The Devil in Amber (7 page)

Miracle looked up. ‘Was like that myself. Once.’

His watery blue eyes grew momentarily dim. He threw a glance towards the crackling fire, then cleared his throat and shrugged as though embarrassed by his admission.

‘Olympus Mons. Born in Iowa of wealthy farming stock. Sent to some of the best schools the States can offer–although between you and me that’s not saying much–but expelled from the lot.’

‘Any particular reason?’ I queried, offering Miracle a cigar.

‘Refusal to conform. Bully. You know the form. Anyway, he was eventually rusticated so often they packed him off to England where he seems finally to have settled down. Took a fancy to Blighty and the notion of Empire in particular. Inherited pots from his father’s
death and enjoyed the playboy life until a holiday in Italy got him all steamed up about Mussolini.’

I nodded, blowing smoke rings towards the ceiling. ‘So far, so public record. What’s the gossip?’

Miracle grunted mischievously, clipped the end of his cigar and popped it into his mouth. ‘Well…my sources tell me that he created a good deal of resentment when he muscled in on the American fascist movement. Took the whole thing over in six months as though it was his destiny. Usual grumblings from those who’d served their time and done all the foot-soldiering…’

This made sense. Sal Volatile, I presumed, was one such. ‘Go on,’ I urged.

Miracle took a moment to encourage his smoke into life then raised his brows. ‘The word is, the true believers reckon this whole F.A.U.S.T. thing is no more than another fad for him. That he’ll soon tire of it and move onto some other craze to stave off boredom.’

‘Excellent,’ I cried. ‘Dissension in the ranks. Divide and conquer. Should be a doddle.’

Miracle waved his hand, suggesting more, the tip of his cigar glowing through a veil of bluey smoke. ‘The reason they think this, it seems, is that he’s been sinking all his moolah into a schloss.’

‘A what?’

‘A castle. In Switzerland. Despite his Yankee roots and British pretensions, that’s apparently where he’s happiest.’

‘Switzerland, eh?’

‘I’m reliably informed there’s been a tremendous amount of activity thereabouts for quite a while.’

‘What kind of activity?’

‘Digging. Under the castle. Apparently he’s been pressing the local labour force into service for months.’

I chuckled. ‘Is there gold in them thar hills?’

Miracle’s mouth turned down. ‘Dashed unlikely, I’d say. What there is, is talk.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘All rot, of course, but those funny Swiss beggars think the place is haunted or something. They reckon Mons is trying to do something unholy.’

My hand stole to my pocket, where Hubbard’s silken rag nestled. ‘They may not be far wrong.’

I snapped out of my reverie and rose from my chair. ‘Thanks for your help, Chris. You want some lunch?’

Miracle held up his hand. ‘There’s something else, Lucifer, I think you should know before you…go any further with this matter.’

I sank back onto the green leather. ‘Go on.’

Miracle took a long draw on his cigar and flicked an inch-thick chunk of grey ash into the chromium plate at his side. ‘Mons’s castle. It’s just across the border from France. Little place called Lit-de-Diable.’

Despite the cheery fire crackling in the gate, I grew cold and suddenly knew why the mountain embroidered on the occult relic had looked so familiar.

Miracle’s eyes locked with mine for a moment and bleak remembrance was writ large in them.

‘Thanks,’ I said at last. ‘Forewarned is forearmed, eh?’

Miracle stubbed out his cigar and raised himself up with some difficulty. ‘I’d better be off.’

I plastered on a cheery smile. ‘Busy afternoon?’

Miracle managed the same, his scarred face twisting slightly. ‘You know me.’

We shook hands and I had a sudden, vivid impression of him in that gold-leaf summer of ’13, arms akimbo, the scents of warm, wind-blown hay in the air, announcing that he was off at once to join up, give Jerry a fat lip and be home for Boxing Day.

