South by Southeast Page 10

  Charon.

  A white hammer.

  A mirror in a drawer.

  South by south east.

  We still didn’t know what McGuffin had been trying to tell us. Had he really wanted us to travel south on the South East rail network? Was that all it boiled down to? I still couldn’t believe it could have been as unimportant as that. I thought back to the moment he had died, struggling to speak in Tim’s arms, with the train thundering past overhead.

  “They’re auctioning that painting today,” Tim said. He folded the paper in half and tapped one of the articles.

  South by south east.

  “There’s a story about it here.”

  “A story about what?”

  “The painting.” He read out the headline.

  “Sotheby’s. ‘Tsar’s Feast’.”

  South by…

  I sat up. “What?”

  Tim sighed. “I was just telling you—”

  “I know. What did you say? The headline…”

  Tim waved the paper in my direction. “‘The Tsar’s Feast’! It’s the first lot to come under the hammer this afternoon.”

  I snatched the paper. “Of course!” I shouted. “You’ve done it, Tim! You’re brilliant!”

  Tim smiled. “Yeah. Sure I am.” The smile faded. “Why? What have I done?”

  “You’ve just said it. The hammer…!”

  “Where?”

  “At Sotheby’s!” I turned the paper round and showed him the headline. “That’s what McGuffin was trying to tell you. But what with the train and everything you didn’t hear him properly.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t say south by south east. He said Sotheby’s … ‘Tsar’s Feast’.”

  I grabbed Tim’s wrist and twisted it round so that I could look at his watch. It was half past one. “When does the auction start?” I yelled.

  “Two o’clock.”

  “Half an hour. Maybe we can still get there in time…”

  I was already moving for the stairs but Tim stayed where he was, his eyes darting from the newspaper to me then back to the paper. “The auction?” he muttered. “Why do you want to go there?”

  I stopped with my hand on the door. “Don’t you see?” I said. “We’ve got to stop it.”

  “Stop the auction?”

  “Stop Charon. He’s planning to blow up Kusenov.”

  UNDER THE HAMMER

  We managed to catch a bus outside the office – but were we going to make it? The traffic was heavy and the bus was slow. I looked at Tim’s watch. It was already twenty to two. We weren’t going to make it.

  Tim must have read my thoughts. “Why don’t we telephone them?” he said.

  “They’d never believe me.”

  Tim shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I stared at him. “You don’t believe me either!” I exclaimed.

  “Well, it does seem a bit—”

  “Listen.” I knew I was right. I’d worked it out. I had to be right. “You remember the hammer we saw at the Winter House? An antique white hammer…?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was an auctioneer’s hammer. The painting is going under the hammer. That means, when it’s sold, the auctioneer will hit down with the hammer.”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, Charon’s going to swap the real hammer with the one we saw. That must have been what they were talking about. The fake hammer will make some sort of electrical contact…”

  Tim’s eyes lit up. “You mean … Charon’s going to electrocute the auctioneer?”

  “No. It must be a bomb. The hammer will detonate it. That’s how he plans to kill Kusenov. The moment the painting is sold, the whole place will be blown sky high!”

  The bus slowed down again. This time it was another bus-stop and the oldest woman in the world was waiting to get on. Worse still, she had about fourteen shopping bags with her. It would take all day. Quarter to two. If the bus moved off at once and didn’t stop again we might just make it. But the traffic was as thick as ever. I made a decision.

  “We’ll run,” I said.

  “What – all the way?” Tim cried.

  But I was already moving. We had fifteen minutes, and a bus that was going nowhere. This was clearly not the time for a chat.

  Sotheby’s main auction house is in New Bond Street, right in the middle of Mayfair. If you ever find yourself in the area, don’t try to go window-shopping. You won’t even be able to afford the window. It’s at number thirty-five, just one more smart door among all the others.

  As we spun round the corner from Oxford Street and staggered down the last hundred metres, I could hear the chimes of clocks striking two. There was no security in sight on the door. Kusenov had to be there. The auction had begun. But Mr Waverly must have thought he was safe.

