Storm and Silence

  Yes, yes, of course you will… Now can you stop blabbering so we can get on with this?

  ‘Oh, I am so relieved.’ I put a trembling hand over my heart. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Sir. The man I am looking for is tall and gangly, with a long nose, long blonde hair and a thin moustache, and a scar over his right eyebrow.’

  Again I had to suppress a yawn. Here we go again.

  A grim smile spread over the receptionist’s face.

  ‘Miss, I believe you have caught your villain! A man of just such a description is indeed staying under our roof at this very moment!’

  The Thief

  My sleepiness vanished in an instant.

  ‘A-are you sure?’ I stuttered, this time not having to fake my feelings.

  I was floored. My plan had worked! It had actually worked! Of course I never doubted it would, in a theoretical, philosophical, let’s-think-this-problem-through way, but to have it actually succeed - that was something else.

  ‘Yes, quite sure, Miss. He’s in room forty-five on the third floor.’

  ‘Um… thank you.’

  Suddenly, I realized that now I was going to have to go out and tell Mr Ambrose that I had found Simmons. All this time I had been so obsessed with finding the thief, with proving to my employer that I actually could be of some use, that I hadn’t thought about what might happen when we finally did catch him.

  Now we had. And I was going to have to go out and tell that to Mr Ambrose, a man who didn’t seem overly shy about taking the law and everything else he could into his own hands.

  I looked down at my own hands. Soon, I realized, I might have blood on them.

  But then, if you thought about it, it was a thief’s blood. And who knew, I might even get a raise out of it.

  Before I could think better of it, I left the hotel and opened the cab door.

  ‘We have him,’ I said.

  All of them turned and stared at me as if I had just announced that the Duke of Wellington was a French pussycat.[25]

  ‘You… you mean to say Simmons is in there? In this hotel?’ Warren asked.

  I rolled my eyes. ‘No, he’s in Siberia. Yes of course I meant he’s in this hotel! What else do you think I’m talking about?’

  ‘Well, that’s… That’s quite impressive. Congratulations.’

  Karim held up a hand.

  ‘Do not give out congratulations, Warren Sahib, before we have proof of the truth. It is easy to say he is there.’ He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘But have you indeed seen the man we seek with your own eyes?’

  ‘No,’ I had to admit. ‘But he is here.’

  ‘It is easy for you to say so, but he may be indeed farther than the stars and the sky.’

  I turned to Mr Ambrose. ‘Where did you pick this fellow up? Does he always talk like this?’

  My employer chose to ignore this. He was examining me carefully without saying a word. Finally he inquired in a low voice:

  ‘He is really there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘He is.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  Mr Ambrose was out of the cab and halfway across the street in a flash. His arms came up, one of them holding a cane I hadn’t noticed before. He gestured, and Warren’s men were suddenly out of the cab, too, spreading out in a loose semi-circle behind him.

  Six of them, together with Karim, remained at the entrance to the hotel while the rest, without needing any orders, followed him in. They seemed to be well accustomed to follow his silent commands.

  Well, I sure as hell wasn’t! Cursing, I hurried after them.

  The doorman of the hotel seemed to be quite surprised at the company in which I was returning. His surprise, however, was nothing to that of the receptionist, whose mouth actually dropped open as we marched into the entrance hall. We passed him before he had a chance to say or do anything and were already up the first flight of stairs when we heard him call out.

  ‘Where to?’ Mr Ambrose inquired, completely ignoring the shout of the receptionist.

  ‘Room forty-five on the third floor.’ I called from behind. ‘And slow down, will you? It’s no easy job climbing stairs in this blasted corset!’

  Will it surprise you to hear that he didn’t slow down?

  Muttering a very unladylike curse, I sped up and managed to catch up with them just as they reached the third floor.

  Mr Ambrose stood on the landing like an admiral on the bridge. With his cane, he pointed at a door a little distance down the corridor bearing the large brazen number forty-five. Then he nodded to his men.

