Public Enemy Number Two by Anthony Horowitz Page B

pin in his nose and it wasn’t just there for decoration. It was holding the whole thing together. He had the sort of face that looked like it could fall apart at any moment. Chalk white and rotten.
    He produced a bundle of keys, unlocked the door, and slid it open. I got to my feet. “If you’ve come to check my ticket, I haven’t got one,” I said.
    He giggled.
    “Do you speak English?” I asked.
    He jerked his head back the way he had come. He didn’t speak at all.
    I followed him out of the guard’s van and across the coupling to the next carriage. The windows were uncovered here, and looking out, I saw that we were parked in a siding, next to some sort of stockyard. A tall stack of wood obstructed most of the view, but I could also see coils of barbed wire and oil drums. The yard was fenced off. There was nobody in sight.
    We reached the second carriage. It was blocked off by a plain wooden door that looked out of place on a train. The punk knocked and opened it. We went in.
    Classical music. That was the first thing I heard. Bach or Vivaldi played on an expensive stereo system. The whole carriage had been revamped by an interior designer with expensive tastes. Silk wallpaper, silk curtains, two more chandeliers . . . the furniture could have come straight out of Woburn Abbey. A cocktail cabinet stood beside the door. One of the walls was lined with books. There was a fireplace at the far end with one of those artificial fires blazing artificially.
    The two charm sisters from the car were sitting together on a chaise longue. One of them was reading a romance novel. The other was knitting. There were two other people in the room. One was a woman, wearing a satin dress that was tight in all the right places and tighter still in some of the wrong ones. Her hair was the sort of vivid blond that can only come out of a bottle. The other was a man. I guessed he was in charge.
    He was around fifty, wearing a dressing gown with wide lapels and a cravat. He had a shock of white hair, so white that it did look as if he’d had a shock. His eyes were almost colorless, too. He was smoking a cigarette in a long black holder and sipping a martini.
    “Good evening,” he said. “I’m Big Ed.”
    I shrugged. “You don’t look that big to me,” I said.
    One of the sisters looked up from his book. He was the one who’d hit me. “You don’t talk to Big Ed like that,” he grunted.
    “Why not?” I asked. I rubbed the back of my neck. “He gave me a big ’eadache.”
    The punk giggled again. Big Ed flicked ash from his cigarette.
    “Nicholas Diamond,” he said. He had a soft, tired voice that was almost a whisper. “It’s very nice to see you. I have to say that I was dying to meet you.”
    “Shame you couldn’t do it sooner,” I said.
    He ignored me. “I had my boys out looking for Johnny Powers,” he went on. “It was his good luck that they missed him. And your bad luck that they found you.” He put down the cigarette and swirled the olive in his glass. “We’ll catch up with him later. But the question now is, what do we do with his number two?”
    “How about a drink and a sandwich?” I suggested.
    He shook his head. “Oh no. You see, I had a gun sent in to Strangeday Hall. Three of my boys were going to rub Johnny Powers. It seems you got in the way. One of them was burned—Blondie’s his name. Now his own mother doesn’t recognize him. And the thing is, you see, she’s my sister. Blondie is my nephew.”
    That was bad news. Uncle Ed wasn’t smiling anymore and there was a flicker of color in his eyes—a dull red.
    “I’d like to know where Powers is,” he said. “I could ask you. But of course you wouldn’t say.”
    “I don’t know,” I muttered. “We could come to some sort of arrangement . . .”
    “I don’t think so.” His lips curled. “The only arrangements you should be thinking of are the ones for your funeral.”
    He stood up. I thought of attacking him, maybe grabbing an