  I reached the door, but even as my hand stretched out to push it open I was struck by a nasty thought. If there was a bomb – and I was pretty sure there was – it could go off at any time. The moment the auctioneer struck his hammer, that would be it. Did I really want to go inside? I glanced at Tim who must have had much the same thought. He was standing on the pavement, kicking with his heels as if they’d somehow got glued to the surface.

  “We have to go in,” I said.

  “Nick…”

  I left him out there. I’d made up my mind. I had to stop the auction. He could do as he pleased.

  The auction house was busy that day. There were people moving up and down the stairs and along the corridor which must have led to a secondary auction room. Somebody pushed past carrying an antique doll, a label still attached to its leg.

  Someone else went the other way with a bronze-framed mirror. For a moment I caught sight of my own reflection. I looked tired and bedraggled.

  And young. Would they even allow a fourteen-year-old into the auction?

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen…”

  The voice crackled over an intercom system that had been installed above the reception desk. It was a plummy voice – the sort that belongs to someone who’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Maybe Sotheby’s were auctioning that, too. “Lot number one is by a painter who made an explosive impact on surrealism in Europe,” it went on. “Salvador Dali. It is entitled ‘The Tsar’s Feast’ and is painted in oils on canvas. I shall open the bidding at £100,000.”

  I turned to Tim who had decided to come in after all. He was standing next to me. “It’s begun…” I said.

  “Where?” he asked.

  I looked around. “Upstairs.”

  But Mr Waverly hadn’t completely relaxed his guard on Boris Kusenov. MI6 might not be involved any more, but he had handed the case over to the police and before we’d even reached the first step two uniformed officers had moved out of an alcove to block our way.

  “Now where do you think you’re going?” one of them asked.

  “£200,000…” The first bid had been made. I heard it over the intercom.

  I tried to push forward. “I want to go to the auction…” I explained.

  “Bit young for that, aren’t you?” The second policeman laughed. “Run along, sonny. It’s adults only.”

  “You don’t understand.” I was speaking through gritted teeth. “You’ve got to let me pass…”

  “£300,000 to the gentleman from Moscow.”

  “You heard what I said.” The second policeman wasn’t laughing any more. He was blinking at me with small, unintelligent eyes. I knew the sort. If he was reincarnated as an ape, it would be a step up.

  “Please…” Tim muttered. “We want to see Mr Grooshamov.”

  “Boris Kusenov,” I corrected him. “He’s in danger.”

  “What danger?” the first policeman asked.

  The intercom crackled into life. “£400,000 to the lady in the front row.” Then immediately, “Back to the gentleman from Moscow. £500,000. Thank you, sir.”

  “You’ve got to get up there,” I insisted. “Kusenov is in danger. We�
��re all in danger. The whole place is going to go up.”

  “I think you’d better come with us,” the first policeman said.

  “£600,000 to the gentleman at the back.”

  “Go with you where?” I asked.

  “Down to the station.”

  “£700,000 to Mr Kusenov.”

  “This is hopeless!” I wanted to tear my hair out. There were maybe only seconds left. And I’d had to come up against PC Plod and his best friend, Big Ears. There was only one thing left to do. It was the oldest trick in the book – but I just hoped they hadn’t read the book. I pointed up. “Look!” I shouted.

  The two policemen looked up. So did Tim.

  I pushed my way through and on to the first stair. One of the policemen grabbed me. I broke free, then pushed him hard. He lost his balance and fell on to the second policeman. Tim was still looking up, wondering what I’d pointed out. But then both policemen collided with him and all three of them fell down in a tangle. The staircase was free. I bounded up.

  “£750,000 to the young lady…”

  The top of the stairs was blocked by two attendants who were coming down with an antique sofa. I skidded down onto my back and slithered underneath it. One of the attendants called out to me but I ignored him. I just hoped they would block the staircase enough to delay the two policemen below.

