Storm and Silence

by Robert Thier

  Mr Warren almost swallowed his cigar. Slowly, Mr Ambrose, who had been staring down at the table, looked up at me and fixed me with his cold gaze. I tried my best to meet his eyes without flinching.

  ‘Well, I can guarantee you, Mr Linton, that it is not a letter from one of my secret lady friends. They would not waste their time writing letters to me they know I would not read.’

  Now it was my turn to stare. Was he being serious? Did he really have a secret lady friend or, God forbid, several? For heaven’s sake, I had been trying to make a joke!

  Perhaps not the best of ideas where he was concerned.

  ‘Well,’ I said as steadily as possible, ‘that leaves two of the possibilities I have outlined. Which is it?’

  He remained silent.

  ‘Just a general indication,’ I coaxed. ‘Come on. You have got to give us something.’

  Warren cleared his throat, taking this opportunity to rid himself of the bitten off pieces of his cigar that were still stuck there.

  ‘I think I must agree with Mr Linton, Sir. Without any idea of what the document in question is, we have little hope of catching the thief.’

  Mr Ambrose stayed silent for one moment longer - then he nodded curtly.

  ‘Number two,’ he stated.

  I frowned. What was he talking about? ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Number two,’ he repeated. ‘The second possibility you outlined. There are no banknotes in the file. It is an important document.’ Taking a deep breath, he added: ‘More important than you can imagine.’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ I sighed.

  ‘Can he sell it to anyone, Sir?’ Warren inquired.

  ‘Only to the right people. And by right I do not mean “right” as in “right and honourable”. I mean people with limitless cash and little conscience.’

  I almost said, ‘Oh, you mean people like yourself?’ But I held my tongue. My natural tendency to bad manners was not well placed here if I wanted to keep my job.

  ‘These people,’ I asked, ‘are they here in London, or could they be anywhere in the country?’

  ‘Theoretically, they could be anywhere. But it is most likely that they would be here. This is the centre of the British Empire, the power-hub for a fifth of the earth’s surface - the best place to transact any kind of business, whether legitimate or otherwise.’

  ‘But we had better make sure, hadn’t we?’ I said with a sweet smile. ‘Somebody told me once it’s better to always verify.’

  Mr Ambrose gave me another one of his cold stares. ‘That must have been a very wise person.’ Turning, he nodded to Karim. ‘Go, take a few of the men and check Euston station. I want a description of all the passengers who left in the last few days and don’t care how you get it. If there’s anyone there who fits Simmons’ description - find him, grab him, hold him. I do not care if it should happen to be the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Is Simmons easy to recognize?’ I asked as Karim marched out of the room with seven henchmen at his heels.

  Mr Ambrose nodded grimly. ‘Oh yes. That is the one piece of good luck in this mess. He’s tall and gangly, with a long nose, long blonde hair and a thin moustache, and a scar over his right eyebrow. If anyone saw him, they’ll remember him.’

  ‘He might have altered his appearance,’ I pointed out doubtfully.

  Beside me, Warren nodded. ‘That’s very likely, Sir.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. He’s always been a vain fellow. Clever, but with a too good an opinion of himself and his looks. No doubt he thinks we have no hope of catching up to him.’

  ‘And do we, Sir?’ Warren wanted to know. ‘Assuming he has not left the city - and I for my part think it likely that he is still here - how are we going to find one man hidden in a labyrinth of a city among three million people?’

  ‘The task is not as impossible as you might think, Warren.’ Mr Ambrose tapped the map on the table. ‘Most of those three million people are working-class folk. I doubt very much Simmons would hide out in one of their miserable little sheds. Oh no. He did this for money, and he would want to live in style.’

  In quick succession he pointed out various buildings on the map, marking them with pushpins.

  ‘These are the best hotels in town. I do not approve of such frivolous behaviour as betting, but if I did, I would bet my top hat that he is staying in one of them under some alias.’

  ‘Just… staying in a hotel?’ I asked, incredulously. ‘Isn’t he afraid of the police?’

