The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “Stay where you are pal, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “That makes two of us,” said Hugo. “But I should be getting back to the party.”

  The smile on Hugo’s face disappeared as the man reached behind his back and tugged at something in his waistband. The man pulled out a walkie-talkie, his eyes never leaving Hugo. “I got him. Mr. B’s study.” A crackle of noise and the words “Hold him there” came through. The man nodded to no one and tucked the walkie-talkie away. He stood in the doorway like a sentry, arms crossed over his chest, feet planted wide apart like the roots of an old elm tree anchoring him to the ground.

  “Here’s the thing,” Hugo said. “I have no beef with you, your boss, or what you guys get up to here. None at all. But I’m looking for someone who has gone missing, and I’m responsible for his safety.” Not a literal truth, but Hugo did feel that he should have foreseen or somehow prevented Pendrith’s disappearance.

  “You can tell it to the boss.”

  “Yeah, except I don’t have time for that.”

  “Oh?” A sardonic smile touched the man’s lips. “Gonna throw yourself out a window? I wouldn’t bother, they’re reinforced glass.”

  “That’s OK,” Hugo said, walking to within two feet of the man. “I think I’ll play it conventional.” Hugo wafted his left hand in the air, a simple but effective distraction that gave him the split second he needed to drive his first and second knuckles into the man’s sternum. Size didn’t matter when you couldn’t breathe, a lesson Hugo had learned for himself in the past.

  As the bald man doubled over, gasping for air, Hugo gave him a follow up blow to his side, up under his ribs, and the man fell like a log onto the floor. Hugo stepped around him and looked through the doorway. He assumed the reinforcements would come charging through the main door to Braxton’s apartment, so he headed back the way he’d come, trotting along the hallway and barging through the fire door into the stairwell.

  He slipped back into the play area and let the beat and dark of the Cellar wrap a protective shield around him, turning him into just another anonymous set of initials in a sea of leather bodies. He drifted through the room, which had filled considerably in the ten minutes he’d been upstairs, looking for Merlyn. He found her chatting with the handsome Jensen, who was tightening a heavy strap around the Annabelle’s waist as she lay facedown on one of the sawhorses.

  “Hi,” Annabelle said, looking back over her shoulder. “Come to play?”

  Hugo smiled but didn’t know what to say, unsure exactly which game was afoot. He took Merlyn by the arm and spoke into her ear.

  “I found something. Not much but something. Trouble is, they found me, so I have to split.”

  “I’m coming too,” she said.

  “Bad idea. They don’t know you’re with me, so you’re safe to stay here.”

  She looked down at Annabelle and then back to Hugo. “Tempting, but no. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you that yet,” said Hugo. He didn’t have time to argue, so he waved a hand at their new friends and started for the exit. Jensen called out to them, but his voice was lost in the rising tide of music that swept them toward the door.

  “What about our coats?” Merlyn asked.

  “We’ll have to come back for them.” He patted his vest. “I’m finally glad for all these pockets and zippers.”

  “Keys and wallet?”

  “Exactly.” Once outside, Hugo put his arm around Merlyn. “Two lovers out for some fresh air.”

  “A little chilly for that, isn’t it?”

  She was right. Whatever warmth had been generated by the day had fled into the night, leaving the air with a vindictive chill that bit at Hugo’s bare arms.

  As they approached the row of cars, Hugo saw a man standing by the passenger side of his Cadillac, in much the same arms-crossed position the bald man had adopted while blocking Hugo’s exit from Braxton’s study.

  “Time to make yourself useful,” Hugo said.

  “How so?”

  “Simple. Act as if you’re getting into the car next to mine. Make like you dropped the keys and can’t reach them under the car. Show some flesh if you want.”

  “Hugo, as if!”

  “Yeah, I know. Anyway, once he’s helping you look I’ll hop into my car and drive slowly enough that he’ll run after me. You head the other way, I’ll just loop around and pick you up.”

  “You think he’ll be that stupid?”

