Storm and Silence

  ‘I believe Karim has voiced my expectations very succinctly,’ Mr Ambrose said, crouching down so that his dark, sea-green eyes were on a level with Simmons’. ‘Talk.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ Simmons asked in a voice that sounded very tired and, yes, now very afraid again, too. Looking into Mr Ambrose’s eyes obviously made him feel there might yet be worse things in store for him. I knew the feeling.

  ‘When did all this start?’ Mr Ambrose asked.

  ‘All this, Sir? I’m afraid I do not…’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Simmons! With me, the stakes are far too high.’

  Simmons swallowed.

  ‘I know,’ his former employer continued in a cold voice, ‘that you must have been in the pay of one of my enemies for some time. They could not simply convince you to break into my private safe overnight. You are far too insecure and timid for that. So I repeat: when did this all start?’

  ‘S-six or seven weeks ago, Sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Mr Ambrose didn’t seem to be fazed by the information. But then, when did he ever seem fazed by anything? ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Th-they came to my house one evening. They told me that they had a proposition for me, that they would pay much better than that miser Ambro-’

  Simmons almost bit his tongue off, realizing a bit too late that it might not be very wise to relate the men’s exact words. I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from sniggering. Karim noticed and threw me a look that could have burned holes in solid metal.

  ‘Is that what they said?’ Mr Ambrose mused, his facial expression not changing a bit. ‘Well, and did they pay much better than that miser Ambrose?’

  ‘Um… well…’

  ‘Let’s assume from the suitcase of banknotes we found in your room that they did indeed. What did you do for them?’

  ‘I… I gave them information on your daily routine, your correspondence, on what files and papers passed through my hands, Sir. At least at first.’

  ‘And later?’

  ‘Later they wanted more, Sir. They wanted me to start taking things. When I refused, they started threatening they would reveal to you what I had so far done for them.’

  Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘Of course. You are stupid, Simmons, do you know that?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Simmons lowered his eyes, but Mr Ambrose stepped closer and with his penetrating dark gaze forced the man to look up again.

  ‘These things you took - what were they?’

  ‘All manner of things, Sir. Business letters, tables of cargo, personal letters…’

  The silence in the room was sudden, frigid, and cut Simmons' speech off more effectively than the loudest of screams.

  ‘You,’ whispered Mr Ambrose in a voice I had never heard him use before, ‘gave my personal correspondence to these men?’

  ‘Err… yes.’ There was a squeak of panic in Simmons' voice now. ‘But… that’s not that bad, is it? It’s not like you ever read it, Sir?’

  ‘Letters written by a woman?’ Mr Ambrose inquired, ignoring the question. ‘Letters in pink envelopes?’

  ‘Y-yes, Sir.’

  Silence again. Then Mr Ambrose stated, as cold as Antarctica itself: ‘You are lucky that Karim is the one holding the sabre right now.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I am sorry, Sir.’

  ‘You certainly will be.’

  Again Simmons tried to look down, and again Mr Ambrose held him with his dark gaze. ‘Now tell me. Tell me about the day you stole the file.’

  ‘Well… they told me to take it and… and I did.’

  ‘How many days did they have to work on you before you agreed?’

  ‘A w-week and a half. I didn’t want to take it. I knew it was important.’

  Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. Simmons winced as if he’d been hit with a whip.

  That reaction told me more about the contents of the file than any of my wild guesses.

  ‘Oh, you’re right about that,’ Mr Ambrose said in low voice. ‘It’s important all right. When and how did you leave the house the night of your theft?’

  ‘I… I was just finished with work, Sir. I knew you were still working on the Emerson papers in your office. I locked the door to the hallway, went into the safe and took the file.’

  ‘How did you know where to look for it? You had never handled that particular file.’

  ‘They told me it had to be in the safe, and told me the time it concerned. I knew your filing system, and so knew what to look for.’

  ‘I see. And your way out?’

