m officially employed—in pursuit of the Purple Peacock.” Tim turned back to the frying pan. “How do you want your steak? he asked. “Rare, medium, or well done?”

“Large,” I said.

Ten minutes later we sat down and ate the equivalent of a week’s worth of suppers rolled into one. There are times when I’m genuinely fond of my big, blue-eyed brother. All right, so he couldn’t solve a crossword puzzle let alone a crime. He had trouble tying his own shoelaces and he was afraid of the dark. But we’d lived together for three years now and things could have been a lot worse. They were about to get a lot worse, as a matter of fact— but of course I didn’t know that then.

“What’s the news from Australia?” he asked over the chocolate mousse.

“Nothing much,” I said.

“Did Mum send you any money?”

“No. But she’s going to send me some underpants.”

“Underpants!” Tim shook his head. “That’s an affront.”

“Actually it’s a Y-front.” I finished my pudding and threw down the spoon. “All right, Tim,” I said. “What’s all this about the Purple Peacock?”

“I’ve got to find it,” Tim explained. “It’s missing.”

“From a zoo?”

“From a museum.” Tim smiled. “It’s not a bird. It’s a vase.”

He pushed the plates to one side and took out a notebook. His eyes had narrowed and his mouth was stretched tightly. This was the way he looked when he was trying to be a private detective. I don’t know who he thought he was kidding. Not this kid anyway.

“It’s a Ming vase,” he went on. “Twelve inches high, blue and white, with a purple peacock enameled on the side.” He flipped the notebook open. “It’s fifteenth century. Made for the Emperor Cheng Hua.”

“Cheng who?” I asked.

“No. Cheng Hua.” He leaned back in his chair, spilling Coke down his shirt. “It’s worth a mint—and I’m not talking Certs. There’s only one vase like it in the world. It’s worth thousands. For the last seventy years it’s been on display in the British Museum. Then, a week ago, they sent it to be cleaned. Only it never got there. It went into the van at nine thirty-five A.M. exactly.”

“And when the van arrived . . .”

“The van never arrived. It vanished, too. The driver stopped at a gas station in Camden. He went in to pay for the gas. When he got back to the pump, the van was gone.”

“With the vase inside.”

“That’s right.”

“So why hasn’t the museum gone to the police?” I asked. “Why come to you?”

“They’re too embarrassed to go to the police, Nick. I mean, that Ming was priceless. The museum wants it. But they don’t want a scandal.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “I’m the right man for the job. If they want to find their priceless vase, I’ll crack it.”

“You probably will,” I said.

Tim poured himself another Coke.

“How much did they pay you?” I asked.

The smile returned to his face. “Two hundred in advance,” he said. “Plus fifty a day in expenses.”

“Fifty bucks!”

Tim shrugged. “I have expensive expenses.”

“That’s great.” Even as I said it, my mind was ticking over. But I wasn’t thinking about vases.

There was about to be a school trip to Woburn Abbey, the stately home and wildlife park. Now, I’m not exactly into stately homes—old suits of armor and dry, dusty paintings by dry, dusty painters—but the park sounded