The Falcon's Malteser by Anthony Horowitz Page B

paused for a long minute and looked at me with cold eyes. The eyes burrowed into me, trying to work out if I was telling the truth. In the end they must have believed me because she laughed and threw the rest of the meat into the swimming pool. The alligator corkscrewed around and dived after it.
    “I like you,” she said. “You’re not afraid.” She walked over to me and put an arm around my shoulders. She hadn’t managed to frighten me, so now she was trying to charm me. She wouldn’t manage that either. Given a choice, I’d have preferred to spend time with the alligator.
    “When Henry von Falkenberg died,” she said, “all his money went with him. This house isn’t mine, Nick. I’ve had to sell the contents just to pay the rent. Even Fido is going to the zoo. It breaks my heart, but I can’t afford to keep him. And now I don’t have a friend in the world.” There were tears in her eyes. Crocodile tears, I thought. Or alligator. “There is only one hope for me, Nicholas. The Maltesers. Henry wanted me to have them. They belong to me.”
    “What’s so special about them?” I asked.
    “To you—nothing,” she replied. “But to me . . . They’re worth five hundred dollars if you’ll get them back for me. That’s how much I’ll pay you.”
    “I thought you had no money.”
    “I’ll find it. Maybe Fido will end up as suitcases after all.”
    She walked me back to the door and opened it.
    “Talk to Herbert,” she said. “When the police release him, bring the Maltesers here. I will have the money, I swear it. And to you they are useless. You must see that.”
    “What about my taxi fare home?” I asked.
    “When you come with the Maltesers . . .” She shut the door.
    “See you later, alligator,” I muttered.
    So that was Beatrice von Falkenberg! A strange, lonely woman, sharing her memories with a strange, lonely pet. I walked back down the road toward Hampstead, and as I went I turned over two questions in my mind. If the Falcon had been so secretive, how come she had found out about the Maltesers? It seemed unlikely that he had told her. So who had?
    The second thing was even stranger. She had telephoned me and asked to speak to Tim Diamond. I hadn’t said anything on the subject of my brother. So how had she known that his real name was Herbert?

KILLER IN THE RAIN
    I didn’t go back to the flat that afternoon. It wouldn’t have been the same without Herbert. Quieter, tidier, less dangerous, and generally nicer . . . but not the same. Also I was worried about him. I wouldn’t want to spend half an hour with Snape and Boyle, let alone a whole day. Boyle could have killed him by now. On the other hand, if Herbert told them about the Maltesers, I’d kill him myself. Either way he was in big trouble, and the sooner I found out just what was going on, the better it would be for him.
    Things might have been different if Lauren Bacardi had been able to tell me where the dwarf had been when he worked out what the Maltesers meant. If I could see what he had seen, maybe I’d be able to work it out, too. But I had a nasty feeling that the only way I’d be able to talk to Lauren again would be with a Ouija board. The people who had snatched her were playing for keeps. By now she probably had more lead in her than a church roof.
    That just left the dwarf. Johnny Naples might be pushing up the daisies himself, but if I could pick up his trail I might still learn something. His book of matches had led me to Lauren Bacardi. I wondered what else I might find in his room. So that afternoon I took the subway to Notting Hill and walked back down the Portobello Road to the Hotel Splendide.
    I passed Hammett’s newsstand on the way. The old guy who owned it was standing in the window and he saw me pass. I’m only guessing now, but I suppose he must have picked up the telephone and called the hotel a moment later. And at the hotel, Jack Splendide must have made a phone call of his own. Like I say, I’m