  “No, it’s psychology. Everything he does will be based on instinct, and if we keep changing the stimulus, he won’t have time to figure out he’s being played.” He pulled out his keys and took off the one for the Cadillac. “Wave these at him as you approach. And if you can just pretend to lose them, I’d be grateful.”

  Merlyn took the keys and smiled up at him. “You giving me the keys to your apartment, mister?”

  Hugo wagged a finger. “Married, remember.”

  Merlyn kept smiling, but shrugged as she walked toward the lone guard. Hugo moved into the row of cars to stay out of sight, working his way to the Cadillac, keeping his head down. As he got close, he heard Merlyn’s voice and the low, unintelligible response of the guard. Hugo dropped to one knee and peered under the two cars between him and them. He saw Merlyn’s shins and the soles of a man’s shoes. He got silently to his feet and moved past the remaining cars to his, putting the key in the lock as quietly as he could. He couldn’t tell whether the man heard the loud click, but he didn’t wait to find out. He pulled himself behind the steering wheel and started the engine, surging out of his parking spot into the driveway, heading across the front of the house.

  He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the silhouette of a man closing in on the rear of the Cadillac. Hugo touched the gas pedal and the man shrank away, so he slowed again, too much, and the man caught up and slammed his fists against the rear window. Good enough, Hugo thought, swinging the car off the driveway into a sharp U-turn on the strip of lawn fronting the house, spinning the wheels on the grass and leaving his chaser standing in the light of the security lamps, flat-footed and no doubt furious.

  Hugo gunned the engine as four people tumbled down the stone steps of the house’s main entrance, fanning out on the gravel drive, threatening to block his path to freedom and, more importantly, to Merlyn. He flicked his lights to bright, making the foursome think he’d turned toward them, delaying them for the second it took to get the lead on them and get to the curve in the driveway before they could. In moments he was past them, barreling toward the main gate, and ahead he saw a slim figure jogging along the grass, waving a hand. He pulled past her and then hit the brakes, and in a second she was beside him, breathing hard, smiling, her first high-octane experience of connivance and deceit in the furtherance of their mission.

  “That was fun,” she said, breathless and grinning. She reached for her seatbelt as they passed through the gates and onto the little road to Baldock. “Where to now?”

  “London for a quick stop, and then Paris. First thing in the morning.”

  “Paris?” She sat back and Hugo recognized the excitement in her voice. “Now that’s cool. We flying or taking the train?”

  “The train,” he said. “And it’s not ‘we.’”

  “What do you mean?” She turned in her seat to glare at him.

  “I’m going by myself, I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, no. No way. I took a lot of risks getting you in tonight and you’re not dumping me now. I’ve played along every step of the way and I deserve to see this thing through.” She was still glaring at him. “So let’s just make our quick stop in London and get going. I’ll call for tickets, just to show that I can still play my part.”

  “This isn’t a game, Merlyn.” He glanced over and saw anger in her eyes. “I’m sorry, but dropping you off is the quick stop in London.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  At seven the next morning, Hugo arrived at the refurbished Saint Pancras statio
n. Newly open for business, the Victorian Gothic building had replaced Waterloo as the departure point for trains heading out of London to the English Channel and on to France.

  He set up on the small patio outside Carluccio’s Caffé with some panettone, a plate of parma ham, and an oversized latte. He watched the crowds ebb and flow before him, tides of scurrying feet that flooded the platform when a train arrived, then receded as another departed. He was amused by the range and easy predictability of expressions; the drawn faces of suitcase-bearing travelers, tired but intent on reaching their destination, flashing dirty looks as their rapid steps were impeded by wide-eyed youngsters sporting backpacks. The calm and determined elderly couples in town to shop, or perhaps for a medical appointment, bound to each other with interlocked arms, drifting through the terminal when the current took them, standing patiently to one side when it went the wrong way. The most worried faces, harried perhaps, belonged to the parents and their children who clung to one another as if afraid the tide would sweep the little ones onto the tracks or under the wheels of the lumbering luggage carts, those whales of the station, propelled by the tired but cheerful porters who leaned as they pushed, wending their way through the squalls of travelers with the plodding precision of experienced tugboat captains.