  “£850,000 to Mr Kusenov. £900,000. Back to you, Mr Kusenov…”

  I could hear the bidding but I couldn’t see the auction room. There was a large, square room hung with faded watercolours and prints but it was empty. Then I noticed an archway on the other side. I ran through, my feet pounding on the frayed carpets. At last I had arrived.

  “£950,000 to Mr Kusenov. Do I have any advance on £950,000?”

  I burst into the auction room and took everything in with one glance.

  “Going once…”

  There was the canvas itself, “The Tsar’s Feast”, that had started all the trouble by bringing Kusenov to England in the first place. It was bigger than I had imagined it, standing in a gold frame on an easel right at the front of a raised platform. An assistant stood next to it.

  Then there was the auctioneer, a tall thin man in a three-piece suit. He was standing behind an ornate wooden desk. He was holding the white antique hammer in his hands.

  There were about two hundred people in the gallery, all crammed together in narrow rows running across its width. Kusenov was sitting in the middle of them. He was everything I’d imagined he would be: grey hair, granite face, small, serious eyes, suit. That’s the thing about the Russians. They always look so … Russian.

  Kusenov had been given a police guard – and if I hadn’t recognized him I’d have known him from the company he kept. Chief Inspector Snape was sitting on one side of him. A bored-looking Boyle was on the other. Why, I wondered, had they been chosen? The long arm of the law? Or the longer arm of coincidence? Either way it was bad news for me. Somehow I had to cross the full length of the auction hall – fifty or more metres – to get the hammer. I had two policemen who’d be arriving behind me any time now. And I had Snape and Boyle ahead.

  “Going twice…”

  The auctioneer lifted his hammer. I’d been standing there for only one second but already I’d run out of time. The hammer was about to come down on “The Tsar’s Feast”. There weren’t any more bids. As far as this auction went there would never be any more bids.

  Unless…

  There was only one thing I could do. I lifted a hand. “One million pounds!” I called out.

  The auctioneer had been about to strike down with the hammer. But now he stopped. There was an astonished murmur from the audience and everyone turned to look at me. I took a few steps into the gallery. The auctioneer stared at me. Then he turned to his assistant and whispered a few words.

  “Who are you?” he demanded at last.

  I could see he wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m a bidder,” I said. “And I bid a million pounds.”

  All the time I was talking I was moving further into the gallery, getting closer to the hammer. I was aware of everybody watching me.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Snape and Boyle stand up and start moving round to cut me off. But I had to keep going.

  “You’re just a boy!” the auctioneer exclaimed. The hammer turned in his hand.

  “I know,” I said. “But I get a lot of pocket money.”

  There was another murmur from the audience. Kusenov was staring at me. Then Snape broke out of the end of his row and moved to the front of the room.

  “Wait a minute,” he called out. “I know that boy!”

  “So do I,” Boyle snarled, catching up with him.

  The auctioneer gazed at the two men unhappily. “Who are you?” he quavered.

  “We’re the police,” Snape snapped. “And the boy has got no money at all!”

  The auctioneer looked as if he was about to burst into tears. Clearly he had never dealt with a situation like this. “Well … please…” he stammered. “The last bid stands at £950,000.”

  “A million and a half!” I called out.

  “What?” the auctioneer groaned.

  “Boyle!” Snape shouted. “Arrest him!”

  Boyle grimaced. “Right.”

  The auctioneer tried to ignore us all.

  “£950,000,” he announced. “Going…”

  I took another step forward. “I’ll buy the hammer!” I exclaimed.

  “Going…” The auctioneer was determined to go through with it. I couldn’t stop him.

  Boyle was moving faster now, heading towards me. And then, at the last moment, Tim appeared in the archway at the back of the gallery. Somehow he had shaken off the two policemen.

  “Where’s the bomb?” he asked.

  “Bomb?” Snape cried.

  Everybody froze.

  I lunged forward and grabbed the hammer from the auctioneer’s hands. “Tim!” I shouted.

