The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  But there was no one checking plates, as far as he could see. Three cars followed him up the driveway, and Merlyn directed him to an empty spot in a line of parked cars.

  “Popular party,” he said.

  “Yeah, people come from London, Cambridge, all over.”

  “How the hell does he keep it so quiet?”

  “It makes sense if you think about it,” she said. “If you know about the parties, it’s because you come. And if you come, you don’t want some reporter or clown with a camera snapping pictures of you.”

  “I guess that much is a relief,” Hugo said, looking down at his leather-clad legs. “Do we leave our coats here?”

  “No, silly, they’ll have someone checking them at the entrance.”

  “Which is where they do the eighty percent check, I assume.”

  “Right. You’re fine, you’re a hundred percent, you get a gold star.”

  “Not a hundred percent,” Hugo muttered. “Just for the record.”

  “Underwear? Not a problem in my case.”

  “I was thinking about my socks,” he said. “But thanks for the info. And stop thinking about my underwear—I’m married.”

  “Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes. “To a chick in Dallas.”

  They crossed the gravel driveway and went up the stone stairs to the main entrance where a woman in a black PVC catsuit stood with a clipboard.

  “MHS from Putney,” Merlyn told her. “And guest.”

  “Handsome guest,” the woman purred. “Both eighty percent? Coats over there.” She pointed over her shoulder with her pen, eyes still on Hugo.

  As they approached the coat check, Hugo felt a flutter in his stomach. He’d still not seen Merlyn’s outfit and he’d do his best not to look, and then to act nonchalant when he did look. She’d slipped her long coat from her shoulders and handed it to a young man sporting what looked like rubber shorts. Merlyn wore a black leather bra, plain and well-fitting, and a matching skirt that clung to her body and ended just, and only just, below the curve of her bottom. A pair of plain black knee boots finished the look, and Hugo was relieved not to see stilettos, but for no reason he’d be able to articulate.

  His covert admiration of Merlyn ended when the young man moved to help Hugo off with his coat, the American suddenly aware of his own attire and how ridiculous it felt. He shot a look at Merlyn and saw her fighting a smile. He frowned at her and then realized that if he was going to tussle with his ego all night, he was fighting a losing battle. He changed his scowl to a sheepish grin and shrugged. After all, undercover is undercover, he thought. No matter the cover.

  “Along the corridor and down the stairs,” the young man was saying, camping it up with a lisp and wave of the hand. “I think I’ve seen you before, young lady. You know the way.”

  “Sure do. And it’s Merlyn,” she smiled. “Remember the name because you’ll see me again. See us again, maybe.” Without waiting for a response, she took Hugo’s hand and dragged him through a dark archway and along a short passage. Their feet rang on the red tile floor, the sound captured and thrown back at them by the narrow and low-ceilinged hallway. Ahead, the floor disappeared down a staircase, and the heavy beat of music rolled up to meet them. Hugo realized he was still holding Merlyn’s hand, but he didn’t let go. Undercover, he reminded himself.

  They descended the stairs slowly, the music growing louder and louder, an orange glow lighting their way and guiding them into what Merlyn called the “Cellar.” Another stone arch marked its entrance, and once inside Hugo moved to one side to look around. To his left, a long bar stretched the length of the room, which was at least a thousand feet square. To his right, and opposite the bar, a series of arches led into another space that Merlyn had warned him would be set aside for playing, watched over by DMs, or Dungeon Masters, who made sure everyone played safely. He’d need a drink before going in there, he suspected, though he was definitely curious. Merlyn had said it wouldn’t get busy in the play space until later, once people had socialized and made connections, and right now he could see a few people wandering through to have a look at the area, a good time to sneak a peek at the equipment before getting to work, he thought.

