“Because he was run over by a steamroller.” Carter shuddered. Tim shivered. Even the desk light flickered. I had to admit, it was a pretty horrible way to go. “He was flattened,” the American went on. “They told me that the ambulance people had to fold him before they could get him onto a stretcher. He was buried last week. At Brompton Cemetery, near Fulham.”

Brompton. That was where the master criminal known as the Falcon had been buried, too. Tim and I had gone to the cemetery at the end of our first ever case.* We were lucky we weren’t still there.

“This guy Rodney Hoover tells me he’s winding down Dream Time,” Carter went on. “He says it wouldn’t be the same without Lenny, and he doesn’t have the heart to go on without him. I had a long talk with him in his office and I have to tell you . . . I didn’t like it.”

“You don’t think it’s a nice office?” Tim asked.

“I think something strange is going on.”

Tim blinked. “What exactly do you think is strange?”

Carter almost choked on his cigarette. “Damnit!” he yelled. “You don’t think there’s anything unusual in a guy getting run over by a steamroller? It happens in the middle of the night and just a few days before he’s due to have a meeting with someone who’s given him two million dollars! And the next thing you hear, the charity he’d set up is suddenly shutting down! You don’t think that’s all a little strange?”

“It’s certainly strange that it happened in the middle of the night,” Tim agreed. “Why wasn’t he in bed?”

“I don’t know why he wasn’t in bed—but I’ll tell you this: I think he was murdered. A man doesn’t walk in front of a steamroller. But maybe he’s pushed. Maybe this has got something to do with money . . . my money. Maybe somebody didn’t want us to meet! I know that if I was writing this as a novel, that’s the way it would turn out. Anyway, there are plenty of private detectives in London. If you’re not interested, I can find someone who is. So are you going to look into this for me or not?”

Tim glanced at the traveler’s checks. He scooped them up. “Don’t worry, Mr. Carpark,” he said. “I’ll find the truth. The only question is—where do I find you?”

“I’m still at the Ritz,” Carter said. “Ask for Room eight.”

“I’ll ask for you,” Tim said. “But if you’re out, I suppose the roommate will have to do.

*  *  *

We changed the traveler’s checks into cash and blew some of it on the first decent meal we’d had in a week. Tim was in a good mood. He even let me have a dessert.