  I turned round and threw it. The hammer flew high above the audience, twisting in the air. Tim reached up and caught it.

  Boyle lurched towards me.

  I stepped to one side.

  Boyle missed and toppled forward. His outstretched hands went over my head and through the canvas of “The Tsar’s Feast”. There was a loud ripping sound as the rest of Boyle followed them, his head and shoulders disappearing through the frame.

  In the audience, Kusenov fainted.

  The auctioneer gazed sadly at the ruined painting. He shook his head.

  “Gone,” he muttered. What else could he say?

  SPECIAL DELIVERY

  “Do you know,” I said, “there was enough dynamite under Kusenov’s seat to blow up half of London.

  “Which half?” Tim asked.

  It was three days later and I was reading the newspaper reports of the attempted killing at Sotheby’s. I’d been right about the hammer. The auctioneer’s dais had been rigged up with a wire connected to a detonator and nineteen sticks of dynamite under the floor. If the hammer had come down, Kusenov would have been blown to pieces. It made me sweat just to think that I’d been there.

  Of course, not everything had got into the press. My name, for example. According to the newspapers, it was Chief Inspector Snape of Scotland Yard who had raised the alarm and saved the life of the visitor from Moscow. I was merely an “unknown teenager” in the last paragraph who had disrupted the auction shortly before the bomb was discovered.

  We’d heard nothing from Mr Waverly. I suppose he’d wanted to keep himself and MI6 well out of it. Since we’d saved his neck for him you’d have thought he might have dropped us a line or something, but that’s the secret service for you. Happy enough to be secret. But not so keen on doing you a service.

  And so at the end of it all we were more or less back to square one. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and a carton of milk sat on the table between us. I’m not sure if it was tea or supper. It would probably have to do for both.

 
“There were nineteen sticks of dynamite, Tim,” I said, reading from the paper. “Charon really wanted Kusenov dead.”

  “Right,” Tim said.

  “It’s a shame we never found out who he was.”

  Tim poured the milk. “He was a Russian diplomat, Nick.”

  “Not Kusenov. Charon. The police never found him.”

  “He was probably the last person you’d have expected, Nick.” Tim raised his glass. “Mind you, I’d have worked it out in the end. I’ve got a sixth sense.”

  “Well,” I muttered, “you missed out on the other five…”

  There was a knock at the door. The last time we’d had a knock on the door, it had cost us a week of our lives. We’d been chased, kidnapped, gassed, blown up, pushed off a train, shot at and generally manhandled and we hadn’t actually earned a penny out of it. This time neither of us moved.

  But a moment later the door opened and a motorbike messenger came in. He was dressed in black leather from head to foot, his face hidden by his visor. Almost subconsciously I found myself counting his fingers. They were all there. Five of them were holding a long, narrow cardboard box.

  “Tim Diamond?” he asked.

  “That’s me,” Tim said.

  “Special delivery…”

  The messenger put down the package. I signed for it and showed him out. By the time I had shut the door, Tim had opened the box and pulled out a single, red rose.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “It’s from Mr Waverly.”

  “No.” Tim blushed. “It’s from Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte?” The last time we had seen her had been at the station in Amsterdam. I had almost forgotten her. “What does she want?”

  “She wants to see me.” There was a white card enclosed with the box. “This evening.”

  “Where?”

  Tim crumpled the card in his hand. “She wants to see me alone.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s written it. And she’s underlined it. In red ink.”

  “You can still tell me where she wants to meet you.”

  Tim blushed and I realized he was still as much in love with Charlotte as he had ever been. It was incredible. I’d never once imagined Tim going out with a girl, mainly because it was impossible to imagine a girl who would want to go out with Tim. I mean, he wasn’t bad-looking or anything like that. But if you were an attractive, sophisticated woman, would you want to spend your time with someone who still cried when he saw The Railway Children? Tim had no sex-appeal. He wore Dennis the Menace boxer shorts in bed.