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Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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torn and the flowers were scattered over the steps, the stalks broken. At the same time, I heard someone calling out. It was Lauren Bacardi. I took the steps three at a time, and as I reached the street, I just had time to catch sight of her being bundled into the back of a dark blue van. A shadowy figure slammed the door and ran around to the front. The engine was already running. A moment later, so was I.
I ran across to the van, intending . . . I don’t know. I guess I thought I’d be able to pull the door open and get Lauren out, but of course it was locked. So instead I jumped onto it, slamming into the metal like a hamburger hitting a griddle, and hung on for dear life as the van roared away. I’d managed to get a foothold of sorts on the license plate and I had one hand on the door handle, one hand curled round the rim at the edge. I was half spread-eagled and traveling at about thirty miles an hour when the van turned a corner. Whoever was driving put their foot down then. Perhaps they’d heard they had an unwelcome passenger. I guess the van was doing sixty when I was thrown off. It was hard to tell. After all, I was sort of somersaulting through the air, and if I’m going to be honest, I might as well add my eyes were tightly closed like I was praying—which, in fact, I was.
All I knew was that me and the van had parted company. It roared off to the left, its tires screaming. I flew off to the right. I could have been killed. I should have been killed. But if you go down that part of London at night, you’ll find that the offices put a lot of junk out on the pavements, to be cleared up by the garbage trucks the next day. My fall was broken by a mountain of cardboard boxes and plastic bags. Better still, the bags were full of paper that had been put through the shredder; computer printouts and that sort of thing. It was like hitting a pile of cushions. I was bruised. But nothing broke.
A minute later Herbert reached me. He must have been convinced that I was finished because when I got to my feet and walked toward him, brushing strips of paper off my sleeves, he almost fainted with surprise.
“Did you get the van’s number?” I asked.
He opened and closed his mouth again without speaking. It was a brilliant impersonation of a goldfish. But I wasn’t in the mood to be entertained.
“The license plate . . .” I said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You were standing on it . . .” He still couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.
I looked back down the empty road. Lauren Bacardi had been about to tell us something important and now she was gone. Our only chance of finding the secret of the Maltesers might have gone with her.
“NICE DAY FOR A FUNERAL”
I wasn’t feeling too good the next day. I woke up wishing I hadn’t, tried to close my eyes, and groaned into the pillow. There was something unpleasant in my mouth. I tried to spit it out, but I couldn’t. It was my tongue. Outside, it was raining. I could hear the water pitter-pattering against the windows and dripping through the leak in the bathroom ceiling. I looked out. It was another gray London day with little yellow spots dancing in the air. I figured a couple of Alka-Seltzer would see to the spots, but it looked like we were going to be stuck with the weather.
It took me about twenty minutes to get out of bed. The tumble I had taken the night before must have been harder than I had thought. My right shoulder had gone an interesting shade of black and blue and it hurt when I moved my fingers. Actually it hurt when I moved anything. Somehow I managed to wiggle out of my quilt, and bit by bit, I forced the life back into my battered frame. But it was an hour before I’d made my way downstairs and into the kitchen. It was still raining.
Herbert was sitting there reading a newspaper. When he saw me, he flicked on the kettle and smiled brightly.
“Nice day for a funeral,” he said.
“Very funny,” I groaned, reaching for the
I ran across to the van, intending . . . I don’t know. I guess I thought I’d be able to pull the door open and get Lauren out, but of course it was locked. So instead I jumped onto it, slamming into the metal like a hamburger hitting a griddle, and hung on for dear life as the van roared away. I’d managed to get a foothold of sorts on the license plate and I had one hand on the door handle, one hand curled round the rim at the edge. I was half spread-eagled and traveling at about thirty miles an hour when the van turned a corner. Whoever was driving put their foot down then. Perhaps they’d heard they had an unwelcome passenger. I guess the van was doing sixty when I was thrown off. It was hard to tell. After all, I was sort of somersaulting through the air, and if I’m going to be honest, I might as well add my eyes were tightly closed like I was praying—which, in fact, I was.
All I knew was that me and the van had parted company. It roared off to the left, its tires screaming. I flew off to the right. I could have been killed. I should have been killed. But if you go down that part of London at night, you’ll find that the offices put a lot of junk out on the pavements, to be cleared up by the garbage trucks the next day. My fall was broken by a mountain of cardboard boxes and plastic bags. Better still, the bags were full of paper that had been put through the shredder; computer printouts and that sort of thing. It was like hitting a pile of cushions. I was bruised. But nothing broke.
A minute later Herbert reached me. He must have been convinced that I was finished because when I got to my feet and walked toward him, brushing strips of paper off my sleeves, he almost fainted with surprise.
“Did you get the van’s number?” I asked.
He opened and closed his mouth again without speaking. It was a brilliant impersonation of a goldfish. But I wasn’t in the mood to be entertained.
“The license plate . . .” I said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You were standing on it . . .” He still couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.
I looked back down the empty road. Lauren Bacardi had been about to tell us something important and now she was gone. Our only chance of finding the secret of the Maltesers might have gone with her.
“NICE DAY FOR A FUNERAL”
I wasn’t feeling too good the next day. I woke up wishing I hadn’t, tried to close my eyes, and groaned into the pillow. There was something unpleasant in my mouth. I tried to spit it out, but I couldn’t. It was my tongue. Outside, it was raining. I could hear the water pitter-pattering against the windows and dripping through the leak in the bathroom ceiling. I looked out. It was another gray London day with little yellow spots dancing in the air. I figured a couple of Alka-Seltzer would see to the spots, but it looked like we were going to be stuck with the weather.
It took me about twenty minutes to get out of bed. The tumble I had taken the night before must have been harder than I had thought. My right shoulder had gone an interesting shade of black and blue and it hurt when I moved my fingers. Actually it hurt when I moved anything. Somehow I managed to wiggle out of my quilt, and bit by bit, I forced the life back into my battered frame. But it was an hour before I’d made my way downstairs and into the kitchen. It was still raining.
Herbert was sitting there reading a newspaper. When he saw me, he flicked on the kettle and smiled brightly.
“Nice day for a funeral,” he said.
“Very funny,” I groaned, reaching for the
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