But that was impossible, wasn’t it?
If it was Lenny Smile that I had just seen, then who was buried in the grave?
* See The Falcon’s Malteser
DEAD MAN’S FOOTSTEPS
We began our search for Lenny Smile the next day – at the Battersea offices of the charity he had created.
I knew the building, of course, from the photograph Carter had shown us. Dream Time’s headquarters were above the Café Debussy, which was in the middle of a row of half-derelict shops a few minutes’ walk from the River Thames. It was hard to believe that a charity worth millions of pounds could operate from such a small, shabby place. But maybe that was the point. Maybe they didn’t want to spend the money they raised on plush offices in the West End. It’s the same reason why Oxfam shops always look so run down. That way they can afford another ox.
But the inside of Dream Time was something else. The walls had been knocked through to create an open-plan area with carpets that reached up to your ankles and leather furniture you couldn’t believe had started life as a cow. The light fittings looked Italian. Low lighting at high prices. There were framed pictures on the walls, of smiling children from around the world: Asia, Africa, Europe and so on. The receptionist was smiling too. We already knew that the place was being shut down, and I could see that she didn’t have a lot to do. She’d just finished polishing her nails when we walked in. While we were waiting she started polishing her teeth.
At last a door opened and Fiona Lee walked in. At least, I guessed it must be her. We’d rung that morning and made an appointment. She was tall and slim, with her dark hair tied back in such a vicious bun that you’d expect it to explode at any moment. She had the looks of a model, but I’m talking the Airfix variety. All plastic. Her make-up was perfect. Her clothes were perfect. Everything about her was perfect, down to the last detail. Either she spent hours getting ready every morning, or she slept hanging in the wardrobe so that she didn’t rumple her skin.
“Good morning,” she said. Joe Carter had been right about her. She had such a posh accent that when she spoke you heard every letter. “My name is Fiona Lee.”
We introduced ourselves.
She looked from Tim to me and back again. She didn’t seem impressed. “Do come in,” she said. She spun round on her heel. With heels like hers I was surprised she didn’t drill a hole in the floor.
We followed her down a corridor lined with more smiling kids. At the end was a door that led to an office on a corner, with views of Battersea Park one way and the Thames the other. Rodney Hoover was sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers and half-dead potted plants, talking on the telephone. An ugly desk for a very ugly man. Both of them looked like they were made of wood. He was running to fat and might have been a little less fat if he’d taken up running. He had drooping shoulders and jet black hair that oozed oil. He was wearing an old-fashioned suit that was too small for him and glasses that were too big. As he finished his call, I noticed that he had horrible teeth. In fact the last time I’d seen teeth like that, they’d been in a dog. Mrs Lee signalled and we sat down. Hoover hung up. He had been speaking with a strong accent that could have been Russian or German. I noticed he had bad breath. No wonder the potted plants on his desk were wilting.
“Good morning,” he said.
“This is Tim Diamond, Mr Hoover,” Mrs Lee said. She pronounced his name Teem Daymond. “He telephoned this morning.”
“Oh yes. Yes!” Hoover turned to Tim. “I am being sorry that I cannot help you, Mr Diamond.” His English was terrible, although his breath was worse. “Right now, you see, Mrs Lee and I are closing down Dream Time, so if you have come about your little brother…”
“I don’t need charity,” I said.
“We helped a boy like you just a month ago,” Fiona Lee said. She blinked, and her eyelashes seemed to wave goodbye. “He had always wanted to climb mountains, but he was afraid of heights.”
“So did you buy him a small mountain?” Tim asked.
“No. We got him help from a psychiatrist. Then we paid for him to fly to Mount Everest. That little boy went all the way to the top! And although he unfortunately fell off, he was happy. That is the point of our work, Mr Diamond. We use the money that we raise to make children happy.”
“And take the case of Billy!” Hoover added. He pointed at yet another photograph on the wall. If Dream Time had helped many more kids, they’d have run out of wall. “Billy was a boy who wanted to be a dancer. He was being bullied at school. So we hired some bullies to bully the bullies for Billy and now, you see, Billy is in the ballet!”