  ‘That was easy. I am - was - your private secretary. Nobody challenged me on the way out. I had the file concealed under my waistcoat, tucked into my trousers.’

  ‘Trust!’ It was a vicious growl, a sound unlike any other I had ever heard escape from my employer’s throat. With surprise I saw that Mr Ambrose had both hands clenched into tight fists. ‘Of course, it would have to be trust that brought me down! Again! Ah, but we will change that. No more! Karim!’

  ‘Yes, Sahib?’

  The huge Mohammedan stepped forward.

  ‘Talk to Warren. Have him station one of his men at the exit to my offices’ inner sanctum at all times. From now on, we will search everybody who comes in and everybody who leaves. Understood?’

  ‘It shall be as you command, Sahib!’

  Karim left the room. Something clicked outside, and after only a few moments he was back in the cell. How…? He couldn’t possibly have run up the corridor and delivered the message that quickly, could he? Then I remembered: pneumatic tubes. Apparently, they didn’t only connect Mr Ambrose’s office and mine. They had to be running through the whole building!

  My employer, meanwhile, had his full attention focused on his captive again.

  ‘What did you do with the file next?’

  Simmons wet his lips. He seemed to be getting more and more nervous, which I didn’t understand. He had already admitted the worst - taking the file, right? So what was there about his story that could cause him greater anxiety?

  ‘I took it right away to a house in Penrose Street.’

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  It took me a few seconds to realize that Mr Ambrose had addressed me. He was still staring fixedly at Simmons, his back to me.

  ‘Um… yes, Sir?’

  ‘I haven’t been back in London long, and neither has Karim. We’ve spent years away in the colonies. What kind of street is Penrose Street?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Not a very reputable one, I believe, Sir. It’s one of the names that often comes up in police reports in the papers.’

  Simmons nodded eagerly and shuddered. ‘It was a dreadful place, full of coolies and other lowlife. I have no idea why they always wanted to meet there.’

  ‘I can think of only one explanation,’ Mr Ambrose mused. ‘In case you were caught or followed there, they wanted everybody to think it was low criminals with whom you were consorting. Which makes me think that the exact opposite was the case.’

  ‘They weren’t criminals?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘Oh, they were criminals all right. But certainly not low ones. In fact I suspect they were rather high up the food chain. Am I correct?’

  Simmons' shudder was more than enough answer.

  ‘The address?’

  ‘Number 12, Penrose Street, Sir.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘They gave me the money and said this was our last transaction. When I asked them why, they said that unlike the other times, this theft would not go unnoticed. They advised me to get out of the country right away. The expression on their faces… I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘Now we come to the interesting part.’ Mr Ambrose took out his cane and placed the end on Simmons’ chest. I remembered, as no doubt Simmons did, that there was a sword concealed inside it.

  ‘Who are those “they” you keep talking about? Who hired you to steal from me?’

  Simmons paled. r />
  ‘I d-don't know. They never gave me their names.’

  ‘But you do know one name, don't you? It’s useless to deny it, I can see it in your face.’

  ‘No, I don't! I swear, I don't know anything, Sir!’

  Mr Ambrose’s head whipped sideways to glare at Karim, and the Mohammedan retreated under the force of his cold stare. ‘What’s this? I thought you said this man was ready to confess everything!’

  Karim looked pretty uncomfortable. I tried not to smile, but it was kind of funny to see that mountain of a man shuffle around like a told-off school boy.

  ‘He was. I swear to you, Sahib, he was.’

  ‘Hmm…’

  Mr Ambrose turned to his captive again, scrutinizing him intently.

  ‘You’re scared. That’s why you won’t tell me. You’re scared of this man whose name you won’t speak.’

  ‘No, Sir! I swear, I don’t know anything! I don’t…’

  Mr Ambrose’s cane pressing against his throat cut off his words in a croak.

  ‘Simmons, let me put it this way: who are you more afraid of - this man or me?’

  The ex-secretary opened and closed his mouth like a stranded goldfish, but nothing came out, even when Mr Ambrose drew back his cane.

