And I was out of the door.
Outside Mr Ambrose awaited me, looking at his open watch and tapping his foot on the ground. His fingers were unconsciously tracing some pattern on the lid.
‘And?’ he asked as soon as he saw me.
‘He’s not here.’
‘How do you know that?’ he growled through clenched teeth.
I winked. ‘Let’s just say… by the use of feminine wiles.’
~~*~~*
Twenty-five hotels later.
‘… I don't quite see. If you do not want the man brought before the law, what then do you intend to do?’ the receptionist asked, concern in his voice. Gosh, it really was amazing how similar male minds were.
‘I intend to confront him. To force him to marry my sister after all.’
‘All by yourself? Miss Bennet, that would be far too dangerous!’
Hey, he had actually said 'by yourself' instead of 'alone'! So men were capable of some variety after all!
‘I shall not be alone,’ I answered, sniffling. ‘There is a man - an old acquaintance of my father - who has promised to assist me. He cannot aid me in the search because he has his sick wife to take care of, but once I have found the miscreant, he has sworn he will come and place before the man the choice: to marry my sister or fight a duel to the death.’
The receptionist nodded solemnly.
‘Then all I can do is to find out whether or not you are right in supposing this man to be staying with us.’
‘Indeed, Sir,’ I said, blinking up at him tearfully, ‘that would be most kind.’
The receptionist went back behind the counter and picked up the big book in which all the guests signed their names. ‘If you would be so kind as to give me the man’s name, Miss?’
Yes, if you would be so kind as to do a handstand and a few pirouettes for me! God, can none of you ever say anything really different? Men! All the same!
‘His name is Mr Simmons. But I doubt he would have used his real name to sign into your book. He knows he is being sought and will probably make use of an alias.’
‘How ingenious!’ the receptionist exclaimed. ‘I would never have thought of that. But then how will we determine if he is here?’
Well, the same way I did it in the last twenty-five hotels, you dolt!
‘I can give you his description,’ I offered, having to restrain myself to keep from yawning. This was getting old. ‘My sister has told me exactly what he looks like. He has quite a distinctive appearance.’
‘Then please do.’ The receptionist nodded eagerly. ‘I see all the people who check into our hotel, and it is part of my job to have a good memory for faces. I will certainly be able to tell you whether he is here.’
Yes, yes, of course you will… Now can you stop blabbering so we can get on with this?
‘Oh, I am so relieved.’ I put a trembling hand over my heart. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Sir. The man I am looking for is tall and gangly, with a long nose, long blonde hair and a thin moustache, and a scar over his right eyebrow.’
Again I had to suppress a yawn. Here we go again.
A grim smile spread over the receptionist’s face.
‘Miss, I believe you have caught your villain! A man of just such a description is indeed staying under our roof at this very moment!’
The Thief
My sleepiness vanished in an instant.
‘A-are you sure?’ I stuttered, this time not having to fake my feelings.
I was floored. My plan had worked! It had actually worked! Of course I never doubted it would, in a theoretical, philosophical, let’s-think-this-problem-through way, but to have it actually succeed - that was something else.
‘Yes, quite sure, Miss. He’s in room forty-five on the third floor.’
‘Um… thank you.’
Suddenly, I realized that now I was going to have to go out and tell Mr Ambrose that I had found Simmons. All this time I had been so obsessed with finding the thief, with proving to my employer that I actually could be of some use, that I hadn’t thought about what might happen when we finally did catch him.
Now we had. And I was going to have to go out and tell that to Mr Ambrose, a man who didn’t seem overly shy about taking the law and everything else he could into his own hands.
I looked down at my own hands. Soon, I realized, I might have blood on them.
But then, if you thought about it, it was a thief’s blood. And who knew, I might even get a raise out of it.
Before I could think better of it, I left the hotel and opened the cab door.
‘We have him,’ I said.
All of them turned and stared at me as if I had just announced that the Duke of Wellington was a French pussycat.[25]
‘You… you mean to say Simmons is in there? In this hotel?’ Warren asked.
I rolled my eyes. ‘No, he’s in Siberia. Yes of course I meant he’s in this hotel! What else do you think I’m talking about?’
‘Well, that’s… That’s quite impressive. Congratulations.’
Karim held up a hand.
‘Do not give out congratulations, Warren Sahib, before we have proof of the truth. It is easy to say he is there.’ He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘But have you indeed seen the man we seek with your own eyes?’
‘No,’ I had to admit. ‘But he is here.’
‘It is easy for you to say so, but he may be indeed farther than the stars and the sky.’
I turned to Mr Ambrose. ‘Where did you pick this fellow up? Does he always talk like this?’
My employer chose to ignore this. He was examining me carefully without saying a word. Finally he inquired in a low voice:
‘He is really there?’
‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘He is.’
‘Then let’s go.’
Mr Ambrose was out of the cab and halfway across the street in a flash. His arms came up, one of them holding a cane I hadn’t noticed before. He gestured, and Warren’s men were suddenly out of the cab, too, spreading out in a loose semi-circle behind him.
Six of them, together with Karim, remained at the entrance to the hotel while the rest, without needing any orders, followed him in. They seemed to be well accustomed to follow his silent commands.
Well, I sure as hell wasn’t! Cursing, I hurried after them.
The doorman of the hotel seemed to be quite surprised at the company in which I was returning. His surprise, however, was nothing to that of the receptionist, whose mouth actually dropped open as we marched into the entrance hall. We passed him before he had a chance to say or do anything and were already up the first flight of stairs when we heard him call out.
‘Where to?’ Mr Ambrose inquired, completely ignoring the shout of the receptionist.
‘Room forty-five on the third floor.’ I called from behind. ‘And slow down, will you? It’s no easy job climbing stairs in this blasted corset!’
Will it surprise you to hear that he didn’t slow down?
Muttering a very unladylike curse, I sped up and managed to catch up with them just as they reached the third floor.
Mr Ambrose stood on the landing like an admiral on the bridge. With his cane, he pointed at a door a little distance down the corridor bearing the large brazen number forty-five. Then he nodded to his men.
Again the men seemed to understand without needing to be given orders. Two of them positioned themselves on either side of the door while another strode up directly to the entrance and knocked on the dark wood barring the way.
There was a short silence. Then:
‘Yes? What do you want?’
The voice was high and slightly arrogant. I could see it fitting perfectly to the man Mr Ambrose had described. Thin, blonde, and a bit vain.
‘Room service, Sir,’ Warren’s associate replied in a perfect I-am-a-well-mannered-servant tone.
‘Room service? I didn’t order anything.’
‘I know, Sir. Compliments of the house, Sir. We always present a bottle of the best wine from our cellars to guests who stay longer than three days.’
‘Oh, if that’s the case…’ The scraping of a chair came from the other side of the door. ‘Would be a shame to let it go to waste.’