The Falcon's Malteser Read Online Free PDF Page A

from a friend with a shop near Clapham Common at the same time. It took us a couple of hours and a lot of wasted shoe leather, but at least that evening we were able to sit down again.
    The next day was a Saturday. We left the flat for a second time, but struck out in Kensington and Hammersmith. That just left Notting Hill Gate. The last Hammett’s was a run-down place on the Portobello Road in the middle of a famous antiques and bric-a-brac market. The sun was shining and the market was busy with young couples shelling out for Victorian brass towel holders and Edwardian stripped-pine blanket boxes. The air was thick with the smell of french fries and overcooked kebabs. Outside the shop there was an old boy selling genuine antique license plates. Doubtless they had fallen off a genuine antique truck.
    The shop was small and dark. That seemed to be the trademark of the entire Hammett’s chain. You probably know the sort of place: candy and chocolates on one side, newspapers and magazines on the other, with the dirty stuff on the top shelf. Herbert made straight for it, thumbing through a copy of Playboy, “looking for clues,” as he put it. Meanwhile, I took a quick look at the stationery and odds-and-ends section. This was the first branch we’d visited that actually stocked the right-size envelopes. I examined a price label. The handwriting was the same.
    There was only one man behind the counter. He was about forty, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, his skin the unhealthy shade of white that comes from sitting in a dingy newsstand all day smoking. While Herbert continued his own private investigation, I took the envelope and went over to him.
    “Excuse me,” I said. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but do you remember selling one of these envelopes to a dwarf?”
    The man looked past me at Herbert. “Are you going to buy that?” he barked. Herbert pushed the magazine away from him and blushed. Then he came over and joined us. “Now, what do you want, son?” the newsagent asked.
    “My brother’s a private detective,” I explained. “We’re trying to find a dwarf . . . greasy hair, suntan. We think he bought an envelope here a couple of days ago.”
    “Yeah . . . I remember that.” The newsagent nodded. “A short guy . . .”
    “Most dwarfs are,” I muttered.
    “Came in here . . . last Thursday.”
    It had been Thursday when Johnny Naples came to see us. I was beginning to get excited, but then Herbert had to pipe up. “Diamond’s the name,” he said. “Tim Diamond.”
    “He didn’t tell me his name,” the newsagent said.
    “No. I’m telling you my name.”
    The newsagent frowned at me. “Is he all right?” he asked.
    “Sure.” I scowled at Herbert. “Look—this is important. Did the dwarf buy anything else here? Like some Maltesers, for example.”
    I could see that the man was beginning to have second thoughts about the state of my own sanity, but he knew I was serious. He considered for a minute. “He didn’t buy any candy,” he said. “But . . . now I remember. He had a box of Maltesers with him when he came in. I saw him put them in the envelope. What else did he buy? There was something . . .” He snapped his fingers. “It was a pair of scissors.” Now it all came back. “He was in a hurry. Nervous sort. Kept on looking out into the street. Like he was being followed or something. He bought an envelope and a pair of scissors. Then he went.”
    “We need to find him,” I said.
    “Is he in some sort of trouble?” the newsagent asked.
    “He might be if we don’t find him,” I replied.
    “But he won’t necessarily be if we do,” Herbert added unnecessarily.
    The newsagent hesitated. He didn’t trust us. If I had been him, I wouldn’t have trusted us either. Just then the door opened and somebody else came in—to buy a pack of cigarettes or something. “Look, I don’t have time to waste with you two jokers,” the newsagent said. “You want