“Bully for Billy,” I muttered.
“So how can we be of helping to you, Mr Diamond?” Hoover asked.
“I have some questions,” Tim said. “About a friend of yours called Lenny Smile.”
Both Rodney Hoover and Fiona Lee froze. Hoover licked his teeth, which can’t have been a lot of fun. Fiona had gone pale. Even her make-up seemed to have lost some of its colour. “Why are you asking questions about Lenny?” she asked.
“Because that way people give me answers,” Tim replied. “It’s what I do. I’m a private detective.”
There was an ugly silence. I had to say that it suited Rodney Hoover.
“Lenny is dead,” he said. “You know very well that he’s lying there in Brompton Cemetery. Yes? What could you possibly want to know about him?”
“I know he’s dead,” Tim said. “But I’d be interested to know exactly how he died. I understand you were there.”
“We were there,” Fiona said. A single tear had appeared in the corner of her eye and began to trickle down her cheek. “Poor, poor Lenny! It was the most ghastly, horrible moment in my life, Mr Diamond.”
“I don’t suppose it was a terrific moment for him either,” I muttered.
She ignored me. “It was about eleven o’clock. Mr Hoover and myself had gone to see him. He didn’t like to come out of his flat, so we often went round there to tell him how much money we had raised and how the charity was progressing. We talked. We had a glass of wine. And then we left.”
“Lenny said he would come down with us to the car,” Hoover continued. “It was a very beautiful night. He wanted to have some of the fresh air … you know? And so, we left the flat together.”
“Lenny was a little bit ahead of us,” Fiona Lee explained. “He was a fast walker. Mr Hoover stopped to tie his shoelaces and I waited for him. Lenny stepped into the road. And then…”
“The steamroller was going too fast.” He swore quietly in a foreign language. Fiona sighed. “But the driver was on his way home. He was in the hurry. And he ran over Lenny!” He shook his head. “There was nothing, nothing we could do!”
“Do you know the driver’s name?” Tim asked.
“I believe it is Krishner. Barry Krishner.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“He is in a hospital for the hopelessly insane in north London … in Harrow,” Fiona said. “You can imagine that it was a dreadful experience for him, running over a man with a steamroller. But it was his fault! And because he was speeding, he killed one of the most wonderful men who ever lived. Lenny Smile! I had worked for him for twenty years. Mr Hoover too.”
“You’d only worked for him for two years?” Tim asked.
“No. I worked with him also for twenty years,” Hoover said. “But are you telling me, please, Mr Diamond. Who hired you to ask these questions about Lenny Smile?”
“I never reveal the names of my clients,” Tim replied. “Joe Carter wants to remain anonymous.”
“Carter!” Hoover muttered. He gave Tim an ugly look. It wasn’t difficult. “I could have guessed this. Yes! He came here, asking all his questions as if Fiona and me…” He stopped himself. “There was not one thing suspicious about his death, Mr Diamond. It was an accident. We know. Why? Because we were there! You think someone killed him? Poppycock! Who would wish to kill him?”
“Maybe he had enem
ies,” Tim said.
“Everybody loved Lenny,” Fiona retorted. “Even his enemies loved him. All he did his whole life was give away money and help young people. That man built so many orphanages, we had to advertise for orphans to fill them.”
“What else can you tell us about him?” I asked.
“It’s hard to describe Lenny to someone who never met him.”
“Try. Where did he live?”
“He rented a flat in Welles Road. Number seventeen. He didn’t buy anywhere because he hated spending money on himself.” She took out a tiny handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her eye. “It is true that he liked to be on his own a lot.”
“Why?”
“Because of his allergies.”
I remembered now. Carter had said he was sick.
“What was he allergic to?” I asked.
“Many, many things,” Hoover replied. “Chocolate, peanuts, yoghurt, animals, elastic bands, insects…”
“If he was stung by a wasp, he would be in hospital for a week,” Fiona agreed.