  As he sipped his coffee, Hugo half expected to see Merlyn appear in front of him, her almond eyes laughing at him for thinking he could get away with making the trip alone. She’d been unhappy the whole way down from Hertfordshire to London, and they’d driven in almost total silence. After dropping her off, Hugo had called the office and sent two men to Pendrith’s address in Chelsea, getting a phone call twenty minutes later to tell him what he expected: no one home, and no sign anyone had been home. A quick look through his mail slot at the mail piled inside his door, using a handheld snake camera, had told them that.

  So maybe, just maybe, the old man was in Paris.

  Hugo left his table and checked in at the Eurostar terminal thirty minutes before the train’s departure time, picking up a paperback from an open kiosk en route. Not happy with his reading choices, he was pleased to get to his seat and find an almost-new copy of the Bookdealer, the trade journal for the book trade. A knowledgeable, if infrequent, collector of old books, Hugo sank into the thin pages of the magazine with the same delight his wife took in her shopping catalogues, the long articles and old-style ads from antiquarian dealers beckoning him into a world that was familiar and safe.

  But Christine was on his mind, had been since they’d spoken a few hours earlier, just briefly, as he waited outside the embassy grounds for a taxi. She’d been busy and sounded happy, doing more talking than listening, and Hugo knew without asking that these were signs she had no immediate plans to return to London.

  She was and always had been, without doubt, his most interesting study. Serial killers, psychopaths, and arsonists had always presented a challenge, held a fascination for him. But while their specific acts were different, they all had strings of similarity that tied them together, familiar tales of neglect as babies, abuse as children, abandonment as teens.

  Christine, on the other hand, presented a multitude of contradictions that he’d yet to figure out, but that had initially attracted him to her. She’d been the Dallas socialite with a soft spot for the underprivileged, her charity work coming from the heart, not for show. She’d traveled, too, shown an interest in the world and perhaps from that she possessed a confidence in her place in it that was rare among her spoiled friends. Ultimately, Hugo knew that her place was in Dallas, near her family, her work, those same friends. She loved shopping and so should love London and Paris, at least that was the logic he applied to the situation, and one that he used to appeal to her. But logic and Christine were occasional friends, meeting up when the circumstances were right, not seeking each other out at the behest of others, including Hugo. She enjoyed London only a little, Paris even less.

  He tried to keep his mind on the magazine, scanning the reviews and an article about French poet Arthur Rimbaud and his love affair with Paul Verlaine, a brief relationship fueled by passion, absinthe, and hashish. But Hugo couldn’t entirely escape the present, his eyes wandering to the platform outside his window, the soft hiss of the doors whispered reminders that Pendrith and Walton were out there somewhere, perhaps watching him or perhaps being watched by someone else, by some faceless person responsible for a growing list of dead and disappeared.

  The voice of the station announcer echoed from the platform, giving his rendition of the traditional “All aboard!” Hugo looked over his shoulder as he heard chatter behind him and saw a handsome couple in their fifties checking their tickets for seat numbers.

  All well in their world, he thought, suddenly conscious of where he was going, and why. With no sign of Pendrith or Walton, despite police inquiries into both men, that alarm bell ringing in the back of his mind had grown only louder. His chest tightened with a sudden and powerful unease. Maybe he should have let Merlyn come. What if she, for some reason he couldn’t yet fathom, was the next person in this bizarre case to disappear without a trace?

  Hugo didn’t notice when the train began to move out of the station, so smooth, like the caress of a mother’s hand on her child’s sleeping brow, and he was momentarily disoriented by what he thought was movement on the platform.

