The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  Hugo got Bart back on the line.

  “Sorry, boss, wasn’t meaning to play games with you; I figured they’d have routers on the train and we’d be able to talk.”

  “No problem. So tell me about Walton. I assume it was him in the car?”

  “They think so. He’d been burned to a crisp, so they’ll be running dental matches, maybe a DNA check if they can. But the body size was right.”

  “Any other signs of injury?”

  “Like bullet wounds?”

  “Anything.”

  “Not that I know of.” Bart hesitated. “Boss, what exactly is going on?”

  “I wish I knew. Too many people disappearing and dying, I can tell you that much. Where was Walton’s car found?”

  “In a church parking lot, in Wakefield.”

  “A church?”

  “Well, not exactly a church. They were buildings owned by the Church of England.”

  “But not an actual church or graveyard?”

  “No. I looked at some photos, knowing about your little incident in the country, and you wouldn’t even know they were owned by the church. Sorry.”

  “OK, thanks,” said Hugo. “Let me know as soon as they confirm the ID.”

  “Will do.”

  “And not that it matters, probably, but did you find much about Walton?”

  “A little. Let me get my notes here. You writing this down, or want me to send these to you?”

  “I’ll make notes, so just run through it for me.”

  “OK. His father was a soldier in the first part of World War Two, sent home when he lost a leg. Mother a housewife who died when he was five. He had no siblings, grew up with his father, religious about going to church. And his dad had an interesting job after the army thing. He was an executioner, how about that?”

  “Delightful,” said Hugo. “A grim reaper with a wooden leg.”

  “Right. Seeing that got me reading about the process, and apparently they had two at every execution, and half a dozen on the Home Office books. They’d call them up when they had a neck to stretch.”

  “Delightful, as I said. And Harry Walton, what was his career path?”

  “Started work on the Hitchin Gazette, stayed there a few years before moving up to London to work shifts at the tabloids. Kept a roof over his head by working at some of the tourist attractions like Madame Tussauds, where there’s a wax figure of his dad, the last executioner, and the Tower of London. A whole year at Tussauds, actually, but he’s been freelancing for a few years.”

  “No dirt or criminal history?”

  “Nope, at least not as such. Only one odd thing, maybe not even that odd. Lucky, I guess you’d call it. He was a lottery winner a couple years back, which means he doesn’t have to work much. Must have taken some time off after the win because he wasn’t writing. Quit for about a year, best I can tell.”

  “Can’t blame him for that. And Pendrith?”

  “Hard to find much on him, I guess because of his background. Most of his official stuff is under wraps, but from regular web searches I didn’t see anything of interest. Not that I know what I’m looking for.”

  “Me neither, Bart, I’m sorry. What are his major issues?”

  “Politically? Well, he’s big into law and order. But then, who isn’t? Before he was elected, he was all about reinstating capital punishment but apparently read a bunch of studies and converted, said it was a waste of money and barbaric. Some thought it was a cynical switch of opinion to get elected, some thought it was real. I guess the electorate thought it was real and he’s stuck with the new view ever since, always voting against reinstatement. Let’s see, he also favored the recent wars in the Middle East, but he doesn’t like how much they cost. If I had to guess, I’d say budget issues were his next main concern. Tight bastard.”

  “Not a bad trait for a politician,” smiled Hugo. “Anything else?”

  “Not on him. But I spoke to your buddy Upton, he called for you. On the down low, it seemed like. Anyway, he faxed me a copy of Dayton Harper’s autopsy report.”

  “He did?” Hugo was suddenly excited. “And?”

  “Dead from one shot in the heart. No drugs in his system, no other signs of physical harm. GSR on his hands, and his fingerprints on the gun.”

  “That can be done postmortem,” Hugo said. “What else?”

  “I’m looking at it now. Nothing except minuscule bits of clothing and . . . huh, paper, found in the wound.”

  “Paper?”

  “That’s what it says. Maybe he had a notebook on him, bullet went through it?”