“He was also allergic to hospitals. He had to go to a private clinic.” Hoover stood up. Suddenly the interview was over. “Lenny Smile was a very unique man. He was – as you say – one in a million. And you have no right … no right to come here like this. You are wrong! Wrong with all your suspiciousness.”
“Yes.” Fiona nodded in agreement. “His death was a terrible accident. But the police investigated. They found nothing. Mr Hoover and I were there and we saw nothing.”
“You can say to your ‘anonymous’ client, Mr Carter, that he should go back to Chicago,” Hoover concluded. “And now, please, I think you should leave.”
We left. The last thing I saw was Rodney Hoover standing next to Fiona Lee. The two of them were holding hands. Were they just co-workers, friends … or something more? And there was something else. Hoover had said something. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I was certain he had told me something that in fact he didn’t want me to know. I tried to play back the conversation but it wouldn’t come.
Tim and I left the offices of Dream Time together. Rodney Hoover and Fiona Lee had given us both the creeps. Neither of us said anything. But we both looked very carefully before we crossed the road.
At least Fiona had given us Smile’s address, and as it wasn’t far away that was where we went next.
Welles Road was round the back of Battersea, not far from the famous dogs’ home. The tall, red-bricked buildings were all mansion flats … not as big as mansions, but certainly smarter than your average flat. There were a dozen people living in each block, with their names listed on the front door. It turned out that Smile had lived at 17A – on the fifth floor. We rang the bell, but there was no answer so we tried 17B. There was a pause, then a woman’s voice crackled over the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“We’re friends of Lenny Smile,” I shouted back before Tim could come up with a story of his own.
“The fifth floor!” the voice called out. There was a buzz and the door opened.
With its faded wallpaper and worn carpets, the building seemed somehow tired inside. And so were we by the time we got to the fifth floor. The lift wasn’t working. The whole place smelled of damp and yesterday’s cooking. I thought you needed to be rich to live in Battersea (unless, of course, you happened to be a dog). But anyone could have lived here if they weren’t fussy. The fifth floor was also the top floor. The door of 17B was open when we arrived.
“Mr Smile is dead!”
The woman who had broken the news to us so discreetly was about eighty, with white hair that might have been a wig and a face that had long ago given up trying to look human. Her eyes, nose and mouth all seemed to have run into each other like a melting candle. Her voice was still crackling, even without the intercom system. She was dressed in a pale orange dress decorated with flowers; the sort of material that would have looked better on a chair. There were fluffy pink slippers on her feet. Her legs – what I could see of them – were stout and hairy and made me glad that I couldn’t see more.
“Who are you?” Tim asked.
“My name’s Lovely.”
“I’m sure it is,” Tim agreed. “But what is it?”
“I just told you, dear. Lovely! Rita Lovely! I live next door to Mr Smile. Or at least … I used to.”
“Have you moved?” Tim asked.
Mrs Lovely blinked at him. “No. Don’t be daft! Mr Smile is the one who’s moved. All the way to Brompton Cemetery!”
“We know that,” Tim said. “We’ve already been there.”
“Then what do you want?”
“We want to get into his flat.”
“Why?”
I decided it was time to take over. “Mr Smile was my hero,” I lied. I’d put on the little-boy-lost look that usually worked with very old women. And also, for that matter, with Tim. “He helped me.”
“He gave you money?” She looked at me suspiciously.
“He saved my life. I had a rare disease.”
“What disease?”
“It was so rare, it didn’t have a name. Mr Smile paid for my medicine. I never got a chance to thank him. And I thought, if I could at least see where he lived…”
That softened her. “I’ve got a key,” she said, taking it out of her pocket. “I was his neighbour for seven years and I used to look after the place for him when he was away. You seem a nice boy, so I’ll let you in, just for a few minutes. This way…”
It seemed to take her for ever to reach the door, but then she was very old. At last we were in. Mrs Lovely closed the door behind us and sat down to have a rest.
