Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [47]
It was him. They were saying he was dead! How could they have made a mistake like that? Was this the reason why his phone wasn’t working, why there was no money in his account? Suddenly it all made sense. Somehow he’d been confused with somebody else. And as a result, a whole series of switches had been pulled as, automatically, his life was turned off.
He had to get to a telephone. He had to talk to his editors, to the people who employed him. He had no money. But there was a telephone in his apartment. That was the answer. Bulman didn’t want to be on the street anymore, anyway. He had become a non-person, an invisible man. For some reason, he felt exposed. How could he be sure that there wasn’t someone out there who really did want to stab him? He had to get back inside.
He was sweating by the time he got back to his apartment, and his hand shook as he tried to force the key into the lock. It didn’t seem to want to go in. In the end, after three attempts, he realized that the key didn’t fit. And that was impossible too. Wasn’t it? He had used it only last night! But someone in the last twelve hours had gone out and changed the lock.
“Let me in!” he shouted. There was nobody to listen to him. He was shouting at the glass door and the brickwork. “Let me in!” He kicked the door, using the sole of his foot. But the glass was reinforced, shatterproof, and the door was held in place by powerful magnetic plates. He kicked out a third time. He was screaming now. Anyone passing would think he was insane.
“Are you all right, sir? Can I help you?”
He hadn’t heard the police car draw in behind him, but when he turned around, there were two policemen standing on the sidewalk. Bulman was glad to see them. After all, he’d been trying to call them just a few minutes ago.
“I’m locked out,” he said.
“Do you live here, sir?”
“Well, obviously I live here. If I didn’t live here, I wouldn’t be trying to get in.” Bulman realized he was being rude. He tried to force a smile to his face. “I have a home on the top floor,” he explained. “This has never happened before . . .”
“Can I try for you?”
Bulman noticed that the policeman had dropped the “sir.” He handed the keys over and watched as the policeman tried them in the lock—also without success. The policeman examined the keys, then the lock. He straightened up. “You’re not going to open this door with these keys,” he said. “The lock is Banham. These keys are Yale.”
“But that’s not possible . . .”
“What’s your name?” the second policeman asked.
“It’s Harry Bulman. I’m a journalist.”
“And you say you live here?”
“I don’t just say I live here. I do live here. But I’m locked out.”
“Just one moment, sir.”
The first policeman was talking on his radio. Bulman passed his briefcase from one hand to the other. It was suddenly feeling very heavy. Considering it was only January, the weather was far too hot. The second policeman was looking at him suspiciously. He was only about nineteen years old, with light brown hair and stick-out ears. He still had a schoolboy face.
“Are you sure this is where you live?” the first policeman asked. He had finished his radio conversation.
“Yes. Apartment thirty-seven. On the top floor.”
“There was a Harold Bulman, a journalist, registered to this address, but he was killed two nights ago.”
“No. That was in the newspapers. I just read it. But it’s a mistake. I’m Harry Bulman.”
“Would you have any identification on you?”
“Of course I have.” Bulman took out his wallet. But two of his credit cards had been taken by the cash machines, and he had left the third in the bank. His driver’s license was in the apartment. His fingers were shaking as he fumbled through his wallet. “I can give you ID once I