The reality of course, had been somewhat different. Every bit as gallant and heroic as one would have expected from such a massive
personality, Miracle had sailed through the War unscathed until one night, late in the conflict, when we’d found ourselves working together on a dangerous mission on the Franco-Swiss border. For once, the machinations of the Royal Academy and the more solid business of the British Army had found common purpose: namely the annihilation of Baron Gustavus Feldmann, the most dangerous man in Europe.

Feldmann’s deadly plot, centred around the airstrip at Lit-de-Diable, was the Hun’s final, desperate gamble and he’d very nearly carried it off. We’d bested him at the last, of course, though at horrific cost to our side. My unit had been utterly smashed and Miracle was found wandering about on the border, whey-faced and talking nonsense, blood pouring from the wounds in his leg and gloriously handsome face.

Once so hale and full of life, poor Chris had never been the same man again.

I saw my old friend to the revolving door and he turned up his collar against the biting wind. With heavy heart, I watched his stooped form until he disappeared amid the cabs and the crowds.

I
n my experience, if a chap hangs on to secret knowledge he tends to wind up very dead, taking said knowledge with him. I’d fervently hoped, then, that my new contact, Sal Volatile, would spill the beans in the aftermath of the F.A.U.S.T. rally and not delay the final moment.

Volatile was insistent, however. His plans were not yet in place and so, in properly covert style, I was to linger in the bitter weather on the corner of Twenty-third and Fifth. I was there at the appointed time but of my chestnut-haired chum there was no sign.

Sleet slapped against my face as I sheltered in the porchway of the chichi drugstore he’d nominated as our rendezvous, huge display bottles of red and green liquid giving it an unintentionally festive air.

I scanned the street for him, watching umbrella-wielding figures slipping between the motors that crawled alongside.

Suddenly there was a hand on my elbow and I was swung round to find myself looking straight into Volatile’s handsome face. His hat
was pulled down low but there was no mistaking the fear in his eyes.

‘Gotta be careful, pal. Real careful,’ he muttered.

‘All right.’

He nodded towards the drugstore. ‘We can talk in here.’

Despite having chosen the venue, he seemed to reconsider his choice for fully thirty seconds, looking over his shoulder and then peering through the plate glass of the window. The red liquid in the giant bottle gave his pocked face a hellish tint. Finally, he nodded and let go of my arm.

I pushed at the door, setting the ‘open’ sign swinging, and we swept inside into a mercifully warm interior.

A long bar, studded with stools that had the appearance of upholstered mushrooms, took up the whole of one side of the place. On the opposite wall hung a huge rectangular mirror all stuck over with postcards of Florida.

A fat soda-jerk in a white coat and silly white hat beamed at us over his siphons. I ordered two cups of coffee and the fellah set to work, skilfully brewing the java without even glancing up from his sports magazine.

Volatile gulped down his.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘As they say in the flickers: shoot.’

He threw a wary glance outside. ‘I’m hoping I can trust you, Mr Box. I
need
to trust you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Mons is crazy. He’s turned the whole organization into his personal fan-club. It wasn’t like that before. We had good intentions, I can assure you.’

I nodded encouragingly, though I knew full well the sort of bigoted trash of which his good intentions consisted.

‘You contacted us because you have something on Mons,’ I queried. ‘What is it? You said something about a prayer? And a lamb?’

Volatile leant forward, eyes wide. ‘I found the Lamb!’ he whispered,
as though I should know what he was talking about. ‘Right under their noses! Mons is going crazy looking for it. He thinks he’s on the right track but he’ll find the bird flown!’

A curious, hissing laugh spluttered from between his teeth. I was beginning to worry that everyone around me was a little unbalanced.

Volatile’s mood switched back abruptly. He jumped to his feet, crossed swiftly to the door and, shading his eyes, looked out onto the snowy sidewalk. Either he was paranoid to the point of delusion or he was convinced he was being followed.

I glanced across at the soda-jerk but he was absorbed in his baseball literature.

Eventually, Volatile sat down again, rubbing his weary face with long, nervous fingers. ‘There’s only one place I’ll be safe. In a church.’

I almost laughed but managed to disguise my outburst by taking a gulp of coffee. ‘Sanctuary?’

