Mr Ambrose looked up from where he had been kneeling on the floor, grinding the ropes that bound his hands against a sharp shard of clay. When he caught sight of me, his eyes widened infinitesimally - then narrowed.
‘Mr Linton!’
I gave him a winning smile. ‘Good morning, Sir. Do you still have your balls?’
Mr Linton to the Rescue
There was a moment of silence within Mr Ambrose’s cell. I wasn’t sure whether it was a pregnant silence, yet. That depended very much on how much attention Colonel Silveira had paid to my dear employer’s nether regions.
‘I was just about to enquire how you managed to escape from your cell so quickly. However-’ Mr Ambrose’s dark eyes focused on me, boring into me, ‘-now, a slightly different question is on my mind. Why do you wish to know about the status of my reproductive organs?’
‘Call it personal curiosity.’
‘See to
it that your curiosity becomes somewhat less personal, Mr Linton.’
‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’
‘Can you open this door?’
I looked down, and got a pleasant surprise. The door didn’t actually have a lock. Apparently, Colonel Silveira never had to face the possibility of a prison break before. If he had, he’d probably have installed something a little more complex than simple bolts on the outside of his cell doors.
‘One escape coming right up, Sir!’ I hollered through the door and slid the bolt aside. A moment later I stuck my head in through the door. ‘You haven’t told me whether you still have your balls, yet.’
‘And I am not going to. Come help me untie this, now.’
He was still rubbing away at his bonds with the pottery shard. Clearing my throat, I stepped closer and held out the knife. ‘How about using this, instead?’
‘Wha-oh.’
‘Yes.’
‘Give that to me.’
‘What’s the magic word?’
‘Now!’
I looked at Mr Ambrose, and he looked right back, his dark eyes glittering dangerously in the half-light. They sent a shiver down my back that had nothing to do with the cold air down here in the dungeons. For him, that probably was the magic word. I couldn’t imagine it ever not having worked. Particularly not if the person he was talking to was of the female variety.
Blast!
I handed him the knife. Mr Ambrose snatched it up in both hands and started sawing away at the rope that bound him.
‘Where did you get the knife?’ he demanded.
‘From my jailor. A very pleasant fellow named Fidel.’
‘What? And how did you get out of the cell?’
‘Fidel left the door open for me.’
One of Mr Ambrose’s eyebrows moved up about a quarter of a millimetre. ‘This Fidel sounds like a very accommodating jailor.’
‘Oh yes, he’s a great chap! He cursed a lot and tried to stab me about a dozen times.’
‘Indeed?’