‘I took it right away to a house in Penrose Street.’
‘Mr Linton?’
It took me a few seconds to realize that Mr Ambrose had addressed me. He was still staring fixedly at Simmons, his back to me.
‘Um… yes, Sir?’
‘I haven’t been back in London long, and neither has Karim. We’ve spent years away in the colonies. What kind of street is Penrose Street?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Not a very reputable one, I believe, Sir. It’s one of the names that often comes up in police reports in the papers.’
Simmons nodded eagerly and shuddered. ‘It was a dreadful place, full of coolies and other lowlife. I have no idea why they always wanted to meet there.’
‘I can think of only one explanation,’ Mr Ambrose mused. ‘In case you were caught or followed there, they wanted everybody to think it was low criminals with whom you were consorting. Which makes me think that the exact opposite was the case.’
‘They weren’t criminals?’ I asked, confused.
‘Oh, they were criminals all right. But certainly not low ones. In fact I suspect they were rather high up the food chain. Am I correct?’
Simmons' shudder was more than enough answer.
‘The address?’
‘Number 12, Penrose Street, Sir.’
‘What exactly happened?’
‘They gave me the money and said this was our last transaction. When I asked them why, they said that unlike the other times, this theft would not go unnoticed. They advised me to get out of the country right away. The expression on their faces… I’ll never forget it.’
‘Now we come to the interesting part.’ Mr Ambrose took out his cane and placed the end on Simmons’ chest. I remembered, as no doubt Simmons did, that there was a sword concealed inside it.
‘Who are those “they” you keep talking about? Who hired you to steal from me?’
Simmons paled.
‘I d-don't know. They never gave me their names.’
‘But you do know one name, don't you? It’s useless to deny it, I can see it in your face.’
‘No, I don't! I swear, I don't know anything, Sir!’
Mr Ambrose’s head whipped sideways to glare at Karim, and the Mohammedan retreated under the force of his cold stare. ‘What’s this? I thought you said this man was ready to confess everything!’
Karim looked pretty uncomfortable. I tried not to smile, but it was kind of funny to see that mountain of a man shuffle around like a told-off school boy.
‘He was. I swear to you, Sahib, he was.’
‘Hmm…’
Mr Ambrose turned to his captive again, scrutinizing him intently.
‘You’re scared. That’s why you won’t tell me. You’re scared of this man whose name you won’t speak.’
‘No, Sir! I swear, I don’t know anything! I don’t…’
Mr Ambrose’s cane pressing against his throat cut off his words in a croak.
‘Simmons, let me put it this way: who are you more afraid of - this man or me?’
The ex-secretary opened and closed his mouth like a stranded goldfish, but nothing came out, even when Mr Ambrose drew back his cane.
‘Interesting… apparently it’s a tie?’
Simmons nodded.
‘Well, then think of this.’ Mr Ambrose leant forward and whispered, in a tone so calmly threatening it made the hair on the back of my neck and on some other more delicate place stand up: ‘I have you in my power. He does not.’
Simmons slumped.
‘All right,’ he moaned. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. But only under one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘You let me go and give me a train ticket out of town. If I tell you that name, I’ll need to get out of town, and my legs won’t be fast enough.’
Mr Ambrose didn’t hesitate.
‘Granted.’ He nodded curtly. ‘The name?’
‘I… don't think I was supposed to hear it,’ Simmons said in a low voice, looking around as if he expected somebody to appear out of the air and strike him down. ‘They were talking one day when I arrived early, and I heard it.’
‘The name, Simmons!’
‘The train ticket! You have to swear that I’ll get the train ticket!’
‘I swear! The name, Simmons! Now!’
Simmons looked around and wet his lips again. ‘It’s… It is…’
Suddenly, he stopped and shook his head, gazing at Karim and me out of heavily lidded, tired and very frightened eyes.
‘No! I don't want anybody else to hear it.’
What?
Was he joking? I was on the tips of my toes here!
‘I don't want him to find out,’ Simmons murmured. ‘If he does…’
Quickly he leant forward and whispered something in Mr Ambrose’s ear.
Blast the man!
I had been waiting breathlessly all this time for the solution of the mystery, and now I wasn’t going to hear it? I wanted to clobber Simmons over the head with something heavy, especially when I saw Mr Ambrose’s eyes lighting up in recognition.
‘Him!’ His hands were balled into fists again. ‘After all this time, him!’
For a moment his eyes flickered to me - then they were back on Simmons.
‘Well,’ he said, almost as if speaking to himself, ‘at least now we know that the file is still in England. He wouldn’t dream of having to run and hide. He probably thinks himself untouchable.’ In a softer voice he added: ‘And who knows… He might be right.’
Abruptly, he fixed his icy glare on Simmons. ‘You will not speak of this to anybody else, understand?’ The threat was there, hard and cold in his voice.
Simmons’ lips twitched. There was no humour about it. ‘Certainly not, Sir. I value my throat just as it is, without any decorative cuts or slashes in it.’
‘Very well.’
Mr Ambrose rose and strode towards the cell door.
‘What about my ticket?’ Simmons called after him. ‘When will I be released? I want to get out of here!’
Mr Ambrose stopped. Slowly, he turned. When he was facing the cell again, both Simmons and I couldn’t help but gasp. He had a knife in his hand.
‘No! Please don't!’ Simmons croaked. ‘I’ve done everything you asked! Please…’
‘Be quiet and hold still, man!’ Mr Ambrose commanded. ‘I nearly forgot - there’s something I still need from you.’ With two quick steps he was back at Simmons' side and grabbed him by the hair. The knife flashed in the darkness as it shot towards Simmons' head.
And then it was over, and Mr Ambrose’s hand came away holding a lock of blond hair he had severed from Simmons' head.
‘That was all.’
I stared at him incredulously. For once, Karim seemed to share my feelings. He was looking at Mr Ambrose as if he’d grown three additional heads.
Pointing to the blond lock in my employer’s hand, I hissed: ‘What’s that supposed to be? A memento?’
‘In a way.’
He turned away again and said, sparing neither me nor the ghost-white Simmons another glance:
‘Somebody will be along to bring you a change of clothes soon. You can’t be seen coming out of my building in the filthy rags you’re in right now. The man will show you to the street and give you everything you need. Our business is concluded, Mr Simmons. Our paths will not cross again.’
Without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the cell. Karim and I followed him, the former grim and silent, the latter, that is to say my good self, twitchy and curious to the point of madness.
‘What did you do to him so that he’d spill the beans?’ I blurted out as soon as the metal door had closed behind us. ‘And who was it that ordered him to spy on you? And why should anybody want to spy on you anyway?’
Mr Ambrose had already started up the corridor again. He didn’t turn around or, God forbid, stop to let me catch up.
‘Mind your own business, Mr Linton!’
‘I work for you, so your business is my business. What’s the point of someone spying on you?’
‘It is commonly referred to as “industrial espionage”,’ he called. Blast! That way of his to talk into the opposite direction of where you were standing was really annoying. ‘It means the stealing of secrets of one businessman by another businessman.’
‘What’s that good for?’