Anthony Horowitz - South by South East

“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?

“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.

And yet Charlotte Van Dam was after him. She had said so herself. And she’d underlined it. In red ink…

“It doesn’t matter where we’re meeting,” Tim said. He had gone as red as the rose by now. What had she written on the card? “It’s just me and her…” He went into the kitchen for a shower. I heard the rattle of the water hitting the curtain. Then there was the slapping of wet feet on floorboards as he went into his bedroom. He sneezed. The water must have been cold. There was the slam of a door. Then silence.