Butler shook his head. ‘I can rest later. Right now, I have to check the grounds. It’s unlikely that Spiro could put a team together so quickly. But you never know.’
The bodyguard crossed to a wall panel that linked his room to the security-system control booth. Artemis could see that each step was an effort. With Butler’s new chest tissue, just climbing the stairs would seem like a marathon.
Butler split-screened his monitor so he could view all the CCTVs simultaneously. One of the screens interested him more than the others, so he punched it up on the monitor.
‘Well, well,’ he chuckled. ‘Look who’s dropped in to say hello.’
Artemis crossed to the security panel. There was a very small individual making rude gestures at the kitchen-door camera.
‘Mulch Diggums,’ said Artemis. ‘Just the dwarf I wanted to see.’
Butler transferred Mulch’s image to the main screen.
‘Perhaps. But why does he want to see you?’
Melodramatic as always, the dwarf insisted on a sandwich before explaining the situation. Unfortunately for Mulch, it was Artemis who volunteered to prepare it for him. He emerged from the pantry with what resembled nothing more than an explosion on a plate.
‘It’s more difficult than it looks,’ explained the boy.
Mulch cranked open his massive jaws, pouring the whole pile down in one swallow. After several minutes’ chewing, he reached an entire hand into his mouth and dislodged a chunk of roast turkey.
‘Next time more mustard,’ he said, brushing some crumbs from his shirt and, in the process, inadvertently switching on the mike clipped there.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Artemis.
‘You should be thanking me, Mud Boy,’ said Mulch. ‘I came all the way from Chicago to save your life. Surely that’s worth one lousy sandwich? And when I say sandwich I mean it in the loosest sense of the word.’
‘Chicago? Jon Spiro sent you?’
The dwarf shook his head. ‘Possibly, but not directly. I work for the Antonelli family. Of course, they have no idea that I am an actual fairy dwarf; they think I’m simply the best cat burglar in the business.’
‘Chicago’s district attorney has linked the Antonellis to Spiro in the past. Or rather, he’s tried to.’
‘Whatever. Anyway, the plan is that I break in here, and then my partner encourages you to accompany us to Chicago.’
Butler was leaning against the table. ‘Where is your partner now, Mulch?’
‘Outside the gate. He’s the small angry one. Glad to see you’re alive by the way, big man. There was a rumour going around the underworld that you were dead.’
‘I was,’ said Butler, heading for the security booth. ‘But I’m better now.’
Loafers took a small spiral pad from his breast pocket. In it he had recorded any quips that he felt had really worked in dangerous situations. Snappy dialogue, that was the trademark of a good gangster – according to the movies at any rate. He flicked through the pages, smiling fondly.
‘It’s time to close your account. Permanently.’ – Larry Ferrigamo. Bent banker. 9th August.
‘I’m afraid your hard drive has just been wiped.’ – David Spinski. Computer hacker. 23rd September.
‘I’m doing this ’cause I knead the dough.’ – Morty the Baker. 17th July.
It was good material. Maybe he would write his memoirs some day.
Loafers was still chuckling when he heard Mo talking in his earpiece. At first he thought the monkey was speaking to him, but then he realized that his so-called partner was spilling the beans to their pigeon.
‘You should be thanking me, Mud Boy,’ said Digence. ‘I came all the way from Chicago to save your life.’
To save his life! Mo was working for the other side and the little idiot had forgotten about his mike.
Loafers climbed out of the car, being careful to lock it. He would lose the deposit if the rental was stolen, and Miss Frazetti would take it out of his commission. There was a small pedestrian entrance in the wall beside the main gate. Mo Digence had left it open. Loafers slipped through and hurried down the avenue, careful to stay in the shadow of the trees.
In his ear, Mo kept rabbiting on. He laid out their entire plan to the Fowl kid without so much as the threat of torture. It was completely voluntary. Digence had somehow been working for the Irish kid all along. And what’s more, Mo was not Mo, he was Mulch. What kind of a name was that? Mulch, who was apparently a fairy dwarf. This was getting weirder and weirder. Maybe the fairy dwarfs were some kind of gang. Although it wasn’t much of a gang name. The fairy dwarfs were hardly going to strike terror into the hearts of the competition.
Loafers trotted up the avenue, past a line of elegant silver birches and an honest-to-God croquet pitch. Two peacocks strutted around the edge of a water feature. Loafers snorted. Water feature! In the days before TV gardeners it would have been called a pond.