The Switch

Table of Contents

 

The Alex Rider Adventures

 

 

The Diamond Brothers Mysteries

 

 

 

 

 

 

PHILOMEL BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.
Published by The Penguin Group.

 

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

 

First published in Great Britain by Walker Books Ltd.

Copyright © 1986 by Anthony Horowitz.

 

eISBN : 978-1-440-69946-7

The white Rolls-Royce
made no sound as it sped along the twisting country road. It was the middle of summer and the grass was high, speckled with wild poppies and daisies. Sunlight danced in the air. But the single passenger in the back of the car saw none of it. His head was buried in a book:
My 100 Favorite Equations.
As he flicked a page, he popped another cherry marzipan chocolate into his mouth, the fourteenth he had eaten since Ipswich. The automatic window slid open and yet another chocolate wrapper was whipped away by the wind. It twisted briefly in the air, then fell. By the time it hit the ground, the Rolls was already out of sight. And Thomas Arnold David Spencer was a little nearer home.

Thomas Arnold David—Tad for short—was thirteen years old, dressed in gray trousers that were a little too tight for him, a striped tie and blue blazer. He had short black hair, rather too neatly combed, and deep brown eyes. He was returning home from Beton Academy on this, the first day of summer vacation. It was typical of Tad that he should have started his homework already. Tad loved homework. He was only sorry he hadn’t been given more.

The Rolls-Royce paused in front of a set of wrought-iron gates. There was a click and the gates began to open automatically. At the same time a video camera set on a high brick wall swiveled around to watch the new arrival with a blank, hostile eye. Beyond the gates, a long drive stretched out for almost half a mile between lawns that had been rolled perfectly flat. Two swans circled on a glistening pond, watching the Rolls as it continued forward. It passed a rose garden, a vegetable garden, a croquet lawn, a tennis court and a heated swimming pool. At last it stopped in front of the fantastic pile that was Snatchmore Hall, home of the Spencer family. Tad had arrived.

The chauffeur, a large, ugly man with hooded eyes, crumpled cheeks and a small snub nose, got out of the car and held the door open for Tad. “Glad to be home, Master Spencer?”

“Yes, thank you, Spurling.” Tad’s voice was flat, almost emotionless. “Rather.”

“I’ll take your suitcases to your room, Master Spencer.”

“Thank you, Spurling. Just leave them on the bed.”

Tad went over to the swimming pool, where a bored-looking woman was lying on a sun lounger, gazing at herself intently in a small mirror. This was his mother, Lady Geranium Spencer.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” Tad said. He knew not to kiss her. It would have ruined her makeup.

“Oh, hello, dear.” His mother sighed. “Is it vacation already?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I thought it was next week. What do you think of the nose?”

“It’s jolly good, Mother. They’ve moved it a little, haven’t they?”

“Yes. Just a teensy-weensy bit to the left.” Lady Spencer had visited no fewer than six plastic surgeons that spring and each one of them had operated on her nose, trying to give her the exact look she required. Now she was sure she had at last gotten it right. The only trouble was that she wasn’t allowed to sneeze until Christmas. “How was school, darling?” she asked, putting the mirror away.

“It was fine, thank you, Mother. I had the highest grade in the class in French, English, chemistry, math and Latin. Second in Ancient Greek and geography. Third in—”

“Ah! Here’s Mitzy with the tea!” his mother interrupted, stifling a yawn. “Just what I fancied. A teensy-weensy tea.”

The front door of the house had opened and a trolley, piled high with cakes and sandwiches, had appeared, seemingly moving by itself. As it drew closer, however, a tiny woman could be seen behind it, wearing a black dress with a white apron. This was Mitzy, the family’s servant for the past forty years.

“Hello, Master Tad!” she gurgled breathlessly as she heaved the trolley to a halt. It was so heavy it had left deep tire tracks across the lawn.

“Hello, Mitzy.” Tad smiled at her. “How are you?”

“I can’t complain, Master Tad.”

“And Bitzy?” This was Mitzy’s husband. His real name was Ernest but he had been given his nickname after he’d been blown to pieces by a faulty gas main.

“He’s still in the hospital.” Mitzy sighed. “I’m seeing him on Sunday.”