  ‘He knows my affairs,’ was the curt reply. ‘He knows I cannot involve the police in this. The results would be…’

  His voice trailed off into nothingness. We all waited with bated breath, but not a word came. So the results would be too terrible to speak aloud, would they? What in heaven’s name could be in this infernal file?

  ‘The police are not an option,’ Mr Ambrose eventually continued, ‘so Simmons feels confident and secure.’ For a moment, lightning flashed in his dark eyes. ‘Very soon he will learn of his mistake.’

  ‘This is all very well, but these are over a hundred hotels,’ I pointed out. ‘How are we to find out in which one he is staying?’

  ‘I can take care of half,’ said Mr Ambrose. Without further explanation, he strode to the pneumatic tube at the wall, wrote a message in his meticulous handwriting, and pulled the lever. Shortly after, the answer came. He checked it and returned to the desk.

  ‘You can cross these-’ pointing to about half of the hotels on the map, ‘-off the list.’

  ‘How on earth can you check the guest lists of more than fifty hotels with just one message?’ I demanded.

  He fixed me with his dark glare.

  ‘Because I own them.’

  ‘You own fifty per cent of all the hotels in London?’

  ‘No. I own seventy per cent of all the hotels in London. But the remaining twenty per cent are too expensive even for an escaped criminal with a bag full of ready cash to afford.’

  Of course. I should have guessed.

  ‘Well,’ I asked sweetly, gesturing to the remaining hotels on the map, ‘do you plan on buying the rest of them to make things easier for us?’

  ‘That would not be making things easier, Mr Linton. Unfortunately, such things take time - time which we do not have.’

  ‘You could always bribe someone in the hotels,’ I suggested, raising an eyebrow. ‘You have enough cash, don't you? And you don’t seem to be above bending the law a little.’

  The room went deadly quiet.

  Before I knew it, Mr Ambrose was at my side, and his hard hand was gripping my arm. Slowly, he leaned down towards my ear until I could feel his breath there, tickling me in a delicious threat.

  ‘I am perfectly well aware that you are no real lady, Mr Linton. There is no need to prove the fact further by impugning my honour in front of my associates. I will let you be a part of this only if you can behave yourself properly. For a start, when you speak to me, you will show me proper respect. You are to address me as 'Mister Ambrose' or 'Sir'. Is that clear?’

  I smiled at him as sweetly as I could manage.

  ‘Sir! Yes, Sir, Mister Ambrose, Sir!’

  His eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but he didn’t say anything. He just stepped back and looked down at the map again.

  ‘So how do we deal with the remaining hotels and determine whether or not he is there?’

  ‘We could simply ask,’ suggested one of Warren’s men. But Warren shook his head.

  ‘No, Jim. We could if we knew the alias Simmons is using; that wouldn’t appear too suspicious. But we can’t if we only know his description.’

  I nodded. ‘That’s right. I mean… How do you think a receptionist is going to react if you come marching into his hotel demanding to know if a man with long blonde hair is staying there, without offering any explanation as to why you’re looking for him. He would throw you out.’

  ‘He would not throw me out,’ stated Mr Ambrose darkly.

  ‘Err…
probably, Sir. But he wouldn’t answer the question either, would he?’

  He shot me a look that was a shade darker than the one before.

  ‘Do you have a better idea?’

  Suddenly I smiled. Inspiration had struck. Yes!

  ‘Actually,’ I told him, ‘I do. I know exactly how we can find him. Or more precisely, how I can. It’ll be easy. I just need a beautiful dress and a sack full of onions.’

  I Go Dress-Shopping

  ‘A what and a what?’ Mr Ambrose stared at me as if I had lost my mind, and my job was soon to follow.

  I smiled at him innocently. ‘Is your hearing not as good as it used to be, Sir?’

  ‘How,’ he asked very slowly and deliberately, ‘are you going to track a thief with… with a dress and a sack full of vegetables?’

  ‘Onions. They have to be onions. And the how,’ I said, tapping my nose knowingly, ‘you’ll just have to leave that to me. Secrets of the trade.’

  ‘How do I know this is going to work?’

  I gave him my most sweetest smile.

  ‘Easy. You’ll have to trust me.’