  “Maybe.” Hugo thought back to their conversation in his apartment. “You know, you might be right, I’m pretty sure he carried one with him. Do you have a list of his belongings, stuff found on him at the churchyard?”

  “No, just the autopsy report.”

  “OK. Any other news?”

  “Nope. Oh, they resolved the Ginny Ferro debacle. The ambassador stepped in and told our people to stop being silly, so the Brits are doing the autopsy. Or have done it, I have no idea which.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “I can try.”

  “Good enough. Thanks for your help, and keep your cell phone charged, I may need you again.”

  Hugo hung up and sat back. He looked out the window, the new information percolating as the rolling lands of northern France flashed by. He was far from any real answers but was beginning to see the ends of a few roots, to recognize patterns that might be coincidences, or might be meaningful. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes to Paris, so just enough time for a cup of coffee. Maybe even enough time for Bart to call him back about the body in the Mini, a call that he was fairly sure would confirm a growing suspicion: whoever had burned up in that car, Hugo had a powerful feeling it wasn’t Harry Walton.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Pendrith’s address had taken some finding, but Bart had managed it, giving Hugo a street name and number for an apartment in the Latin Quarter, on the second floor of a four-story building on the busy Rue Monge, just south of the River Seine.

  As the train pulled into Gard du Nord, Hugo thought about walking or taking the metro so he could see and experience something of the city. It was a fleeting thought; he just didn’t have time for that. Instead, he took a cab from in front of the train station, asking the driver to drop him at the metro stop closest to the Sorbonne University. He settled into the back seat, a few minutes at least to watch the city pass by.

  Something about Paris had grabbed Hugo the first time he’d come ten years ago, and he’d been back every chance he got, even if for a day or so. It was, to his mind, the most visually appealing of the world’s cities, its center devoid of the ugly concrete blocks that passed for buildings in cities like London and New York. He loved the language, too, and had taught himself to speak it to the point where he was a notch or two below fluent. And he liked the people, despite what others said about them being rude, not minding their insularity because he liked his space, too. His favorite pastime in Paris was to sit at a café and people watch, amuse himself by making up stories about those who passed by, using the clues people carried with them or wore on their back.

  Today, though, the romance of Paris was tainted. The pedestrians scuttling across the road in front of the taxi and the weaving cyclists were impediments, not Parisian flavor.

  The taxi pulled to the curb with a squeak of its brakes and Hugo climbed out, paying the driver and turning up the collar of his overcoat against the cold. A heavy, gray sky sat low overhead, and two large drops of rain hit his cheek as he started to walk south along Rue Monge. He had no specific plan other than to see whether Pendrith’s place was occupied or had been recently. He felt like he was at a dead end, and this was his last chance to find the politician.

  He checked the numbers written high on the buildings and saw he was close, realized that he had no real plan of action. Ringing the doorbell no longer seemed like much of one, and he was sure the
re was a better way, if he could just come up with it. He was relieved to see a café on his side of the street, almost directly opposite the entrance to Pendrith’s building. A place to think.

  It was busy but warm inside, and he took a seat at the only free table by the window, giving him a view across the street to the apartments. He ordered a café crème and a sandwich, less worried about time now that he had an eye on the place, happier to be able to think for a few moments and, maybe just a little, soak up some of Paris.

  Even so, he remained watchful, scanning the sidewalk across the busy road for the familiar shape of Pendrith, knowing he was grasping at straws.

  And then he saw him.

  He’d missed the portly figure because he was on the same side of the street as the café, not his apartment, and he was now feet away from the window. Hugo lifted his cup to cover his face, and swiveled in his seat to put his back to the sidewalk. Seconds later he heard the door behind him open.

  Of course, this is his neighborhood café.

  Hugo didn’t know whether to leap up and confront him or sit tight, see whether Pendrith was here alone. That decision was made when the houndstooth coat of the Englishman brushed against Hugo’s table. He’d not seen the American, wasn’t expecting to, intent only on finding somewhere to sit.

