It was the driver of the car, the man who had saved us, who was speaking. He had driven us directly to his office at New Scotland Yard. It had been a while since we had last seen Detective Chief Inspector Snape. But here he was, as large as life and much less enjoyable.

It had been Snape who had once employed Tim as a police officer. He had been no more than an inspector then—and he’d probably had far fewer gray hairs. He was a big, solid man who obviously worked out in a gym. Nobody was born with muscles like his. He had small blue eyes and skin the color of raw ham. He was wearing a tailor-made suit but unfortunately it had been tailor-made to somebody else. It looked as if it was about to burst. His tie was crooked. So were his teeth. So were most of the people he met.

I had never known his name was Freddy but that was what was written on the door. He had an office on the fourth floor. I had been involved with Snape twice before: once when we were on the trail of the Falcon, and once when he had forced me to share a cell with the master criminal Johnny Powers.* He wasn’t someone I’d been looking forward to meeting a third time—even if he had just rescued us from the murderous crowd at the Russian State Circus.

His assistant was with him. Detective Superintendent Boyle hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d seen him either. His first name must have been “Push.” That was what was written on his door. Short and fat with curly black hair, he’d have done well in one of those TV documentaries about Neanderthal man. He was wearing a black leather jacket and faded jeans. As usual he had a couple of medallions buried in the forest of hair that sprouted up his chest and out of his open-necked shirt. Boyle looked more criminal than a criminal. He wasn’t someone you’d want to meet on a dark night. He wasn’t someone you’d want to meet at all.

“This is incredible!” Tim exclaimed. He turned to me. “You remember the horoscope in the newspaper! It said I was going to meet an old friend!”

“I’m not an old friend!” Snape exploded. “I hate you!”

“I’d like to get friendly with him,” Boyle muttered. He took out a set of brass knuckles and slid it over his right fist. “Why don’t you let the two of us go somewhere quiet, Chief . . .?”

“Forget it, Boyle!” Snape snapped. “And where did you get the brass knuckles? Have you been in the evidence room again?”

“It’s mine!” Boyle protested.

“Well, put it away . . .”

Boyle slid the contraption off his hand and sulked.