  *~*~**~*~*

  For nearly half an hour he tried to worm my plan out of me, but I wouldn’t budge. At one point he declared that, fine, we were going to try something else. When I asked him what exactly, he didn’t look very pleased. Finally, Warren and a few of the others joined my side, arguing for him to let me have a go.

  ‘We don't even know whether Simmons is still in town,’ Mr Ambrose pointed out, stubbornly shaking his head.

  The door to my office chose this moment to open and admit the monumental form of Karim, who bowed and with what I thought was perfect timing said: ‘Nobody has seen Simmons at the train station, Sahib. It is safe to assume that he is still within the city.’

  There was one moment more of hesitation - then Mr Ambrose grabbed his top hat from the coat stand and slammed it down on his hard head.

  ‘Fine. We’re going. Karim, come along. We’re going to buy onions.’

  With a slightly puzzled expression on his face, the bearded man followed his master out. I, unable to conceal a grin, was right at his heels.

  ‘What are you planning, Mr Linton?’ Warren whispered behind me, but I just shook my head.

  We had to run to keep up with Mr Ambrose. Out in the street he didn’t hail a cab, but began to march down the street.

  ‘Err… Sir?’ Warren cleared his throat. ‘If the situation is as grave as you have indicated, the expense of a cab would surely be justifiable. It is a much quicker means of transport, very convenient in such an urgent situation.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Irritably, Mr Ambrose waved a hand and, when a cab stopped, ordered us inside with a jerk of his head. All of us, about a dozen men plus one disguised woman, into one cab! The driver looked at us as if we were completely insane, and I couldn’t blame him.

  The good news was I didn’t end up with Karim sitting on top of me. The bad news was I ended up with Mr Ambrose sitting next to me. Very close next to me. I didn’t want to think about how close. His lean body was nearly squashing me against the wall, and there was something hard pressing into my leg which I very much hoped was the end of his walking stick.

  Through the window that connected the inside of the coach with the driver’s box, Mr Ambrose threw the cabbie a look. ‘Drive fast.’

  The man’s eyes widened. Apparently, he knew who was talking to him. The whip cracked, and we started to move with astonishing speed for a vehicle carrying three times the intended load.

  ‘Take us to Flemming's,’ Mr Ambrose shouted over the whirl and clatter of the wheels. I had no idea who or what Flemming’s was - hopefully a place where one could get either dresses or onions. I didn’t know if this crazy plan of mine was going to work, but if it was to succeed, I definitely needed all the right equipment.

  After a ten-minute drive, the cab stopped in front of a large building with grimy windows and a lot of merchandise crammed together, displayed there. Over the door, large, ornamental letters proudly spelled out ‘Flemming’s’.

  I took a close look at the department store. I didn’t know much about fashion, but I knew enough. The frilly, cheap things displayed in the shop window were not exactly what I was after. I looked at Mr Ambrose.

  ‘I said I needed a beautiful dress.’

  ‘What’s wrong with those? They’re cheap.’

  ‘That’s exactly what’s wrong with them.’

  I knocked against the roof of the cab. ‘Take us to the best dressmaker in town.’

  *~*~**~*~*

  The little dressmaker was a hunched figure with a long, hooked nose, remnants of grey hair over both ears and a resplendent waistcoat in blue and gold. He was intent on examining a few rolls of brocade and didn’t look up when he heard the doorbell ring. Only when footsteps approached and the annoying presence of a customer drew him from the contemplation of the masterpiece he was no doubt thinking about creating, did he look up. A frown spread over his wrinkled face and he eyed the slight man in baggy trousers who was standing in front of him - yours truly - with obvious doubt in his eyes.

  ‘Is there something I can do for you, Sir?’ he asked. ‘Or did you perhaps want to come in through the servant’s entrance?’

  ‘No.’ I, shook my head. ‘I’m here to pick out a dress for my sister. It’s going to be a birthday present.’

  Methodically, the dressmaker took a pair of pince-nez out of his waistcoat pocket, polished them on his sleeve, and clamped them on his nose. Then he studied me like he would a piece of his cloth. Apparently, he found that I was second-hand, with quite a lot of moth-holes, too.

