Public Enemy Number Two (2 page)

“We’ll give you a new name,” Snape cut in. “A new identity. You’ll share a cell with Powers. And as soon as you’ve found out what we want to know, we’ll have you out of there. You’ll be back at school before you even know it.”

Out of one prison into another, I thought. But even if I could have skipped the whole term, I wouldn’t have considered the offer. Snape might call Powers crazy, but that was the craziest thing I’d ever heard.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You want to lock me up with some underage Al Capone in a maximum-security jail somewhere outside London. I’m to get friendly with him, preferably before I get my throat cut. And I’m to find out who this Fence is so you can arrest him, too.”

“That’s right.” Snape smiled. “So what do you say?”

“Forget it! Absolutely not! You must be out of your mind, Snape! Not for a million bucks!”

“Can I take that as a no?” Snape asked.

I grabbed my bag and stood up. Mr. Palis and his irregular verbs could wait. I just wanted to get out of there. But at the same time Boyle lurched forward, blocking the way to the door. The look on his face could have blocked a drain.

“Let me persuade him, Chief,” he said.

“No, Boyle . . .”

“But—”

“He’s decided.”

Snape swung himself off the desk. Boyle looked like he was going to explode, but he didn’t try to stop me as I reached for the door handle.

“Give me a call if you change your mind,” Snape muttered.

“Don’t wait up for it,” I said.

I left the two of them there and walked home. I didn’t think I’d hear from them again. I mean, I’d told them what I thought of their crazy idea—and they could always find some other kid. The way I figured it was, they’d just forget about me and go and look for somebody else.

Which just shows you how much I knew.

It was teatime when I got back. But that’s not a great time when you can’t afford the tea.

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—

 

 

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],

 

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 like fun, hurling stale doughnuts at the lions and getting a few laughs from the giraffes. The only problem was, we were expected to contribute to the cost: three dollars a head. I’d already missed out on Hampton Court and the Greenwich Observatory and the class was beginning to look on me as a charity case. They’d even passed a hat around for me. Not that I needed a hat, but it’s the thought that counts.

“Tim,” I muttered.

“Yes?”

“Since you’ve got a bit of cash now, do you think you could lend me a fiver?”

“A fiver?”

“You know . . . for Woburn Abbey. The school trip . . .”

He considered for a moment. “All right,” he sighed. “But you do the washing-up.”

He threw a crumpled five-dollar bill onto the table. I snatched it up. It had been so long since I’d seen a five-dollar bill, I’d even forgotten what color it was.

“Thanks a bunch,” I said, wishing he had given me a whole bunch. I tucked the fiver into my shirt pocket. “So when do you start looking for the Purple Peacock?” I asked.

“Tomorrow.” Tim lifted his glass. “I reckon I’ll go back to the gas station in Camden. Find the pump assistant.”

“And then?”

“I’ll pump her.”

He threw back the Coke in one. I think it was meant to be a dramatic gesture, but it must have gone the wrong way because his face went bright red and a second later he made a dramatic dash for the bathroom.

I watched him go. In all the excitement I’d forgotten to tell him about Snape and Boyle. But in truth I’d more or less forgotten about them myself.

So that was how I found myself, a few days later, beetling up the M1 highway at fifty miles an hour on the way to Woburn Abbey. There were forty of us in the coach—thirty-eight pupils and two teachers. My friend Monsieur Palis was one of them. The other was an old guy, Mr. Roberts. He had been teaching history for so long that I reckon he must have been alive when most of it was going on.

We’d all been given packed lunches, which we’d unpacked and eaten before we’d even hit the motorway. Now the bus was strewn with potato chips, candy wrappers, and crusts of Mother’s Pride. The driver couldn’t have looked more miserable if he’d been driving a hearse. I’d managed to grab a place in the back row and we were all making faces at the other motorists to see who could be the first to cause a multiple pileup. Woburn Abbey was about an hour from London. Mr. Roberts had spent the first fifteen minutes giving us an abridged history of the place, which Palis had then translated into French. Nobody had listened. The sun was shining. If we’d wanted a history lesson, we’d have stayed at school.

At last we turned off the M1, and after rattling down a few country lanes and doubtless flattening a few country hedge-hogs, we reached the grounds of the abbey itself. There was a sign pointing one way to the stately home and another to the safari park. Naturally we followed the first. I shifted on my seat and felt something jutting into my leg. Somebody had left a slingshot—a cheap, plastic thing wedged in the side of the chair. Without really thinking, I pocketed it. And that was all I had on me when we finally arrived: that and a couple of dollars in change from Tim’s fiver.

The coach reached the parking lot and rumbled to a halt. We were all about to rush for the door, but then Palis stood up, raising a hand.

“Gentlemen . . .” he began.

I looked around me. I could see thirty-eight hooligans, but certainly no gentlemen.

“May I remind you,” he went on, “that this is an historic outing. Woburn Abbey is a stately home, not an amusement arcade. In fact, the Marquess and Marchioness of Tavistock are still in residence here. So if there is any misbehavior, any tomfoolery, I shall deal with the matter personally.”

His hand lashed out, sending a boy called Sington in a backward somersault down the aisle.

“And no chewing gum during the tour,” Palis added with a twitch of a smile.

We trooped out more sheepishly after that. Even old Roberts seemed afraid of Palis. Two by two we marched down a winding path, past the restaurant, and through the turnstile. There was a sign up beside the ticket booth.

SPECIAL EXHIBITION
THE WOBURN CARBUNCLES
ON DISPLAY IN THE STATE SALON

 

“Please, sir,” somebody asked. “What’s a carbuncle?”

“It’s a type of jewel,” Mr. Roberts whispered, glancing nervously at Palis. “Quite a large jewel. It’s normally red and—”

“No talking!” Palis snapped.

Mr. Roberts whimpered. Sington gave a strangled cough as he tried to dislodge the chewing gum from the back of his throat. Palis strutted forward.