Warren’s man sprang to the side, and silent as a shadow Mr Ambrose took his place. I tried to move so that I could get a look at the door when it opened, but Warren held me back.
‘Not yet!’ he hissed. ‘Wait until he opens the door!’
Steps approached from inside the room. I waited, counting my breaths in a futile attempt to calm myself. Suddenly I was wishing that I had changed back into trousers and a shirt before coming up here. Say what you will about the degradation and annoyance involved in pretending to be a man, it certainly gives you more freedom of movement.
The door opened.
Mr Ambrose nodded to whomever was on the other side.
‘Hello, Simmons.’
I heard a startled yelp, and then the door moved to close so fast my eye hardly caught the movement. Mr Ambrose caught it, though.
His foot darted forward and wedged itself between door and doorframe. He gripped the doorknob, the desperate man inside still struggling to push the door closed, and thrust it back with surprising strength. The door flew open.
Then he stepped into the room.
‘Now!’
Warren let go of my arm and I darted forward. I was in the room even before the six other men. Mr Ambrose was standing over a deathly pale Simmons, who lay on his back on the carpet.
Taking an empty wine glass from a table beside him, Mr Ambrose raised it to the man on the floor in a mock toast.
‘Bottoms up. I’m afraid I haven’t brought any wine. But I have brought a few of my friends.’ The glass sailed out of his hand and crashed against the wall, splintering into a thousand pieces. Simmons twitched, but Mr Ambrose’s face remained calm as an iceberg. ‘Actually, it’s not just the bottoms who are up,’ he mused. ‘It’s the game, too.’ His voice suddenly became hard, as impenetrable as a mountain of granite. ‘Where is it, Simmons?’
‘H-how… how,’ stuttered the figure on the floor.
‘How I found you?’
Mr Ambrose threw a look over his shoulder, and for a moment his dark eyes held mine, filled with an expression that was difficult to interpret.
‘That is none of your concern,’ he answered, returning his gaze to Simmons. ‘I will ask the questions. Not you.’
‘N-no, Sir,’ Simmons mumbled, his eyes darting right and left. ‘I mean… h-how can I ever thank you. Thank you for coming after me, I mean. There were these men… they entered your office and took some things and forced me to come with them and…’
‘Simmons?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘If you utter another lie, you are a dead man.’
Mr Simmons’ mouth remained open, but there didn’t come one more sound out of it. He seemed to have gotten the message.
Without paying any great deal of attention to the man on the floor, as if he were just another speck of dust, Mr Ambrose went over to the bed and flipped open the suitcase that lay there. It contained a few neatly folded shirts and trousers. With a flick of his cane, Mr Ambrose threw them aside.
An involuntary gasp escaped me as hundreds of banknotes appeared beneath the clothes. I couldn’t make out the numbers from where I stood, but I didn’t really need to, to be able to tell that this was a lot of money. More than I had ever seen in my life.
All for a piece of paper…
What sort of paper could be worth that much?
‘Strange baggage for an abducted man,’ Mr Ambrose stated, calmly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a sudden movement. When I turned my head I saw that Simmons was on his feet again and heading for the window.
At first I thought he had gone insane or something and wanted to jump to his death - but then I saw that there was a building outside. A building with a flat roof.
‘No! Get him!’
I sprang after him, trying to grab him. Unluckily, I forgot I was wearing a crinoline, got tangled up in the legs of a chair and fell to the ground with an unceremonious crunching sound. The last thing I saw was Simmons jumping out of the window, then my head slammed into the carpet and suddenly my eyes, mouth and nose were filled with fluffy dustiness.
Crap!
I lay there for a few moments, seething and breathing in dust motes. Somebody cleared his throat above me. I looked up to see Mr Ambrose extending his hand towards me.
‘Do you need a hand?’
Reluctantly I reached out and grasped his hand. Don’t ask me why - but for some reason I had expected his hand to be cold and hard, just like his personality. It wasn’t. Oh, don't misunderstand me, it was hard all right. But it also was warm and full of life. It felt strangely… good. Considering the rest of him was so undoubtedly bad.
With a sharp tug, he pulled me to my feet, and for a moment we stood very, very close to one another. I was standing again. And yet he didn’t let go of my hand, and I didn’t let go of his.
Then I heard a triumphant cry from outside.
‘Oh my God! Simmons!’ Roughly, I pushed Mr Ambrose out of the way and sprang to the window. From behind me, I heard a hollow thud and an 'ouch', but I didn’t care. ‘He’s getting away!’
Now let me tell you, a hoop skirt is not the right kind of attire for climbing through open windows. But I was about to try anyway when a hand closed around my arm. A hard, familiar hand.
‘Don’t,’ Mr Ambrose commanded. I looked back at him, confusion written all over my face.
‘What do you mean, don't? He’s getting away!’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘We have to catch him!’
‘I appreciate your concern for the pursuit of justice, Mr Linton,’ he said, as cool as a cucumber. ‘Even though you did not really have to be so keen on that pursuit as to push me on my backside. However, we don't want to go after Simmons just yet.’
‘But…’
‘We,’ continued Mr Ambrose unperturbed, taking his old but very efficient-looking pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket, ‘have to go after him in exactly one minute and twenty-seven seconds.’
‘Huh?’
I stared at him, flabbergasted. He, for his part, completely ignored me. His eyes focused on the watch, he simply stood there, waiting. I got edgier and edgier with every passing second. What the heck was going on?
‘Mr Ambrose… shouldn’t we go?’
‘No.’
‘But… ‘
‘No. Be quiet!’
‘Blast it, I won’t be quiet!’ I balled my hands into fists. This was insane. ‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find this thief, Sir! And now we’re just standing around here while he makes good his escape, and we are waiting for your one minute and twenty-seven seconds to pass!’
‘Actually,’ he said with another look at his watch, ‘it’s one minute and three seconds now.’
‘What the hell do I care? It makes no sense for us to just be standing around here!’
‘On the contrary, Mr Linton. It makes a great deal of sense. Now be quiet and wait.’
I was fuming. But what could I do? He was my master, not the other way around. I had to do what he said. That’s what I got paid for, even if it didn’t make any sense.
With a snap Mr Ambrose shut his watch - and for the first time, I clearly saw the design on the lid. The sight struck me light a thunderbolt: it was a family crest. The same family crest I had seen on the pink letters from the mysterious lady.
‘All right. It’s time.’
Gripping the windowsill, he vaulted out of the open window. In quick succession, Warren and the others followed him. I just stood there, trying to shake off my shock.
What did this mean? Was Mr Ambrose really a nobleman? But why wouldn’t he use his… I shook my head. No. Not now. I didn’t have time for this now.
Unfreezing, I started to follow the others through the window. It took me two or three attempts, and I probably broke half of the crinoline beneath my dress into pieces, but finally I managed to squeeze myself through the opening. With a crash of breaking hoops I landed on the neighbouring building.
‘Very graceful,’ Mr Ambrose commented from beside me. ‘Now hurry up. We have a thief to catch.’