  ‘And you’re going to pay for it?’ he asked, disbelief dripping from his voice.

  ‘Oh no. He is.’ Stepping aside, I pointed behind me. A lean black figure appeared from between the shelves and mannequins and strode towards the two of us. In theory Mr Ambrose was dressed quite as simply as I. Nothing about his black tailcoat, black waistcoat or black trousers indicated wealth.

  But the arrogance of his dark eyes did.

  ‘Oh. I see.’ The dressmaker swallowed. ‘And the gentlemen’s names are…?’

  ‘I’m Mister Linton,’ I answered. ‘And this is Mr Ambrose.’

  The pince-nez fell off the man’s nose and his eyes widened. ‘Mr Ambrose? Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Ambrose nodded, curtly.

  ‘Oh dear Sir, please forgive me for not recognizing you on sight. Please forgive me for not properly welcoming you to my humble establishment. You honour me with your presence here!’

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Ambrose nodded curtly again.

  ‘Once more I beg a thousand pardons. Everything I have, everything I am is at your disposal. What do you wish to see? I have some very fine waistcoats, just came in yesterday from France. Very expensive, but the best, the very best. Please, let me show you…’

  ‘I’m not here to buy waistcoats,’ Mr Ambrose cut him off. ‘I am here…’ He paused for a moment - gathering his strength, I would imagine. ‘I am here to pay for a dress for this man’s sister. One dress. As pretty and inexpensive as possible.’

  The dressmaker blinked, surprised. I would have wagered that not one of his clients had ever before placed an order for a dress they wanted to be cheap. He dealt comparatively well with the new circumstances though, springing up from his stool and bowing deeply.

  ‘Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Please follow me, Mr Linton. What should the dress be made of? Muslin? Brocade? Silk?’

  ‘Silk would be perfect. With plenty of lace at the sleeves and the cleavage, and gold embroidery, and little diamonds everywhere.’ I smiled at him. ‘Don’t pay attention to what Mr Ambrose said. The dress needs to be spectacular. Make it demure but… alluring.’

  The little dressmaker winked at me and nodded like an overexcited woodpecker, determined to make a new home for himself. ‘I completely understand, Sir. I think I know just the thing. Do you have your sister’s measurements,
Sir?’

  ‘No, but she is about my build. You can use me as a model.’

  Half an hour later we emerged from the shop, and Mr Ambrose was carrying a large package.

  ‘If this is going to be a waste of my money, you will be deeply, deeply sorry, Mr Linton,’ he said, his voice as cool as ice.

  ‘Don’t worry. The onions will be cheap, I promise.’

  *~*~**~*~*

  ‘This is in contradiction to our agreement!’ Mr Ambrose told me, quiet menace in his voice.

  We were back at Empire House. All of us - Mr Ambrose, Karim, Warren and his cronies were assembled in the hallway in front of Mr Ambrose’s office. Mr Stone, who normally occupied the desk here, was nowhere in sight. Maybe Mr Ambrose had given him the day off. More likely though, he’d sent him to slave in some other part of the building while we conducted our secret business here.

  ‘It is not,’ I said, cutting open the first string that held together the package containing the dress.

  ‘It is. I only accepted you under the condition that you would pretend to be a man while working for me.’

  ‘And I will,’ I said patting the dress fondly. ‘I will pretend to be a man pretending to be a woman.’

  ‘You…’ Mr Ambrose might have said something else, but for the moment he seemed lost for words. Then he demanded: ‘And this is really necessary for that infernal plan of yours? You are not just doing this to anger me?’

  I gave him my brightest, most happy smile. I was smiling a lot lately. But why the heck not? Thief hunting was fun! ‘Now why would I do something like that, Sir?’

  Before he could reply or try to throttle me, I vanished into my office and locked the door behind me.

  ‘Err… Sir?’ Warren’s voice, muffled by the door, was as nervous as it was curious. ‘What is he doing in there?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Mr Ambrose said, his voice as arctic as ever, ‘Mr Linton’s plan requires a female participant. Since we have none available, Mr Linton will impersonate one.’