  “Pendrith.”

  The Englishman whirled around, his mouth falling open at the sight of Hugo looking up at him, and when he spoke, his voice was a croak. “Marston. What . . . what are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. Sit down.” Hugo waved a hand at the empty seat opposite him.

  Pendrith looked around the café, as if checking for other surprises. “How did you find me?”

  “A little luck and a little ingenuity.”

  Pendrith nodded. “You probably want to know what’s going on.”

  “Good guess.”

  Pendrith had regained his composure and sat watching Hugo, his lips pursed as he thought. “Here’s the deal, old boy. Graham Stopford-Pendrith got in over his head. Has some people looking for him and needs to disappear.”

  “Who? And why?”

  “Can’t tell you either of those things.” Pendrith looked up as the waiter appeared at his shoulder. “Rien, merci. Je pars.”

  “Leaving already? I don’t think so, Pendrith; you have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “I’m sure you think so. I’m not one of the bad guys, Hugo, I’ll tell you that much. I’m really not. I hope you realize that.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “I don’t have time. I have some bags to pack and a plane to catch.”

  “And you expect me to just let you disappear?”

  “I do.” Pendrith cleared his throat, then leaned forward. “I assume you didn’t bring your weapon? You’re a bit of a cowboy but basically a rule follower, and I suspect you’d lose your job if some Frog caught you with a gun over here, am I right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then I have the advantage. And it’s pointing at your groin.”

  Hugo hadn’t noticed Pendrith slipping his hands into his pockets, but they were there now. He may be bluffing, Hugo knew, but when it came to guns, he didn’t take chances. As long as he stayed in a public place and did as he was asked, Pendrith wouldn’t do anything. “So you’re pointing a gun at me and you’re one of the good guys?”

  “In self-preservation mode. As your Thomas Jefferson said, ‘We have the wolf by the ears, and we can neither hold him, nor safely let him go. Justice is in one scale, and self-preservation in the other.’”

  “That’s a riddle, Pendrith, not an explanation.”

  “Think about it.” He sat back. “I assume you know where my apartment is?”

  “Correct.”

  “And I assume once I’m no longer pointing this gun at you, you’ll head over there?”

  “I want to know who killed Ginny Ferro and Brian Drinker. And, I assume, Dayton Harper.” Pendrith’s eyes gave nothing away, so Hugo played another card. “I also want to know who killed Harry Walton.”

  A shadow passed across Pendrith’s eyes, but only for a second. “Walton?”

  “Yeah, they found his car burned out, a body in it. Fits his description.”

  Pendrith smiled. “But they didn’t make a proper ID yet?”

  “Not yet, but they will.”

  “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”

  “Yes, Alexander Pope, very clever. You don’t think Walton’s dead?”

  “Do you?”

  “No, I don’t. I think he’s the one trying to find you.”

  “That so? What’s your theory?”

  “Unfinished. But I’m pretty sure you two know each other. Maybe from Braxton Hall, maybe not. But you both put yourselves squarely into an investigation that didn’t concern you. Walton even risked losing a story when he could have had a front-page, national headline. Journalists don’t do that.”

  “So what makes you think we know each other?”

  “Two things; one big, one small. The obvious one is that you had no way to leave the Rising Moon. You didn’t seem to like each other, so when you both left about the same time I didn’t even think you might have gone together. But you did, didn’t you? You had no other way to leave the village.”

  Pendrith didn’t respond at first, then asked, “And the small thing?”

  “Something I should have noticed, or paid attention to, also at the pub when Walton brought us beer.”

  “What about it?”

  “If he’d asked the publican what we were drinking, the man wouldn’t have remembered. He told us he’d forgotten who had which drink when he delivered the food. And if Walton had paid attention to what we drank, he would have brought me a pale ale. I think he knows your strong feelings about beer and defaulted to that, brought two pints of what he knows you like.”