  Again the men seemed to understand without needing to be given orders. Two of them positioned themselves on either side of the door while another strode up directly to the entrance and knocked on the dark wood barring the way.

  There was a short silence. Then:

  ‘Yes? What do you want?’

  The voice was high and slightly arrogant. I could see it fitting perfectly to the man Mr Ambrose had described. Thin, blonde, and a bit vain.

  ‘Room service, Sir,’ Warren’s associate replied in a perfect I-am-a-well-mannered-servant tone.

  ‘Room service? I didn’t order anything.’

  ‘I know, Sir. Compliments of the house, Sir. We always present a bottle of the best wine from our cellars to guests who stay longer than three days.’

  ‘Oh, if that’s the case…’ The scraping of a chair came from the other side of the door. ‘Would be a shame to let it go to waste.’

  Warren’s man sprang to the side, and silent as a shadow Mr Ambrose took his place. I tried to move so that I could get a look at the door when it opened, but Warren held me back.

  ‘Not yet!’ he hissed. ‘Wait until he opens the door!’

  Steps approached from inside the room. I waited, counting my breaths in a futile attempt to calm myself. Suddenly I was wishing that I had changed back into trousers and a shirt before coming up here. Say what you will about the degradation and annoyance involved in pretending to be a man, it certainly gives you more freedom of movement.

  The door opened.

  Mr Ambrose nodded to whomever was on the other side.

  ‘Hello, Simmons.’

  I heard a startled yelp, and then the door moved to close so fast my eye hardly caught the movement. Mr Ambrose caught it, though.

  His foot darted forward and wedged itself between door and doorframe. He gripped the doorknob, the desperate man inside still struggling to push the door closed, and thrust it back with surprising strength. The door flew open.

  Then he stepped into the room.

  ‘Now!’

  Warren let go of my arm and I darted forward. I was in the room even before the six other men. Mr Ambrose was standing over a deathly pale Simmons, who lay on his back on the carpet.

  Taking an empty wine glass from a table beside him, Mr Ambrose raised it to the man on the floor in a mock toast.

  ‘Bottoms up. I’m afraid I haven’t brought any wine. But I have brought a few of my friends.’ The glass sailed out of his hand and crashed against the wall, splintering into a thousand pieces. Simmons twitched, but Mr Ambrose’s face remained calm as an iceberg. ‘Actually, it’s not just the bottoms who are up,’ he mused. ‘It’s the game, too.’ His voice suddenly became hard, as impenetrable as a mountain of granite. ‘Where is it, Simmons?’

  ‘H-how… how,’ stuttered the figure on the floor.

  ‘How I found you?’

  Mr Ambrose threw a look over his shoulder, and for a moment his dark eyes held mine, filled with an expression that was difficult to interpret.

  ‘That is none of your concern,’ he answered, returning his gaze to Simmons. ‘I will ask the questions. Not you.’

  ‘N-no, Sir,’ Simmons mumbled, his eyes darting right and left. ‘I mean… h-how can I ever thank you. Thank you for coming after me, I mean. There were these men… they entered your office and took some things and forced me to come with them and…’

  ‘Simmons?’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘If you utter another lie, you are a dead man.’

  Mr Simmons’ mouth remained open, but there didn’t come one more sound out of it. He seemed to have gotten the message.

  Without paying any great deal of attention to the man on the floor, as if he were just another speck of dust, Mr Ambrose went over to the bed and flipped open the suitcase that lay there. It contained a few neatly folded shirts and trousers. With a flick of his cane, Mr Ambrose threw them aside.

  An involuntary gasp escaped me as hundreds of banknotes appeared beneath the clothes. I couldn’t make out the numbers from where I stood, but I didn’t really need to, to be able to tell that this was a lot of money. More than I had ever seen in my life.

  All for a piece of paper…

  What sort of paper could be worth that much?

  ‘Strange baggage for an abducted man,’ Mr Ambrose stated, calmly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a sudden movement. When I turned my head I saw that Simmons was on his feet again and heading for the window.