“Well, do give him my regards,” Tad said cheerfully, helping himself to a smoked-salmon roll.

Mitzy limped back to the house while Tad ate. Lady Spencer cast a critical eye at her son. “Have you put on weight?” she asked.

“Just a little, Mumsy. I’m afraid you’re going to have to buy me a completely new uniform for next term. This one’s much too tight.”

“What a bore! That’s the third this year.”

“I know. The elastic on my underpants snapped during the headmaster’s speech. It was rather embarrassing . . .”

Just then there was a loud bark and a dog bounded across the lawn toward Tad and his mother. It was a dalmatian—you could easily tell that from its black-and-white coat—but it was like no dalmatian you had ever seen.

For a start, it was huge. Its teeth were incredibly sharp and its mouth, instead of grinning in the friendly way ordinary dalmatians do, was twisted in an ugly frown. The reason for all this was that the Spencers had taken the unfortunate dog to a vet who had turned it into a killing machine, filing both its teeth and its claws until they were needle-sharp. The last burglar who had tried to break in had needed 107 stitches when Vicious had finished with him. In the end the police surgeon had run out of thread and had been forced to use glue.

But Vicious recognized Tad. Panting and whimpering, the dog sat down and raised a paw, its eyes fixed on the tea trolley.

“Hello, Vicious. How are you?” Tad reached out with an éclair. The dog leaped up and half of Tad’s arm disappeared down its throat as Vicious sucked the éclair free.

“You spoil that dog,” his mother remarked.

After tea, Tad went up to his room, taking the elevator to the third floor. Spurling had carried his suitcases up and Mrs. O’Blimey, the Irish housekeeper, had already unpacked them. Tad sat down on his four-poster bed and looked around contentedly. Everything was where it should be. There were his two computers and fourteen shelves of computer games. There was his portable television plugged into his own video recorder and satellite system. His favorite books (Dickens and Shakespeare), bound in leather and gold, stretched out in a long line over his butterfly collection, his stereo and interactive CD system and his tank of rare tropical fish. Then there were nine closets containing his clothes and next to them a door leading into his private bathroom, sauna and Jacuzzi.

Tad stretched out his arms and smiled. He had the whole summer vacation to look forward to. As well as the country house in Suffolk, there was the villa in the south of France, the penthouse in New York and the mews house in Knightsbridge, just around the corner from Harrods. He unbuttoned his jacket and took it off, letting it fall to the floor. Mrs. O’Blimey could pick it up later. It was time for dinner. And soon his father would be home.

In fact Sir Hubert Spencer didn’t get in until after nine o’clock. He was a large, imposing man with wavy silver hair and purple blotches on his cheeks, nose and hands. He was dressed, as always, in a plain black suit cut from the very finest material. As he strode into the room and sat down he pulled out an antique pocket watch and glanced at the face.

“Good evening, Tad,” he said. “Good to see you. Now. I can give you nine and a half minutes . . .”

“Gosh! Thank you, Father.”

Tad was delighted. He knew that his father was a busy man. In fact, business ruled his life.

Ten years ago, Sir Hubert Spencer had set up a chain of shops that now stretched across England, Europe and America. The shops were called simply Beautiful World and sold soaps, shampoos, body lotions, sun creams, vitamins, minerals, herbs and spices . . . everything to make you feel beautiful inside and out. What made these shops special, however, was that the ingredients for many of the products came from the Third World—yak’s milk from the mountain villages of Tibet, for example, or crushed orchids from the tropical rain forests of Sumatra. And all the shops carried a sign in large letters in the window:

 

 

 

 

 

Sir Hubert had realized that people not only wanted to look good, they wanted to feel good too. And the better they felt, the more they would spend and the richer he would become.

Sir Hubert never stopped. He was always developing new products, finding new ingredients, dreaming up new advertising ideas, selling more products. It was said that while he was being knighted by the queen, two years before, he had managed to sell her ten gallons of face cream and a lifetime’s supply of Japanese seaweed shampoo. He had appeared on the front page of all the newspapers after that. Because, despite his great wealth, Sir Hubert was very popular. “Good old Sir Hubert!” people would shout out if they saw him in the street. “He may be stinking rich, but he’s all right.”