The Falcon's Malteser by Anthony Horowitz Page B

legs. He was wearing green socks. I could see them through the holes in the soles of his shoes. I waited for him to say something, but he wasn’t in a hurry. He pulled a single cigarette out of his pocket, straightened it between his thumb and forefinger, and twisted it into his mouth. He lit it with a trembling hand. The match had almost burned itself out before he found the end of the cigarette. He wasn’t just a drunk. He was a nearsighted drunk. Suddenly I remembered where I’d seen him. He’d been at the Falcon’s funeral, standing—swaying—next to Beatrice von Falkenberg.
    “It’s good to sit down,” he said.
    “You tired?” I asked.
    “No. It’s just that I keep falling over when I stand up. Or bumping into things.” He sucked in smoke. “You see, sir, I got this problem . . .”
    “Drink?” I muttered sympathetically.
    “Thanks. I’ll have a large Scotch.”
    I shook my head and slid an ashtray toward him. He flicked the cigarette and scattered ashes across the top of the desk. “Who are you?” I asked.
    “The name’s Quisling,” he said. “Quentin Quisling.”
    “Your parents liked Q s,” I said.
    “Yeah—bus queues, shopping queues . . . but that’s not why I’m here. You may have heard of me, sir. I used to be called the Professor.”
    Sure I’d heard of the Professor. That had been another of the names on Snape’s blackboard. What had Snape told me? The Professor had been the Falcon’s tame scientist, something of a whiz-kid. But a year ago he’d gone missing. Looking at him now, I could see where he’d been. On the skids. Professor Quisling might have been smart once, but now he looked like a scarecrow grown old and sick. He had the skin of a five-year-old cheese and he spoke with a wheezy, grating voice. He puffed smoke into the air and coughed. Cigarettes were killing him while booze was arranging the funeral.
    “I wanted to see your brother,” he said.
    “He’s not here.”
    “I can see that, sir. I don’t see much. But I can see that.” He pulled a half bottle of whiskey out of his pocket, unscrewed it, squinted, and tilted it toward his throat. The liquid ran down the side of his neck. He groped for the cigarette and found it. “All right,” he said. “I’ll split it with you. Fifty-fifty.”
    “The cigarette?” I asked.
    “That’s very funny, sir. I can see you have a sense of humor.” He screwed the cigarette between his lips and coughed. It was a horrible cough. I could hear marbles rattling in his lungs. “You know who I am?” he asked.
    “You just told me.”
    “I used to be the Falcon’s brains.” He stabbed at his chest with a bent thumb. “He wanted something fixed, I fixed it.”
    “Lightbulbs?” I asked.
    “Oh no, sir. I invented things for him. Things you wouldn’t understand.”
    “So what happened to you?” I asked.
    “This happened to me.” He waved the bottle. “But I know what you’ve got, sir. Indeed I do. I saw you at the funeral and I figured it out. A packet of Maltesers, would it be? Well . . . I know what to do with them. Together we could make money.”
    “What are you suggesting, Professor?” I said.
    “You give them to me and you wait here.” He smiled at me with crooked, sly eyes. “I’ll come back tomorrow with half the money.”
    I nodded, pretending to consider the offer. In fact I was amazed. Here was a guy who was killing himself as sure as if he had a noose around his neck. He couldn’t afford a decent pair of shoes and he was dressed like a dummy in a thrift shop. But he thought he could pull a fast one on me just because I was a kid and he was a so-called adult. For a moment he reminded me of my math teacher. You know the sort. Just because they can work out the angles in an isosceles triangle, they think they rule the world. I decided to string him along.
    “I give you the Maltesers,” I said. “And you come back with half the loot?”
    “That’s right, sir,” Quisling said. He finished the