  At first I thought he had gone insane or something and wanted to jump to his death - but then I saw that there was a building outside. A building with a flat roof.

  ‘No! Get him!’

  I sprang after him, trying to grab him. Unluckily, I forgot I was wearing a crinoline, got tangled up in the legs of a chair and fell to the ground with an unceremonious crunching sound. The last thing I saw was Simmons jumping out of the window, then my head slammed into the carpet and suddenly my eyes, mouth and nose were filled with fluffy dustiness.

  Crap!

  I lay there for a few moments, seething and breathing in dust motes. Somebody cleared his throat above me. I looked up to see Mr Ambrose extending his hand towards me.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’

  Reluctantly I reached out and grasped his hand. Don’t ask me why - but for some reason I had expected his hand to be cold and hard, just like his personality. It wasn’t. Oh, don't misunderstand me, it was hard all right. But it also was warm and full of life. It felt strangely… good. Considering the rest of him was so undoubtedly bad.

  With a sharp tug, he pulled me to my feet, and for a moment we stood very, very close to one another. I was standing again. And yet he didn’t let go of my hand, and I didn’t let go of his.

  Then I heard a triumphant cry from outside.

  ‘Oh my God! Simmons!’ Roughly, I pushed Mr Ambrose out of the way and sprang to the window. From behind me, I heard a hollow thud and an 'ouch', but I didn’t care. ‘He’s getting away!’

  Now let me tell you, a hoop skirt is not the right kind of attire for climbing through open windows. But I was about to try anyway when a hand closed around my arm. A hard, familiar hand.

  ‘Don’t,’ Mr Ambrose commanded. I looked back at him, confusion written all over my face.

  ‘What do you mean, don't? He’s getting away!’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘We have to catch him!’

  ‘I appreciate your concern for the pursuit of justice, Mr Linton,’ he said, as cool as a cucumber. ‘Even though you did not really have to be so keen on that pursuit as to push me on my backside. However, we don't want to go after Simmons just yet.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘We,’ continued Mr Ambrose unperturbed, taking his old but very efficient-looking pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket, ‘have to go after him in exactly one minute and twenty-seven seconds.’

  ‘Huh?’

  I stared at him, flabbergasted. He, for his part, completely ignored me. His eyes focused on the watch, he simply stood there, waiting. I got edgier and edgier with every passing second. What the heck was going on?

  ‘Mr Ambrose… shouldn’t we go?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But… ‘

  ‘No. Be quiet!’

  ‘Blast it, I won’t be quiet!’ I balled my hands into fists. This was insane. ‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find this thief, Sir! And now we’re just standing around here while he makes good his escape, and we are waiting for your one minute and twenty-seven seconds to pass!’

  ‘Actually,’ he said with another look at his watch, ‘it’s one minute and three seconds now.’

  ‘What the hell do I care? It makes no sense for us to just be standing around here!’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Linton. It makes a great deal of sense. Now be quiet and wait.’

  I was fuming. But what could I do? He was my master, not the other way around. I had to do what he said. That’s what I got paid for, even if it didn’t make any sense.

  With a snap Mr Ambrose shut his watch - and for the first time, I clearly saw the design on the lid. The sight struck me light a thunderbolt: it was a family crest. The same family crest I had seen on the pink letters from the mysterious lady.

  ‘All right. It’s time.’

  Gripping the windowsill, he vaulted out of the open window. In quick succession, Warren and the others followed him. I just stood there, trying to shake off my shock.

  What did this mean? Was Mr Ambrose really a nobleman? But why wouldn’t he use his… I shook my head. No. Not now. I didn’t have time for this now.

  Unfreezing, I started to follow the others through the window. It took me two or three attempts, and I probably broke half of the crinoline beneath my dress into pieces, but finally I managed to squeeze myself through the opening. With a crash of breaking hoops I landed on the neighbouring building.

  ‘Very graceful,’ Mr Ambrose commented from beside me. ‘Now hurry up. We have a thief to catch.’