  ‘Interesting… apparently it’s a tie?’

  Simmons nodded.

  ‘Well, then think of this.’ Mr Ambrose leant forward and whispered, in a tone so calmly threatening it made the hair on the back of my neck and on some other more delicate place stand up: ‘I have you in my power. He does not.’

  Simmons slumped.

  ‘All right,’ he moaned. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. But only under one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You let me go and give me a train ticket out of town. If I tell you that name, I’ll need to get out of town, and my legs won’t be fast enough.’

  Mr Ambrose didn’t hesitate.

  ‘Granted.’ He nodded curtly. ‘The name?’

  ‘I… don't think I was supposed to hear it,’ Simmons said in a low voice, looking around as if he expected somebody to appear out of the air and strike him down. ‘They were talking one day when I arrived early, and I heard it.’

  ‘The name, Simmons!’

  ‘The train ticket! You have to swear that I’ll get the train ticket!’

  ‘I swear! The name, Simmons! Now!’

  Simmons looked around and wet his lips again. ‘It’s… It is…’

  Suddenly, he stopped and shook his head, gazing at Karim and me out of heavily lidded, tired and very frightened eyes.

  ‘No! I don't want anybody else to hear it.’

  What?

  Was he joking? I was on the tips of my toes here!

  ‘I don't want him to find out,’ Simmons murmured. ‘If he does…’

  Quickly he leant forward and whispered something in Mr Ambrose’s ear.

  Blast the man!

  I had been waiting breathlessly all this time for the solution of the mystery, and now I wasn’t going to hear it? I wanted to clobber Simmons over the head with something heavy, especially when I saw Mr Ambrose’s eyes lighting up in recognition.

  ‘Him!’ His hands were balled into fists again. ‘After all this time, him!’

  For a moment his eyes flickered to me - then they were back on Simmons.

  ‘Well,’ he said, almost as if speaking to himself, ‘at least now we know that the file is still in England. He wouldn’t dream of having to run and hide. He probably thinks himself untouchable.’ In a softer voice he added: ‘And who knows… He might be right.’

  Abruptly, he fixed his icy glare on Simmons. ‘You will not speak of this to anybody else, understand?’ The threat was there, hard and cold in his voice.

  Simmons’ lips twitched. There was no humour about it. ‘Certainly not, Sir. I value my throat just as it is, without any decorative cuts or slashes in it.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Mr Ambrose rose and strode towards the cell door.

  ‘What about my ticket?’ Simmons called after him. ‘When will I be released? I want to get out of here!’

  Mr Ambrose stopped. Slowly, he turned. When he was facing the cell again, both Simmons and I couldn’t help but gasp. He had a knife in his hand.

  ‘No! Please don't!’ Simmons croaked. ‘I’ve done everything you asked! Please…’

  ‘Be quiet and hold still, man!’ Mr Ambrose commanded. ‘I nearly forgot - there’s something I still need from you.’ With two quick steps he was back at Simmons' side and grabbed him by the hair. The knife flashed in the darkness as it shot towards Simmons' head.

  And then it was over, and Mr Ambrose’s hand came away holding a lock of blond hair he had severed from Simmons' head.

  ‘That was all.’

  I stared at him incredulously. For once, Karim seemed to share my feelings. He was looking at Mr Ambrose as if he’d grown three additional heads.

  Pointing to the blond lock in my employer’s hand, I hissed: ‘What’s that supposed to be? A memento?’

  ‘In a way.’

  He turned away again and said, sparing neither me nor the ghost-white Simmons another glance:

  ‘Somebody will be along to bring you a change of clothes soon. You can’t be seen coming out of my building in the filthy rags you’re in right now. The man will show you to the street and give you everything you need. Our business is concluded, Mr Simmons. Our paths will not cross again.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the cell. Karim and I followed him, the former grim and silent, the latter, that is to say my good self, twitchy and curious to the point of madness.

