The Falcon's Malteser by Anthony Horowitz

way to enjoy chocolates and on the other, the weight: 146g 5.15 oz.
    There was more on the bottom. It read chocolates with crisp, light honeycombed centers and then there was the usual blurb about the milk solids and the vegetable fat that had achieved this miracle. In addition there was a guarantee: This product should reach you in perfect condition . . . and a line asking you to keep your country tidy.
    After that, there was a red code number— MLB 493 —and, in a red panel, best before 28-12-08. In the left-hand corner, painted in blue, was the bar code, the series of thick and thin lines that you get on all products these days. There was a number beneath that, too: 3521 201 000000. And that is about as complete a description of a box of Maltesers as you are ever going to find in a library or bookshop.
    It was not very helpful.
    The waitress hobbled over and we ordered two Granny-pies. We sat in silence, waiting for them to arrive. The question was, how could you hide the location of a fortune in diamonds on a box of candy—and for that matter, why choose a box of candy in the first place? The answer was in our hands and even then I might have been able to guess, for the truth is, I had forgotten one important detail. One thing that Johnny Naples had done had slipped my mind. I was still trying to work it out when Herbert spoke.
    “Any luck?” he asked.
    “No.”
    We finished our dessert and asked for the bill.
    “How about the little dots?” Herbert asked.
    “Little dots?”
    “Under the letters.” He pointed at the Maltesers. “They could spell out another message.”
    “But there aren’t any little dots,” I said.
    “They could be written in invisible ink.”
    “I can’t see it.”
    “That’s because it’s invisible.” He smiled triumphantly.
    “Listen,” I said. “If Johnny Naples didn’t know what the Maltesers meant, he’d have had to find out—right?”
    “Right,” Herbert agreed.
    “So if we can work out where he went while he was in England, maybe we’ll find out, too.”
    “Right.” Herbert frowned. “But he’s dead. So where do we start?”
    “Maybe here,” I said.
    I took out the book of matches that I had found in the hotel and gave it to him. They belonged to a place called the Casablanca Club with an address in the West End. There was a map on the inside of the cover and three matches left.
    “Where did you get this?” Herbert asked.
    “I picked it up in the dwarf’s room at the hotel,” I said. “I thought it might be useful.”
    “Yes.” Herbert considered. “We’ll go there tomorrow,” he said. “If we can work out where Johnny Naples went while he was in England, maybe we can find out what the Maltesers mean.”
    I nearly choked on my milk shake. “That’s brilliant!” I exclaimed.
    “Sure thing, kid,” Herbert said.
    I didn’t remind him that I’d said exactly the same thing only a few moments before. But neither did he remind me about Slough or Mum and Dad. This might be a case for Tim Diamond, but as long as I played my cards right, it seemed there was still room for his little brother, Nick.

THE CASABLANCA CLUB
    We were woken up at nine the next morning by the engineer who’d come to fix the phone and we just had time to fall asleep again before we were woken up by Betty Charlady, who’d come to fix the apartment. She had brought with her a bag of tools and was soon assembling Herbert’s desk, hammering away at the wood with a mouth full of nails. It seemed incredible that she should do all this for a lousy ten dollars a day, but I assumed I brought out the motherly instinct in her. Strange how I could never do the same for my mother.
    While Herbert got dressed and shaved, I nipped out for eggs, milk, and bread. We hadn’t had time to cash the check and money was running low, so I had to squeeze more credit out of the supermarket owner. The owner, Mr. Patel, is a decent old stick. He also owns a decent old stick, which he tried to hit me