The Blurred Man by Anthony Horowitz

THE PEN PAL
    I knew the American was going to mean trouble, the moment he walked through the door. He only made it on the third attempt. It was eleven o’clock in the morning but clearly he’d been drinking since breakfast – and breakfast had probably come out of a bottle too. The smell of whisky was so strong it made my eyes water. Drunk at eleven o’clock! I didn’t like to think what it was doing to him, but if I’d been his liver I’d have been applying for a transplant.
    He managed to find a seat and slumped into it. The funny thing was, he was quite smartly dressed: a suit and a tie that looked expensive. I got the feeling straight away that this was someone with money. He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and as far as I could tell we were talking real gold. He was about forty years old, with hair that was just turning grey and eyes that were just turning yellow. That must have been the whisky. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Blue smoke filled the room. This man would not have been a good advertisement for the National Health Service.
    “My name is Carter,” he said at last. He spoke with an American accent. “Joe Carter. I just got in from Chicago. And I’ve got a problem.”
    “I can see that,” I muttered.
    He glanced at me with one eye. The other eye looked somewhere over my shoulder. “Who are you?” he demanded.
    “I’m Nick Diamond.”
    “I don’t need a smart-arse kid. I’m looking for a private detective.”
    “That’s him over there,” I said, indicating the desk and my big brother, Tim.
    “You want a coffee, Mr Carver?” Tim asked.
    “It’s not Carver. It’s Carter. With a ‘t’,” the American growled.
    “I’m out of tea. How about a hot chocolate?”
    “I don’t want a hot anything!” Carter sucked on the cigarette. “I want help. I want to hire you. What do you charge?”
    Tim stared. Although it was hard to believe, the American was offering him money. This was something that didn’t happen often. Tim hadn’t really made any money since he’d worked as a policeman, and even then the police dogs had earned more than him. At least they’d bitten the right man. As a private detective, Tim had been a total calamity. I’d helped him solve one or two cases, but most of the time I was stuck at school. Right now it was the week of half-term – six weeks before Christmas, and once again it didn’t look like our stockings were going to be full. Unless you’re talking holes. Tim had just seven pence left in his bank account. We’d written a begging letter to our mum and dad in Australia but were still saving up for the stamp.
    I coughed and Tim jerked upright in his chair, trying to look businesslike. “You need a private detective?” he said. “Fine. That’s me. But it’ll cost you fifty pounds a day, plus expenses.”
    “You take traveller’s cheques?”
    “That depends on the traveller.”
    “I don’t have cash.”
    “Traveller’s cheques are fine,” I said.
    Joe Carter pulled out a bundle of blue traveller’s cheques, then fumbled for a pen. For a moment I was worried that he’d be too drunk to sign them. But somehow he managed to scribble his name five times on the dotted lines, and slid the cheques across. “All right,” he said. “That’s five hundred dollars.”
    “Five hundred dollars!” Tom squeaked. The last time he’d had that much money in his hand he’d been playing Monopoly. “Five hundred dollars…?”
    “About three hundred and fifty pounds,” I told him.
    Carter nodded. “Right. So now let me tell you where I’m coming from.”
    “I thought you were coming from Chicago,” Tim said.
    “I mean, let me tell you my problem. I got into England last Tuesday, a little less than a week ago. I’m staying in a hotel in the West End. The Ritz.”
    “You’d be crackers to stay anywhere else,” Tim said.
    “Yeah.” Carter stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. Except we didn’t have an ashtray. The smell of burning wood