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 around the back of Battersea, not far from the famous dogs’ home. The tall, redbrick buildings were all mansion apartments . . . not as big as mansions, but certainly nicer than your average apartment. There were a dozen people living in each building, 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 elevator wasn’t working. The whole place smelled damp and like 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 one another 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 stupid! 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 apartment.”

“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.”