  Almost immediately, though, he felt the familiar nudge and pull as the train picked up speed, heading north out of the station before making a firm right-hand turn past the towering and unsightly gasometers behind the King’s Cross rail station, and then burrowing into a covered bridge that funneled the sleek train into the ground, lights flickering past the dark windows.

  Hugo blinked at the sudden return to the surface, feeling like a mole, or better yet a long worm, appearing out of the earth into daylight. A disappointed worm, he thought, as the dirty brick and stone buildings of east London passed by, the view full of warehouses and run-down housing estates, depressing and drab until he spied the magnificent Queen Elizabeth II suspension bridge, which bore the M25 motorway, the road encircling the city, across the River Thames. The train dipped down, though, not up, burrowing again to get them under the Thames, bursting back out the other side into the countryside, trees and hedges now a blur and the motorway traffic beside them sluggish, unhurried.

  As the train rocketed south through rural Kent, Hugo felt himself relax into his seat, the greens and browns of the countryside massaging his mood, the villages tucked into the chalky hills appearing and disappearing like reassuring mirages in the desert, but offering him real, not imagined, comfort.

  Feeling better, Hugo set about putting his travel time to good purpose. He’d already phoned Bart Denum, his subordinate at the embassy, and given him some research. He wanted to know more about Ginny Ferro’s life and also get some background on Pendrith and Walton. In his experience, people’s actions were rooted in the past, their motives connected to events they might not even remember. Even though he was bemused by most of what was happening, Hugo thought maybe he could reach back in time and grasp one of those roots and grope his way to some solid answers.

  While he waited for Bart’s return call, Hugo reached into his overnight bag for a pen and paper. If he’d had the resources, he would have created a literal jigsaw of the puzzle that had him stumped, squares of paper he could spread out and connect physically to build a picture of what was happening. And, more importantly, why it was happening. But for now, a few notes would have to do. The words he wrote were, for the most part, unimportant, acting as reminders of the major issues and questions, and also as triggers for his thought process. As he began, it struck him forcefully that the missing pieces were different for each case.

  He began with Ginny Ferro. She was dead, but it was not clear why. Suicide seemed unlikely, but possible. Accident seemed equally unlikely, yet possible. And if it wasn’t either of those, he was left with murder.

  But who would kill Ginny Ferro? And why?

  Hugo s
kipped to Harper’s own death in the churchyard. Certainly, it could have been self-inflicted. Hugo had seen many suicides that looked just like that. And given the movie-star couple’s penchant for cemeteries, the place seemed ideal. But it didn’t feel right to Hugo, even though he couldn’t say exactly why.

  And where the hell were Pendrith and Walton?

  Hugo tapped his notebook in frustration, irritated that he was unable to make the right connections, really make any at all. He was interrupted by his phone, the number coming up as the embassy. He silently hoped it wasn’t Ambassador Cooper.

  “Hugo, it’s Bart.”

  “Hey, Bart, get some sleep?”

  “Not much, you?”

  “None. So what did you find?”

  “You’re not going to like it, I’m afraid.”

  “Try me.”

  “First you should know that the English cops are trying to cut you out of the loop. They found something and apparently haven’t told you.”

  “I haven’t heard from them, so you’re probably right.” Hugo instinctively leaned back as the train flew into a tunnel with a loud whump. “I think we hit the English Channel, so I’ll call when we get to France in about twenty minutes.”

  “OK, but before you go, you might want to know what they found.”

  “You’re being a tease, Bart. What is it?”

  “Not just what, but who. They found that reporter’s car with a body in it.”

  “Whose body? Harry Walton’s?” When he got no response he looked at his phone. The signal had gone. He snapped it shut with a silent curse and settled back for a tortuous twenty minutes. His scribbled notes sat on the table in front of him like an unfinished crossword, a crossword where even the clues were starting to be withheld.

  The train hit France at a hundred miles an hour, climbing into the lap of the French countryside only to accelerate onto the specially designed high-speed rail line, keeping the train tight to the contours of the land, sweeping up over rises and swooping down through its shallow valleys.