Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

‘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?’

&nbs

p; ‘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?’