  By the time I had managed to get to my feet, he was already striding along the roof towards the distant figure of Simmons. Striding, not running.

  Simmons, however, was running. Oh boy, how he was running. He already was off the flat roof of this building and onto the next, built right beside it. What was Mr Ambrose thinking? He still hadn’t sped up, and he would never catch up with the thief at this pace!

  But Mr Ambrose didn’t seem to mind. He strode along the roof, his cane in his hand, his six men flanking him, as though nothing in the world could escape him. Getting to my feet, I hurried after them as quickly as I could.

  But it would be no use. They weren’t going to hurry up, I could see that now, and I wasn’t in the best condition for a chase, wearing a broken hoop skirt and bruises in various places.

  With a cry of triumph, Simmons jumped onto the next building. There was some sort of structure on top - the entrance to a staircase that led down onto the street! He would do it! He would get away!

  Then the men appeared.

  They appeared as sudden as could be: from behind chimneys, gables and bay windows. They stood between Simmons and his escape. As soon as he saw them, he froze.

  I didn’t understand until I saw the giant turban-wearing figure right in the middle of the men, opposite Simmons. Karim. The pack of wolves had cornered their prey.

  Catching up to Mr Ambrose, I hissed in his ear: ‘You were planning this the whole time, weren’t you? You sent Karim up on the roof before we went in!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why did you leave me stewing like this? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  His face remained completely expressionless. ‘Hmm… I really can’t think why I did that. I mean, you have always been so open and honest with me.’

  ‘Oh ha, ha, ha.’

  He threw a sideways glance at me and my hoop skirt, which now would have to be more appropriately described as a hexagonal skirt with severe sartorial malformation. ‘By the way, Mr Linton, I like your new look. The dress looks exquisite on you. Those tears down the side and the broken whalebones - quite haute couture[26], I must say.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ I hissed. If looks could only kill, he would be already decapitated right now.

  Up ahead, Simmons had turned around and was chasing back over the roofs. Apparently he had thrown a look back earlier and seen nobody following and now expected the way to be clear. W
hen he caught sight of the eight of us approaching, he stopped dead.

  Mr Ambrose nodded to his six men. They stopped walking, just standing still and watching. He himself took a few more steps forward until only a few yards separated him from his prey.

  ‘Simmons,’ he said in a level tone. That was all. Just the name.

  The thief looked around him with wild eyes, searching for a way to escape. But there was none. Then he looked down into the street. The few people who were walking down there in the fog had not looked up and noticed anything yet. They were totally oblivious to the goings-on far above their heads.

  Simmons opened his mouth.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Mr Ambrose warned. And there it was - that cool tone of superiority in his voice that solely belonged to old aristocracy. How come I had never noticed it before?

  With great effort, Simmons swallowed. His eyes darted to Mr Ambrose, and away again.

  ‘D-do what?’

  ‘You were going to call out.’

  ‘Mr Ambrose, I never…’

  ‘Do you remember what I said would happen to you if I heard one more lie from your lips?’

  The thin blonde man paled and took a step backwards.

  ‘Mr Ambrose, Sir, please…’

  With a few bold steps, Mr Ambrose stood in front of the quivering Simmons. He looked cold, hard, and implacable - a lord or even a king sitting in judgement over his traitorous subject. I didn’t want to be in my predecessor’s shoes right now.

  ‘The file, Simmons. Where is it?’

  The intensity in his voice… again, curiosity welled up in me as to the contents of that damned file. Maybe, if I asked Mr Ambrose again…

  The other said nothing, but just continued to quiver where he stood.

  ‘Where is the file, Simmons?’

  No answer.

  ‘For the last time - where is the file?’ Mr Ambrose’s voice had gotten colder as he spoke and now sounded sharp and dangerous as an iceberg. ‘You will give it to me, or… or… or maybe you cannot.’ His dark eyes widened a little. ‘The money on your bed… You have already been paid for your theft! You haven’t got the file anymore. It is…’