  “Bit of a stretch, old boy.”

  “Then tell me I’m wrong.”

  Pendrith studied Hugo for a moment, as if deciding. “It’s a long story. Long and sordid and, God willing, it’s a story that will never be told. Certainly not by me.”

  “That’s why you’re disappearing. So you don’t have to face him or tell this sordid story?” When Pendrith didn’t respond, Hugo asked, “So where are you going now?”

  “To pick up a few belongings and then tallyho.”

  “You’re leaving your whole life behind, just like that?”

  “The alternative, according to my analysis, is a life behind bars. One I can manage, the other I cannot. So yes, I’ll take my chances on the run.”

  “New identity in your bag, I assume?”

  “That’s the wonderful thing about Europe now. One can flit about from country to country and not worry about passports and such.”

  “You’ll need one to get into Switzerland.”

  Pendrith smiled. “Oh, you are a clever chap.”

  “I don’t know where else a man on the run would keep his money. They will find you.”

  “Probably, sooner or later. But if it’s later, then all to the good. Gives me time to write my memoirs, set the record straight.” He stood. “I want you to know, Hugo, I didn’t kill any of them. Not one.”

  “Then why can’t you tell me what’s going on? If you’re innocent, I can help you, Pendrith, for God’s sake—”

  Pendrith shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “I didn’t say I was innocent, now did I?”

  “Then—”

  “Don’t be the first, old boy. I don’t want your blood on my hands, any more than I wanted those others. Don’t follow me, you know perfectly well that I’ll see if you do.” He patted his pocket. “And I really don’t want to see you.”

  “Pendrith, two movie stars are dead. Every cop on the planet will be hunting for you. God knows what kind of reward, or even how many rewards, will be offered for your capture. If you didn’t kill anyone then you know as well as I do there is a very good chance—”

  “Fine.” Pendrith held up
a hand. “You’re right. Look, I have to take care of some things first, though. Meet me back here in an hour.”

  “How do I know you’ll be here?”

  “You don’t. But it’s the best offer you’re going to get.”

  Hugo nodded, then watched through the large window as Pendrith passed in front of the café and headed north toward the River Seine, away from his apartment. The old man walked with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward, as if trying to make himself smaller, as if afraid a pair of eyes other than Hugo’s might be watching.

  Hugo waited for five minutes, then paid for his food and left. He walked the same way Pendrith had gone, cursing when he saw a side road that curved back toward the old man’s building. He did go there, after all. Hugo kept straight, though, intending to keep his word and be back at the café in one hour. He thought about staying put, keeping his vantage point over the front of the place. But to what end? Hugo was sure there’d be a back exit, which Pendrith would use now that he knew Hugo was there. And if he did have a gun, there was an outside chance he’d use it.

  In any case, an hour sitting and waiting would be torture. Better to get his Paris fix, to exercise his legs and his mind and let the chill November air work its magic on his senses. He crossed the busy intersection with Boulevard Saint-Germain, where the aromas of Paris welcomed him as he passed by, the warm smell of baking, the mustiness of the cheese shop, and the fresh, almost metallic, smells of the poissonerie, the fish shop, and its neighbor, the butcher.

  And then he was on the Quai de Montebello, standing beside a café named Panis, waiting for the light to change. Opposite him was the Pont au Double, the pedestrian-only bridge that took foot traffic to the Cathedral of Notre Dame, which he could see from where he stood.

  At a break in the traffic he crossed the road and walked west, away from the bridge, soon pausing at a riverfront bookstall. These stalls were Parisian landmarks, each one made up of four metal boxes fixed to the stone wall overlooking the Seine. The boxes were green, and each was about six feet long and full of postcards, key chains, and other trinkets, as well as secondhand books. The seller, the bouquiniste, smiled a greeting, and Hugo practiced his French, asking whether they’d had snow and asking him how business had been. After a few minutes browsing, Hugo bought a postcard with Merlyn vaguely in mind, then continued along the sidewalk.