  But he couldn’t work yet. Despite the row of cars out front, there were not more than twenty people in the Cellar, and he assumed many of the party-goers were staying overnight in the rooms upstairs, still getting ready. He looked closely at those already downstairs, interested in the profile, and even more interested when he didn’t see one. They were a good mix of ages, a few more men than women, and all abiding by the leather rule, though there seemed to be a PVC and a rubber exception. One older man wore an ankle-length leather coat. Hugo nodded in appreciation. Wish I’d thought of that.

  He turned as a young couple entered the room beside him, the man in immaculate evening dress, a black tuxedo and bow tie, crisply pressed pants and shoes that reflected the little light that shone in the room. His date was a beautiful brunette in a flowing, strapless red dress that exposed milky-white cleavage. Her throat was adorned by a crimson velvet collar, emphasizing the whiteness of her skin and complimenting her thick, bloodred lips. Her black-lined eyes lingered on Hugo, then drifted to Merlyn, and the two women exchanged muted smiles. The young couple swept into the room and the man steered her toward the bar, his left hand on the small of her back.

  “Beautiful dress,” Merlyn murmured to Hugo.

  “You mind telling me why they’re not wearing leather?”

  “Sure.” A mischievous smile crossed Merlyn’s face. “You don’t have to wear leather if you wear a tux. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  Hugo put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “No. You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Oh, sorry.” She shrugged and looked away. “I thought I had. Must have slipped my mind.”

  No doubt, Hugo thought, but smiled to himself in the dark. “You want a drink?” he asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Hugo took a bottle of water from the bartender as Merlyn took a gulp from her gin and tonic. He nodded toward the play area. “Let’s take a look,” he said.

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. I’m looking for exits, or other doorways. I’m not seeing another way upstairs from here.”

  They walked through one of the arches and stopped. There looked to be four distinct areas, each with a different piece of equipment. Merlyn saw him looking.

  “Want some explanations?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Don’t be silly, everything that goes on is between adults and is fully consensual. So, over there.” She pointed to the area on the far right, which was dominated by a large wooden cross in the shape of an X. “That’s a Saint Andrew’s Cross. It’s cool because there are wrist and ankle straps on both sides so two people can use it at once.”

  “Very cool,” Hugo agreed politely.

  “No, the cool thing is the platform it sits on. It revolves, which makes for a great show.”

  “I bet.”

  “Next to that, a set of stocks, which you probably recognize.”

  “Where are the rotten tomatoes to throw?” Hugo asked.

  “Very funny. Now, those two things beside the stocks are sawhorses, they’ll get plenty of use. And last of all, a Houdini’s box.”

  “All looks a little medieval, if you ask me.”

  She nudged him in the ribs. “That’s the point.”

  They turned as the music went up a few notches. A stream of people had come into the bar in the last few minutes, and the place had started to fill up. Most were in leather, and there was a lot of bare skin on display, but setting and dress aside, it looked like any other party. People held glasses of wine, beer, and mixed drinks and leaned in to hear each other, laughing at jokes and complimenting each other’s outfits. A couple of people held leashes that were attached to collars around their partners’ necks, but even these people smiled and laughed as if they were at their local pub or at
a friend’s for drinks.

  “I need a refill,” Merlyn said. “Can we?”

  Hugo nodded, but before turning away he quickly scanned the play area again, looking for doors. He saw one on the far-left wall and one on the right. Both had exit signs above them, but there was no way to tell whether they led straight outside or to another part of the building. It didn’t look like they’d set off any alarms if opened, which was a relief.

  They nodded and smiled their way to the bar and waited patiently as the topless bartenders wriggled and flirted with their customers, making their way to Hugo’s twenty-pound note in their own sweet time. Hugo didn’t mind the delay; he was worried that once she had a drink in her hand, Merlyn would want to meet people.

  He felt pressure on his left arm and turned to see the brunette in the red dress.

  “Hi, mind if I squeeze in next to you?” she asked, already there.