  ‘What did you do to him so that he’d spill the beans?’ I blurted out as soon as the metal door had closed behind us. ‘And who was it that ordered him to spy on you? And why should anybody want to spy on you anyway?’

  Mr Ambrose had already started up the corridor again. He didn’t turn around or, God forbid, stop to let me catch up.

  ‘Mind your own business, Mr Linton!’

  ‘I work for you, so your business is my business. What’s the point of someone spying on you?’

  ‘It is commonly referred to as “industrial espionage”,’ he called. Blast! That way of his to talk into the opposite direction of where you were standing was really annoying. ‘It means the stealing of secrets of one businessman by another businessman.’

  ‘What’s that good for?’

  ‘It’s not only nation states that seek to discover each other’s secrets. Secrets mean faster development and more money. Always remember: Knowledge is power is time is money!’

  I frowned. Something seemed to be wrong with that sentence. ‘I thought it’s “knowledge is power” and “time is money”.’

  ‘I combined the two to save time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I lapsed into silence again for a moment. But then I remembered.

  ‘Wait! That wasn’t my only question. I had others! You were trying to distract me.’

  ‘Oh yes. Karim’s innovative torture methods.’

  That hadn’t been the question at the top of my list, and I was about to tell him that actually I was more interested in the name of his mysterious enemy, but then… this was something I was pretty interested to hear, too.

  ‘Tell her, Karim,’ Mr Ambrose commanded.

  Good God! Did he just use a feminine pronoun to refer to me? Whoever is behind all this, hearing their name must really have gotten to him!

  ‘Tell her?’ The bearded mountain’s eyes bugged. ‘Sahib! You do not mean that!’

  ‘Have I ever given an order that I have not meant?’

  ‘No, Sahib, but…’

  ‘Have I ever fallen into the habit of joking or making other kinds of remarks that were not of a serious and literal nature?’

  ‘I must admit, Sahib, no, but in this case…’

  ‘Tell he- I mean, tell him!’

  Karim lowered his head.

  ‘As you wis
h, Sahib.’

  With a few longer strides of his massive legs he had caught up to me and was marching next to me. I looked sideways. His face was trying for impassivity, but I could see the wrath of seven hells burning under the surface.

  ‘After I failed in my attempt with the Chinese water torture,’ he said in a voice that was supposed to be detached, ‘it came to me in a divine stroke of inspiration that a less classical approach might be more effective. So I stripped Simmons of all his clothes, including his undergarments, and threatened that if he would not divulge his information, I would drug him, dress him in a pink French ballet dancer’s costume, and tie him to the fountain in Trafalgar Square for the crowd to discover in the morning.’

  There were a few seconds of silence.

  ‘He didn’t seem to believe me at first. That’s when I went out and bought a costume. I brought it back and showed it to him… and that broke him.’

  There were a few more seconds of silence.

  ‘A… ballet costume?’ I finally asked.

  ‘Yes. Pink, with a short silk skirt and golden lace trimmings.’

  ‘I see.’

  Cautiously, I looked sideways again and could see Karim’s hand at his belt, gripping the hilt of his scimitar. His eyes found mine. ‘Come on,’ they seemed to say. ‘Laugh. Come on. I’m the one with the huge sabre. Laugh, and we'll see if you’re still laughing when I have separated your head from your body.’

  ‘Um… a very interesting method indeed,’ I managed. I was fighting an epic battle to keep a straight face. Let me tell you, Waterloo was nothing to it. I might have lost it after all, just like Napoleon, the poor chap, if a more serious thought had not invaded my mind, providing much needed reinforcements.

  ‘You distracted me!’ I exclaimed. ‘Again!’

  ‘I?’ Karim’s stare changed from threatening abrupt death to confusion. ‘I didn’t…’

  ‘Not you! You!’ I pointed at Mr Ambrose. He couldn’t see it though, because he was still walking briskly ahead of us, his back to me.

  ‘You’ve done it twice now! I want my first question answered! I want to know that name! Who was spying on you, damn you?’