Volatile bit his lip and the bristles on his unshaven chin curved upwards. ‘Well, not a church, at all really. The Convent of St Bede. It’s in England. I’ve got a passage booked out of here. Got an understanding with the captain. Pier Thirty-Nine. Tonight at midnight. Boat called the
Stiffkey
.’

‘The captain being a big, square fellah. Boozy face, long watch chain?’

‘That’s the guy. Name of Corpusty. Know him?’

‘Saw him. He didn’t see much of me, though.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Why?’

Volatile leant even closer. ‘I want you to go instead of me. The trip’s a blind. I’ve got other means of getting to England. You’ll act as a decoy.’

He handed me a sheaf of shipping documents. I looked them over.

‘Charming. And what do I get out of all this? Am I to expect company? Company with stout boots and tommy guns?’

‘I’ll tell you it all!’ cried Volatile. ‘I’ve got the inside track on the whole damn thing. How Mons gets his cash. What he’s got planned for the Lamb. It’s evil, sir!
Diabolical
.’

‘So you said.’

‘And if I can get safely to the convent—’

‘More coffee?’ The fat soda-jerk was looming over us, coffee pot in hand, beaming through the steam that poured from its pitted lid.

‘No, thanks. Look,’ I turned back to Volatile, ‘tell me about this “lamb”. And what’s this alternative escape route of yours? If something goes wrong I’ll need to find you—’

‘I’ll get in touch,’ he muttered. ‘Soon as we’re both in England.’

‘No more coffee?’ The soda-jerk was grinning stupidly, the steam from the pot fogging his owlish glasses.

‘NO! Thank you!’ I hissed.

But the fellow pushed back his spectacles from the bridge of his flat nose and shook his head. ‘I insist!’

Suddenly he’d upended the pot and scalding black fluid was raining down onto Volatile’s hand. Volatile yelled and jumped from his stool. In a flash, the soda-jerk had pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his apron and the dim interior of the drugstore flashed yellow as a bullet spat out. Volatile was hit in the knee and flung backwards into the far wall, shattering the mirror, snapshot images of Key West and Orlando fluttering about him like confetti.

All this I observed as I grabbed Volatile’s shipping documents, dropped to the floor, rolled over–my coat skirts dragging in the pool of spilled coffee–and reached for my Webley. It was out of my pocket in an instant and replying to the soda-jerk in kind. Two sang off the counter and the fat man ducked behind a cardboard advertisement for stomach-acid relief.

I looked rapidly about, my bandaged hand throbbing appallingly. There was no way I’d make it into the back room, my only chance
was the door to the outside world. Letting fly another bullet, I scuttled over Volatile’s prone, groaning form and reached a hand towards the glass door. The big display bottle immediately to my right exploded with a nerve-jangling smash as, once again, the villain blasted at me. Red liquid like diluted blood hung in the air for a moment before splashing down onto the tiled floor and into my eyes.

I let fly another bullet as I rubbed at my lovely face, praying the stuff from the bottle wasn’t toxic.

With an ugly grunt such as I imagine water buffaloes give, the soda-jerk heaved his bulk over the counter and landed before me, kicking the gun from my hand as I floundered about.

‘Now just stay calm, like a good boy!’ he cried, settling himself on the slippery floor and casting a quick glance at the semi-conscious Volatile.

‘What do you want?’ I moaned miserably, rubbing the red stuff from my dazzling optics.

He dropped to one knee and frisked me very thoroughly, batting my hands apart with the barrel of his revolver and sending my Webley skittering across the tiles with another well-aimed kick. Swinging his pistol towards me again, he aimed it squarely in the centre of my forehead. Naturally, I put up my hands.

‘Just tell me what you want!’ I cried in a shamefully panicky fashion. ‘I can be very accommodating.’

‘So I heard,’ chuckled the brute in a whiskey-soaked rasp. ‘Now get up.’

I sighed, my gaze flicking about for any sign of advantage. ‘Who are you? Why did you plug that poor sap?’

He scowled and kicked me hard in the solar plexus. I flopped to the floor, wincing in pain.