  “No, not at all.” He suddenly felt out of his depth, like a high school senior at his prom, wearing his first tuxedo and suddenly face-to-face with the prettiest cheerleader in the school. Beside him, Merlyn nudged him with an elbow, but when he glanced over, she was smiling into her drink. Hugo was sure that she knew exactly how he felt and was enjoying it.

  “I’m Annabelle,” the woman in the red dress was saying.

  “Hugo,” he said, automatically extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.” Are we supposed to shake hands? Use our real names? But she took his hand and smiled.

  “You’re American?”

  “Yes.”

  “Neat. Dom, sub, or switch?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Merlyn leaned around him and grinned at Annabelle. “He’s vanilla. Humoring me.”

  “I see.” Annabelle arched a delicate eyebrow, then leaned in toward Merlyn, her voice conspiratorial. “Think we could convert him?”

  They laughed and Hugo smiled along with them, the tolerant outsider being tolerated.

  Hugo noticed him almost immediately, the worried look on Braxton’s face sending alarm bells ringing in Hugo’s mind. The man was dressed in a tuxedo that was too small, his fat little head popping out of a shirt collar that squeezed his neck like a noose. The man waved a hand at the female bartender to turn the music down as he went between groups and couples, speaking a few words to each, but not words of welcome, Hugo was sure.

  He turned to Merlyn. “The car. He’s recognized the car from when we were here the other night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t, but when I’m on someone else’s property under false pretenses, I assume the worst. Plus, there’s a downside to having diplomatic plates.”

  “People remember them,” Merlyn said.

  “Right.”

  “You think he’s asking people if it’s their car?”

  “That’s my guess.” He looked toward the play space. “I need to get poking around. Once I get upstairs, where is his office?”

  “At the west end of the building. His apartment is that end of the house, too.”

  “OK, better that you’re not seen with me from here on. I’ll meet you on the front steps in twenty minutes, OK?”

  “Let me come with you.”

  “No, you’ve been here before and can’t play dumb, I can.”

  “Oh yeah, the stupid American,” she grinned. “Twenty minutes.”

  He left Merlyn in the company of Annabelle and her boyfriend, Jensen, and started toward the play space, which was now in full operation. He stopped under an archway to decide on which door to take. To his right, the exit was already open and he could see people coming and going through it, pulling out packets of cigarettes as they headed outside, popping in gum as they came in. The door to the left, by contrast, remained closed. That’s mine, he thought.

  On his way to the door, he couldn’t help but take in the scenes unfolding in front of him. The Saint Andrew’s Cross was occupied by a muscular young man, entirely naked, and a ring of people stood watching as a svelte woman in bright-red leather adjusted wrist and ankle straps. It was as if they were watching the unveiling of a painting, or admiring a sculpture, he thought. In front of him, an elderly man helped his wife onto what Merlyn had called a sawhorse. A paddle hung from a strap on his wrist, and as Hugo watched, he gave her a playful swat to hurry her into position.

  Hugo smiled and angled left toward the door. When he got there, he paused to check for curious eyes and, seeing none, pushed open the door and slipped out of the Cellar.

  He found himself in a small alcove. The door to the outside was on his right, and to his left was a set of stone steps—the fire escape, he assumed. He trotted up the stairs, feet scuffing against the stone, his ears pricked for sound. He went up to the first landing and paused by the door, which bore a sign that read: “Private Residence. Keep Out.” He put his ear to the door. All was quiet, so he pressed the metal bar and opened it. This was Nicholas Braxton’s side of the house, according to Merlyn, and while the fat little man himself was in the Cellar, friends, family, or guests could still be here.

  Hugo stood still for a moment, watching, listening. A hallway extended to his left, opening into what looked like a living room, and to his right, where it ended in large double doors. Hugo guessed the doors opened into the more public area of the house, which meant they could be his escape route into safer territory, even to the front door.

  He moved to his left, walking on the rug that ran down the center of the wooden floor. A half-open door to his right made him pause, but it was dark as well as quiet. He poked his head in and waited for his eyes to adjust. Beginner’s luck, Hugo thought, as he found himself looking into Braxton’s study. If there was going to be a list of the hall’s members, or a stack of waivers, this is where they’d be.

