South by South East by Anthony Horowitz

Dutch agent must use it as a meeting place.” I pointed at the two words at the top of the ticket. “Amstel Ijsbaan. Do you think that sounds Dutch?”
    “It’s all Greek to me,” Tim said.
    “Amstel…” Just for once I wished I’d concentrated more in geography lessons. “Isn’t that a river,” I said. “In Amsterdam?” It was all beginning to make sense. “We have to go there.”
    “To Amsterdam?”
    “We’ll find the ice-rink. We’ll find 86. And he’ll help us find Charon.”
    “And then what?”
    “I don’t know, Tim. I’m completely in the dark…”
    That was when the lights went out.
    Suddenly it was pitch black in the room. At the same time there was a click and a rush of cool air as the door was opened and even as I stood up to take my bearings, I felt myself grabbed and thrown back on the bed. I heard Tim cry out. Then someone grabbed my hand and I felt a circle of cold metal closing around my wrist. There was a second click, closer this time and more distinct. I tried to move my hand and found that I couldn’t.
    And then the lights went back on and I found myself staring at Mrs Jackson and two of her lodgers – Mr Webber and Mr Ferguson. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Tim was lying next to me and now I saw that they had managed to handcuff us together. And, most bizarre of all, Mrs Jackson was holding a gun.
    A moment later, Mr Blondini came into the room. He had obviously been the one controlling the main fuse. “Did you get them?” he asked.
    “Oh yes!” Mrs Jackson pursed her lips. “Who’d have thought it?” she went on. “A dangerous criminal sleeping in my house!”
    “It’s not true!” I said.
    “That’s right!” Tim agreed. “I hadn’t gone to bed yet.”
    “He’s not a dangerous criminal!” I explained. “He hasn’t done anything!”
    “Then why is his face here?” Mr Ferguson asked. He produced a copy of that day’s
Evening
Standard
with Tim’s face on the front page. So that was how they had recognized us.
    “We’d better call the police.” Mrs Jackson was still aiming the gun at us. She turned to Mr Webber. “Do you know the number?”
    “Nine, nine, nine,” the German said.
    “All right,” she muttered. “I’ll look it up in the phone book.”
    “I’ve already called them,” Mr Blondini said. “They’re on the way.”
    “Good!”
    I looked around me, trying to find some way out of this situation, but there was nothing I could do, not while Mrs Jackson had the gun. The gun … I’d been held up at gunpoint quite a few times in my life. The Fat Man, Johnny Powers, Big Ed – they’d all tried it at one time or another. But now I looked at her, I saw there was something wrong about Mrs Jackson. It wasn’t just her. It was the way she was holding the gun. Or perhaps it was the gun itself…
    And suddenly I knew. “Have you got a cigarette, Mrs Jackson?” I asked.
    “You’re too young to smoke,” she scowled.
    “Then why are you offering me a light?” I pointed at the gun. My hand was chained to Tim’s and he pointed at it too.
    “What…?” Tim began.
    The front doorbell rang. The police had arrived.
    “Move!” I shouted.
    We leapt off the bed and pushed past Mrs Jackson and her friends, making for the door. They were too surprised to do anything and a moment later we were out of the room. I could feel the chain straining at my wrist as Tim hesitated. I suppose he was afraid that we were about to get shot. But I knew better. It hadn’t been a real gun at all but a fancy cigarettelighter. And how had I guessed? Maybe it was just intuition. But the single word “Dunhill” printed on the barrel had probably helped.
    Down below, the police were hammering at the door. That meant we could only go up. We found a second staircase and clambered up it, arriving on the second floor. This was also the top floor. We had nowhere else to go. Behind me I heard Mrs Jackson hurrying down to let the police in. We had maybe ten seconds