The Claws of Evil - By Andrew Beasley Page 0,7

the mountains of Nepal. When a man had travelled, it gave him a certain perspective on things, Carter mused. It allowed him to see the bigger picture.

The boy ran on ahead of him, eager to please. He went by the name of Jimmy Dips, a pickpocket by trade. Carter was a collector, and in order for there to be a collection, many things needed to be found. He had decided a long time ago that it was better not to ask where or how, but to quietly employ the services of boys like Jimmy, who could sniff out items in dark places. Some objects, of course, were worth more than others. It was that possibility that made him leave the comfort of the museum on such a night as this.

After all, how often did a man get the chance to hold an object that had once altered the course of history and was about to change the world again?

Jimmy Dips scampered to the corner of the street, looked both ways and then rushed back to the professor’s side. He reminded Carter of a ferret; his face was all nose, constantly twitching and tasting the air.

“Nearly there now, Professor,” said Jimmy.

“I know,” Claw Carter snapped. There was a limit to how much mindless enthusiasm he could stomach.

The Punch and Judy public house was only a short walk from the British Museum and it was a venue that he had often found suitable for conversations of a private nature. There were no lights showing when they arrived, so Carter marched over to the door and knocked on it smartly with his claw.

There was the sound of bolts being drawn back from inside, followed by a hushed voice: “Is that you?”

“Who else do you think it might be?” said Carter, flinging the door open and seeing no reason to keep his voice down. “Father Christmas?”

The fat innkeeper looked suitably chastened. Jimmy Dips could not conceal his smile.

“She’s down there,” said the innkeeper, pointing the way to the cellar.

With Jimmy trailing in his wake, Carter descended the steps and found a girl sitting in a corner behind a round oak table. Her delicate arms were spread out across the back of her chair, a picture of feline ease.

“Good evening, Miss Johnson,” said Carter.

“Good evening, Professor,” she purred.

Of all the gutter rats and street thieves that Professor Carter knew, Ruby Johnson was the most audacious and the least expendable. She had chestnut-brown hair, chopped in a jagged, almost boyish style, and eyes the shape of almonds.

“Drink?” she asked.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“I meant for me,” said Ruby.

Carter threw back his head and laughed. “A drink for the lady, if you would be so kind, Jimmy.” He snapped the fingers of his good hand. “In a clean glass.”

Jimmy hurried off.

“Now,” said the professor, all business, “you have something for me?”

Ruby reached into the pocket of her velvet jacket and brought out a small object, wrapped in a jeweller’s cloth. The professor was impatient to see and took it from her swiftly. He held it for a moment, clutching it tightly in his fist, before relaxing and placing it on the table in front of him, then gently peeling back the corners of the cloth to expose the treasure within.

Even in the gloom, Ruby could see the glint in his eyes.

“The lamp, quickly, bring it over,” he urged.

He began to examine the object, hardly daring to believe what he might have found. He didn’t even touch it at first, he simply allowed it to sit safely on its cloth while he extracted the truth from it.

It was the right size. Small and round, no bigger than one inch in diameter.

“How did you know that this was one of them?” he asked, his eyes not leaving the table.

“I didn’t,” she shrugged. “But it matched the description you gave us and so...”

That description had proved utterly useless so far. He could hardly believe some of the rubbish that they had brought him, thinking it was the find of the century. But this? It was the right metal. Silver, approximately eighty per cent pure, he would say. It certainly appeared to be a Tyrian Shekel; the approved coin of the Jewish temple tax. He examined it further.

Ruby looked on; the cat that’d got the cream.

Carter’s mouth was suddenly dry. The inscription was accurate. The decoration was of the right period too; an eagle with its claw on a ship’s rudder. The edges were imperfect, but that was only to be