Storm and Silence(183)

Mr Ambrose seemed to sense my hesitation.

‘It is no problem,’ he said, and there might actually have been something akin to compassion in his voice. ‘You can leave if you are afraid.’

Immediately, I raised my chin and met his eyes.

‘I? Afraid? Of course not, Sir. What do we do now?’

A muscle in Mr Ambrose’s jaw twitched. It seemed, just for a moment, as though he might be going to argue. In the end, though, he turned towards Karim.

‘Where in this building is the file?’ he snapped.

‘I do not know, Sahib. Warren told me that they had found what we had been looking for, and I rushed to you without delay.’

‘I see. Then call Warren. Now.’

Not taking his right hand from his sabre, the Mohammedan raised his left to his lips and put two gnarled fingers in his mouth. He blew twice, and the whistle-tones echoed from the dilapidated houses.

Suddenly, Warren appeared out of the darkness. He was dressed in dockworker clothes and had a man on either side of him.

‘Sir.’ He gave a little bow to Mr Ambrose.

Mr Ambrose didn’t waste any time on social niceties. ‘The file, Warren. Where is it?’

‘I do not know, Sir.’

‘But you said-’

‘I said we had found what we had been looking for. But not the file. Not exactly. We found the man who bought the file from Mr Simmons. The middle man of the deal.’

Mr Ambrose took a step forward.

‘I dislike inaccurate reports, Warren,’ he said, pinning the other man with his eyes of dark ice. ‘I know you have not been in my employ long, so I tell you now: I dislike them intensely.’

Warren swallowed and hastily bowed again, while I tried to hide a grin. I could have told Warren that much. ‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’

‘This man… He’s in that pub now?’

‘Yes, Sir. The Plough and Anchor, Sir. We have the place surrounded.’

‘By how many men?’

‘A dozen.’

‘Only a dozen?’

Mr Ambrose’s mouth, normally a thin, exquisite line, turned into nothing more than a scratch on his chiselled face. Other people might not have noticed the minuscule change in expression - I, however, had learned to read the signs foretelling of approaching storms.

‘Tell me, Mr Warren, how often have you conducted investigations in the East End before?’

‘Um…’ Warren nervously tugged at his collar. ‘Never before, to be honest, Sir. I was mostly employed in the more reputable parts of London, seeing as my clientele were wealthy citizens. To be honest, I expected that in your employ, too, Sir, I would not be venturing into these-’

‘Your expectations do not concern me, Mr Warren!’

‘No, Sir! Of course not, Sir.’

‘Indeed. Now listen to me. I know this kind of place.’ He indicated the shady street with a sweep of his arm. ‘As soon as we try to grab the man we’re after and drag him out in the street, fifty of his cronies will be on us with knives and broken bottles.’

Knives and broken bottles? Unconsciously, I moved a little closer to Karim and the safety of his large sabre. I was too preoccupied by the mental image of a grinning thug with a broken bottle in his fist to wonder how on earth a phenomenally rich financier would know this kind of place.

‘Is that so? But then what should we do, Sir?’ Warren asked.

‘There’s nothing for it.’ Mr Ambrose, his narrow mouth still nearly invisible, held out his hand. ‘Give me your jacket and cap.’

‘W-what, Sir?’

‘That grimy little jacket and that disgusting cap of yours. Give them to me. I’m going to go in there in disguise and see what I can squeeze out of our friend by means of friendly conversation.’

Warren started at this, flabbergasted. ‘You? You are going to have a conversation, Sir?’

‘Yes! You, meanwhile, go back to headquarters and get backup. Pray that you return in time, before our prey decides to leave!’

‘B-but Sir,’ Warren stuttered, ‘you can’t… I mean… you’re a gentleman of good family. You couldn’t possibly go into a place like this and pretend to be part of that scum in there!’

The look Mr Ambrose gave his subordinate could have frozen lava.

‘I’ve had a lot of practice in dealing with scum. Now give me your clothes.’

Warren was out of his cap and jacket before you could say “God save the Queen!”.’ He handed them to Mr Ambrose, who in return gave him his carefully folded back tailcoat.

‘I don't want to see a single stain on it when you give it back,’ he commanded. ‘It is only ten years old and still in mint condition.’