Read Online The Falcon's Malteser by Anthony Horowitz - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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we never met. Not until a month ago.
“We were pen pals. He was in South America. I was over here. Maybe you’ll laugh at me, but we kind of fell in love by mail.” She flicked ash onto the carpet. “We wrote letters to each other for ten years and he never even mentioned that he was a dwarf. I only found out a month ago, when he came over, and by then I’d more or less agreed to marry him. The little rat . . .”
She puffed at her cigarette. The smoke in the room grew a little thicker. Herbert waved a hand in front of his face. I knew how he felt.
“He came over,” she went on. “He just turned up one day on my doormat. No. He was standing on a chair on the doormat—to reach the bell. He had these plans. We were going to be rich. We’d buy this little house in the South of France with low ceilings. Johnny didn’t like high ceilings. He told me that he knew where he could lay his hands on five million dollars—enough money to take me away from all this . . .”
She raised her hands, taking in the whole of the Casablanca Club with ten chipped and nicotine-stained fingernails.
“Did he have anything with him?” I asked. “A box, for example?”
“You mean the Maltesers?” Lauren Bacardi smiled. “Sure. He never went anywhere without them. He seemed to think they were important, but he didn’t know why. It nearly drove him mad . . . if he wasn’t mad already. I mean, how could a box of candy be worth all that dough?”
She paused. “But maybe he was on the level,” Lauren went on. “Why else would anyone want to wipe him out? I mean, Johnny never hurt anyone in his life. He was too small.
“And he was afraid—all the time he was in England. He wouldn’t stay at my place. He hid himself away in some filthy pit of a hotel, and whenever we went out together, he always made like he was being followed. I thought he was imagining things.” A single tear trickled down her cheek, turning a muddy brown as it picked up her makeup. “Just my luck,” she whispered. “Johnny getting himself killed just one day after he’d found the answer.”
“He found the diamonds?” Herbert cried.
“No.” She shook her head. “Just the answer. We were out together one day and he saw something; something that made everything make sense.”
“What was it?” Herbert and I asked more or less together.
“Miss Bacardi?” the waiter interrupted. “There’s someone at the door with some flowers for you.”
“For me?” She got to her feet, swaying slightly in front of us. “Just give me one minute.”
She moved away in the direction of the front entrance, followed by the waiter. Herbert looked at the half-empty bottle of champagne. “Did I pay for that?” he asked.
“It was on the house,” I told him.
“What was it doing up there?” he asked.
Neither Herbert nor I said anything for a while, and in that silence I became aware of a little voice whispering in my ear. It wasn’t Herbert. It was actually making sense. It was my common sense trying to tell me something was wrong. I played back what had just happened and suddenly I knew what it was. The flowers. Why had the waiter made Lauren Bacardi walk all the way to the entrance instead of bringing them to her? And there was something else. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. But now I remembered. The waiter had spoken with a German accent. I was on my feet making for the door before I knew what I was doing. Herbert ran after me, calling my name. But I wasn’t going to stop and explain what was going on. I pushed my way through the crowd, ignoring the shouts of protest and the crash of breaking glass. That was one time I was glad I wasn’t fully grown. Before anyone could see me to grab hold of me, I was gone.
I reached the door and the cold night hit me like an angry woman, slapping my face and tearing at my hair. The first thing I saw were the remains of what had been a bouquet of flowers. But now the cellophane was
“We were pen pals. He was in South America. I was over here. Maybe you’ll laugh at me, but we kind of fell in love by mail.” She flicked ash onto the carpet. “We wrote letters to each other for ten years and he never even mentioned that he was a dwarf. I only found out a month ago, when he came over, and by then I’d more or less agreed to marry him. The little rat . . .”
She puffed at her cigarette. The smoke in the room grew a little thicker. Herbert waved a hand in front of his face. I knew how he felt.
“He came over,” she went on. “He just turned up one day on my doormat. No. He was standing on a chair on the doormat—to reach the bell. He had these plans. We were going to be rich. We’d buy this little house in the South of France with low ceilings. Johnny didn’t like high ceilings. He told me that he knew where he could lay his hands on five million dollars—enough money to take me away from all this . . .”
She raised her hands, taking in the whole of the Casablanca Club with ten chipped and nicotine-stained fingernails.
“Did he have anything with him?” I asked. “A box, for example?”
“You mean the Maltesers?” Lauren Bacardi smiled. “Sure. He never went anywhere without them. He seemed to think they were important, but he didn’t know why. It nearly drove him mad . . . if he wasn’t mad already. I mean, how could a box of candy be worth all that dough?”
She paused. “But maybe he was on the level,” Lauren went on. “Why else would anyone want to wipe him out? I mean, Johnny never hurt anyone in his life. He was too small.
“And he was afraid—all the time he was in England. He wouldn’t stay at my place. He hid himself away in some filthy pit of a hotel, and whenever we went out together, he always made like he was being followed. I thought he was imagining things.” A single tear trickled down her cheek, turning a muddy brown as it picked up her makeup. “Just my luck,” she whispered. “Johnny getting himself killed just one day after he’d found the answer.”
“He found the diamonds?” Herbert cried.
“No.” She shook her head. “Just the answer. We were out together one day and he saw something; something that made everything make sense.”
“What was it?” Herbert and I asked more or less together.
“Miss Bacardi?” the waiter interrupted. “There’s someone at the door with some flowers for you.”
“For me?” She got to her feet, swaying slightly in front of us. “Just give me one minute.”
She moved away in the direction of the front entrance, followed by the waiter. Herbert looked at the half-empty bottle of champagne. “Did I pay for that?” he asked.
“It was on the house,” I told him.
“What was it doing up there?” he asked.
Neither Herbert nor I said anything for a while, and in that silence I became aware of a little voice whispering in my ear. It wasn’t Herbert. It was actually making sense. It was my common sense trying to tell me something was wrong. I played back what had just happened and suddenly I knew what it was. The flowers. Why had the waiter made Lauren Bacardi walk all the way to the entrance instead of bringing them to her? And there was something else. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. But now I remembered. The waiter had spoken with a German accent. I was on my feet making for the door before I knew what I was doing. Herbert ran after me, calling my name. But I wasn’t going to stop and explain what was going on. I pushed my way through the crowd, ignoring the shouts of protest and the crash of breaking glass. That was one time I was glad I wasn’t fully grown. Before anyone could see me to grab hold of me, I was gone.
I reached the door and the cold night hit me like an angry woman, slapping my face and tearing at my hair. The first thing I saw were the remains of what had been a bouquet of flowers. But now the cellophane was
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