Silence. I was starting to worry.
“Tim! It’s all right! They’ve gone!”
Then something moved. I turned round. The loose flour, piled two metres high against the wall, was shifting. It was like watching a miniature avalanche.
A hand reached out, clawing at the air. The whole pile broke open and I was just able to make out a figure, fighting its way free. Flour was everywhere, billowing out into the air. Somehow Tim had managed to bury himself in it. Now he was free.
He stood there, completely white from head to foot. Maybe Ugly had shot him and this was his ghost.
“Hab day gob?” he asked.
There was flour in his nose and mouth. He sneezed. Flour cascaded out of his hair and a little pink circle appeared around his nose and mouth.
“Have they gone?” he tried again.
“Yeah. Are you all right?”
“I’m all white,” Tim mumbled. At least, that’s what it sounded like.
“Let’s move.”
We stalked out of the windmill, Tim leaving white footprints behind him. The sails were still turning slowly behind us.
In the last twelve hours we’d been machine-gunned through a cornfield and stitched up by a vet. We’d found Charon’s headquarters and we’d come infuriatingly close to seeing Charon. We’d stolen Mr Waverly’s cheque and we’d almost been shot getting away with it.
And now we were dead on our feet. We needed a bath and a long, long sleep. Because you had to admit — both of us had been through the mill.
STAGE FRIGHT
Twenty-four hours later we found ourselves on the platform of Central Station in Amsterdam. We’d paid our bill at the Van Bates Motel and bought two tickets to England. That was the end of our money. And here we were at the end of the line.
“I don’t get it,” Tim said. He’d managed to get rid of most of the flour but I noticed his hair was still a bit white at the sides. Maybe that was permanent. After the experiences of the last few days I wouldn’t have been surprised. “I thought we weren’t going back to England,” he went on.
“We have to,” I explained. “We’ve got to warn the Russian — Boris Kusenov. He can’t trust Mr Waverly. Because it looks like Waverly is the one who is paying to get him killed.”
“Right.” Tim thought about it. “And he can’t trust anyone with hammers.”
“Yeah. You tell him that.”
But that was still a puzzle. We had seen Charon handling an antique white hammer. But what was he going to do with it? Bludgeon Kusenov to death?
And there was something else. South by south east. McGuffin’s dying words. In all the excitement I had almost forgotten all about them. But we still hadn’t found out what they meant.
“Nick!” Tim pointed.
It was the last person I’d expected to see. Charlotte Van Dam was walking along the platform, dressed in a light suit, carrying a handbag. I thought she was going to see us but at the last minute she forked off to the left and went into a smart cafe to one side.
“What’s she doing here?” I muttered.
“She must be taking a train,” Tim suggested.
“I know that,” I said. “But where to? And why didn’t she meet us in the wheatfield?”
Tim considered. “I don’t know. Let’s ask her.”
“Yes. Let’s ask.”
The cafe at platform 2b resembled something out of an Agatha Christie novel, all wood panelling and marble bars with waiters in white aprons and tea that came in bone china, not plastic cups. Charlotte was sitting by a window that looked back out over the platform towards the trains. A waiter was serving her with a cup of hot chocolate and a croissant that could have been a late lunch. It was two o’clock. Our train to Ostend left at twenty past.
We went over to her. She saw us and for a moment there was something in her eyes that wasn’t exactly pleasure. It was there and then it was gone. She smiled and stood up.
“Tim!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been so worried about you!” She kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Tim blushed. “You have?”
“Of course I have. Ever since I read about that ice-skater getting killed…”
“Rushmore,” I muttered.
“The late 86,” Tim added.
“Yeah,” I said. “They finally got his number.”
Charlotte sat down and waved us both to a seat. “So tell me what’s been happening to you,” she said.
Tim shifted uncomfortably. “Charlotte,” he began. “We went to the Flavoland like you said. But you never turned up.”
She shook her head, guiltily. “I know. I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” I asked.
She looked up. “Oh Tim — Nick… I’ve lied to you.”
“I don’t believe you!” Tim said.
“I have. You see… I’m not really a mystery writer.”
Tim frowned. “What do you write then, Charlotte?”
“I don’t write at all!” She took a deep breath.
“I’m a spy,” she said. “I work for the Dutch Secret Service — like 86. I couldn’t tell you before because I’m working undercover. You see, I’m on the track of Charon too.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t meet us,” I said.
“I was going to. But at the last minute I found I was being followed. There were two men. One of them had a scar.”
“Short and ugly,” Tim muttered.
“Yes. It was a short and ugly scar. I had to get away from them. But by the time I’d shaken them off, it was too late to come.”
Tim turned to me. “You see,” he said. “I told you there would be an explanation.”
“How did the two of them get on to you?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s Charon. He seems to know everything I do before I do it. I can’t move without…” She broke off. Her eyes were staring out of the window. “Oh my God!”
I twisted round. And suddenly I felt tired.
They hadn’t seen us yet but Scarface and Ugly were on the platform outside. And they were about to come in.
“It’s them!” Charlotte whispered. She had stood up and the colour was draining from her face. “We’ve got to split up.”
“Right.” Tim turned to Charlotte. “I’ll go with you.”
“Thanks, Tim,” I said.
But Charlotte was already moving away, making for the kitchens at the back. “No. You go your way. I’ll go mine.”
Tim opened his mouth to call after her. But she’d already gone.
She’d left her gloves on the table. I picked them up. They’d make a nice souvenir for Tim.
Then Scarface and Ugly arrived.
There were two exits from the restaurant. As they came in one, we went out the other. A staircase led down, away from the platform, right next to the restaurant. We took it. It looked like we’d just have to give the