  And something was bothering him. He had no real reason to think Pendrith was connected to this place, but coincidences always made him hesitate. Sure, it could be chance that Pendrith had inserted himself into this investigation without knowing any of the players, but his interest in Harper had seemed . . . unusual. And here Hugo was, in a secretive mansion in the very territory Pendrith claimed to know so well. And if Pendrith was indeed aboveboard and not hiding anything, how come he’d disappeared in a puff of smoke? Hugo wondered if an answer to one of those questions, or at least the hint of an answer, lay filed away in this room.

  What of Walton? Had he decided on his story and left for London? Somehow Hugo didn’t think so, though again he couldn’t come up with any reason why Walton should be up to no good. A gut instinct, Hugo thought, no more and no less. And he never dismissed those instincts entirely, not until he was sure they were leading him astray.

  He closed the door behind him before flicking on the overhead light. Tall filing cabinets flanked the door, while directly opposite was an impressive wooden desk. Heavy green curtains covered a bank of windows to his right, and in the far corner, behind the desk and opposite the windows, a shoulder-high safe squatted in the corner.

  He ignored the safe, knowing he didn’t have time to mess with it and almost certainly didn’t have the skill to open it. An image of a good friend, one he’d not seen in a while, in far too long, popped into his head; Tom Green, his roommate at the FBI Academy and close friend ever after, would be able to get into the safe, one way or another. Hugo rounded the desk and pulled open drawers, rifling through papers but not seeing anything resembling a member list. He turned his attention to the filing cabinets, starting at the top and working his way down. He found copies of bills and old legal documents, brochures for real estate in London and others for the kind of equipment Hugo had seen in the Cellar.

  But no list of names.

  Hugo stood by the door, his hand on the light switch, when he spotted a leather-bound ledger sitting on top of the safe, near the back edge. He went over and opened it, smiling to himself when he saw a long list of initials.

  What was it Merlyn had said when they signed in? MHS from Putney. The list was three pages long and written in
the same format as Merlyn’s self-description to Cat Woman at the door. Just a column of initials, followed by a list of towns. He checked to make sure he was looking at the right thing by locating Merlyn’s initials. A thought occurred and he looked for Harry Walton’s initials, knowing that the reporter came from the Hertfordshire area. But no HW on the list. He then scoured it for Pendrith.

  There it was, surely. GSP. Chelsea/Paris.

  Paris? Hugo knew Pendrith lived in Chelsea, he’d said so during the brief car ride with Harper. But Paris? No surprise that he had the money to buy a place there—wealth being another indication that maybe this GSP was indeed Graham Stopford-Pendrith. No wonder he’d inserted himself into this investigation, Hugo thought. He remembered the MP’s obvious sincerity, the gentleness in his voice when he expressed his sympathy to Harper for his wife’s death. They knew each other.

  He turned as the door to the study opened behind him. The doorway was filled by a bald and very muscular man in a tight, black T-shirt and jeans, about an inch shorter than Hugo but forty pounds of solid muscle heavier. Not dressed for the party, Hugo noted. Dressed like security, with a clipboard in his hand.

  “Who are you?” the man said.

  “Michael Sudduth,” Hugo lied, intentionally disguising his accent.

  Instinctively the man looked down at the clipboard, and Hugo knew he’d guessed right about it being the guest list. “Middle name, and where from, please.”

  “Harry, from Putney.”

  The man grunted and looked up, apparently satisfied with the MHS Putney that Hugo knew was on the list. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Looking for something,” Hugo said. “But I found it, thanks.” He started toward the doorway but the man didn’t budge.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You American?”

  “Texan, actually. You?”

  “Funny man, eh?”

  Hugo shrugged and smiled. “I try. After all, look at what I’m wearing.”