Smile’s flat was small and ordinary. There was a living-room, but it was so neat and impersonal that it was hard to believe anyone had done any living there at all. There was a three-piece suite, a coffee table, a few ornaments. The pictures on the wall were even less interesting than the walls they hung on. It was the same story in the other rooms. The flat told us nothing about the person who had lived there. Even the fridge was empty.
“How often did you see Mr Smile?” I asked.
“I never saw him,” Tim replied.
“I know, Tim. I’m asking Mrs Lovely.”
“I hardly ever saw him,” Mrs Lovely said. “He kept himself to himself, if you want the truth. Although I was here the night that he got run over.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“Not really, no.” She shook her head vigorously and then readjusted her hair and teeth. “But I did see him go out. There were two people with him, talking to him. They seemed to be helping him down the stairs.”
“Helping him?”
“One on each side of him. A man and a woman…”
That would have been Rodney Hoover and Fiona Lee.
“After they’d gone, I heard the most terrible noise. It was a sort of rumble and then a scrunching. At first I thought it was my indigestion, but then I looked out of the window. And there they were! The two of them and the driver—”
“Barry Krishner…”
“I don’t know his name, young man. But yes, the driver of the steamroller was there. He was looking as sick as a parrot. Hardly surprising!”
“What happened to the parrot?” Tim asked.
“There was no parrot!”
“You mean … it got so sick it died?”
“There was the driver, the two people I had seen on the stairs and blood all over the road!” Mrs Lovely sighed. “It was the worst thing I have ever seen, and I’ve lived through two world wars! Blood everywhere! Lots and lots and lots of blood…”
“Thank you,” Tim interrupted, going pale.
“Were there no other witnesses?” I asked.
“Just one.” Mrs Lovely leant forward. “There was a balloon-seller on the other side of the road. He must have seen everything. I’ve already been asked about him once, so before you ask me again let me tell you that I don’t know his name or where he had come from. He was an old man.
He had a beard and about fifty helium balloons. Floating above his head.”
“Why was his beard floating over his head?” Tim asked.
“The balloons, Tim!” I growled. I turned to Mrs Lovely. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” I asked. “Anything about Lenny Smile?”
“No. Not really.” Suddenly there were tears in the old woman’s eyes. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. “I will miss him. It’s true I hardly ever saw him, but he was a gentleman. Look at this note he sent me. It was my ninety-first birthday last week and he slipped it under the door.”
She produced a crumpled sheet of paper, torn out of an exercise book. There were a couple of lines written in green ink:
Dear Mrs Lovely,
I hope you have a lovely birthday.
L.S.
That was all. The note couldn’t have been less interesting or informative. And yet even so I thought there was something strange about it, something that didn’t quite add up. I handed it back.
“Nobody else remembered my birthday,” Mrs Lovely sighed. “I didn’t get any cards. But then, most of my friends were blown up in the war…” She wiped her eyes. “I couldn’t have asked for a more quiet neighbour,” she said. “And now that he’s gone, I’ll really miss him.”
How could she miss him when she had hardly ever met him? And why had Lenny Smile taken so much care not to be seen? I was beginning to realize that it wasn’t just Carter’s photograph that had been blurred. The same thing could be said for everything in Lenny Smile’s life.
We found Barry Krishner, the steamroller driver, easily enough. There was only one institute for the hopelessly insane in Harrow. Well, two if you count the famous public school which was just a little further down the road. The hospital was a big, Victorian building, set in its own grounds with a path leading up to the front door.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Tim asked.
“Yes,” I said. “They’ve even got crazy paving.”
I have to say, I was a bit worried about going into a mental asylum with Tim. I wondered if they’d let him out again. But it was too late to back out now. One of the doctors, a man called Eams, was waiting for us at the entrance. He was a short man, bald with a little beard that could have been bought at a joke shop. We introduced ourselves and he led us out of the winter sunlight into the gloomy heart of the building.