‘Just keep your mouth shut!’

He lashed out again but this time I twisted onto my side and grabbed hold of his shoe, wrenching his foot over into an unnatural
angle. He screeched in pain and tumbled onto me, knocking the breath from my lungs. For a moment, my face was flattened against the cold white tiles, red fluid pooling into my hair, overpowered by the sweaty stink from the barman’s grease-splashed crotch. Then I managed to rise to a crouching position, jerking my elbow out and into the rolls of fat that encompassed his gut.

He groaned in pain and fury. I jumped to my feet and slammed the heel of my shoe onto his hand. There was a sound like kindling crackling in a fire and, screaming, he let go of the revolver.

Darting to the floor, I retrieved the weapon and had it levelled at him before he had a chance to recover.

‘Now,’ I gasped, trying with some difficulty to catch my breath. ‘Start talking.’

‘Go screw yourself,’ he croaked, holding his ruined hand as though it didn’t belong to him.

‘Not on an empty stomach, thanks.’ I sank back onto a bar stool. Volatile was out cold. ‘I presume you’re working for Mons’s lot. You needed to rub out that fellah on the floor there before he told me all about your lord and master, eh?’

He might have talked. We shall never know. Because I was just conscious of a vague movement behind me as someone emerged from the back of the drugstore, a small pinprick of pain on the back of my neck and then a warm, fuzzy, muffled darkness as I crashed to the floor.

My tongue felt like a stick in my mouth. I blinked a couple of times and focused on a tobacco-soiled ceiling and bare bulb hanging from wire that looked like a string of liver. Turning my head slightly, I found that I was resting on a rough candy-striped pillow that had seen infinitely better days. I turned my head the other way and sat up with a yell.

Sal Volatile lay naked in bed next to me, three holes in his chest leaking unhealthy gouts of blood onto the stained mattress.

I blinked and stared at the body, my bare back hitting the cold plaster of the wall behind the bed. The Webley lay on the carpetless floor, and as I moved to get out of bed, I noticed that a man was sitting on a nearby stool, arms folded, smiling over at me with an infuriating insouciance. It was Percy Flarge.

‘Oh, Lor,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘Got ourselves into a bit of a pickle this time, eh, old fruit?’

I didn’t move but glanced quickly around the grim, bare room. ‘What…what the hell’s going on, Flarge? Where am I?’

‘You tell me. Favourite haunt of yours, by all accounts. We got a tip-off from the owner. You and the stiff came in some time ago, high as kites by his account.’

‘He’s lying—’

‘Checked into your usual room. Started getting up to…whatever it is you chaps get up to,’ continued Flarge, hatefully. ‘Lovers’ tiff ensues and…well…’

He gestured towards the corpse. ‘Funny thing,’ he grinned suddenly. ‘My Pa always said he supposed men like you shot themselves. Turns out, you shoot each other!’

I tried to keep my temper and got to my feet, glancing down at Volatile’s stiffening form. ‘What the hell are you on about? Listen, Flarge.
Percy.
I was approached by this chap in connection with an assignment for the RA. We arranged to meet earlier this evening. Well, someone must’ve been onto him, because it was a trap. He was shot–but only wounded–and I was drugged…’

Flarge took out a pipe and began to fill it. He looked thoroughly sceptical.

I felt suddenly hot with rage. ‘Look here. We can sort all this out. Would you mind awfully if we get out of here and leave the Domestics to clear things up?’

Flarge shook his head. ‘No can do.’

The door to the squalid room suddenly flew open and a skinny man in the uniform of a police captain emerged. He looked at my
pendulous, swinging tackle, swore under his breath and then, turning back to the open door, beckoned. A chattering flurry of people suddenly piled inside, two of them photographers. Flash bulbs zinged and whined in my face. I threw up my hands to shield myself.

‘I suggest we make a move, sir,’ said the captain.

‘I was just making the same suggestion,’ I said, looking about for my clothes. ‘Move where?’

‘To the station house, sir. Where you’ll be charged with murder.’