The Devil in Amber Read Free

church. ‘ Shoo-wer . We paid off the pastor with enough rubes to make a new roof, and the Cupboard’ll soon be doing the breaststroke in the Hudson–face down, if you takes my meaning.’
    I did. ‘I have orders to bring back everything he had on him. I trust you took care to—’
    ‘Mr Flarge done all that,’ he interrupted.
    ‘Did he now?’
    ‘Oh, yeah. Nice and regular. He’s very per-spik-ay-shee-us , is Mr Flarge. He saved your ass too and no mistake.’
    I ignored Daley’s taunting and looked towards the back of the church. ‘Is the body still here?’
    ‘ Shoo-wer . You wanna pay your last respects?’ He grinned nastily, exposing tiny neat teeth like those of a deep-sea fish.
    ‘Why not?’
    Outside, freezing night was creeping on. Daley handed me a pocket torch and led me into the yard, where a tumbledown outhouse had been pressed into service as a temporary morgue. Snowflakes as big as chrysanthemums were floating down from the drear sky and I bent down and scooped up a handful to assuage the awful throbbing in my hand.
    Daley shuddered open the outhouse door and the body of Hubbard was revealed in the beam of the torch. We went inside.
    ‘What exactly did Mr Flarge take away?’ I asked, peering down at the powder-blackened hole in Hubbard’s head.
    ‘Whole bunch of stuff,’ said Daley, taking the stub of a fat black cigar from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Mr Flarge had a big carpet bag on him. Filled it with papers, mostly, and, you know, some merchandise.’
    ‘Cocaine?’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    Well, that seemed to confirm the theories. I nodded absently, and began to search Hubbard’s body. Flarge had certainly been thorough. There was nothing in the big man’s ghastly suit. No wallet, no identification, no driver’s licence.
    More than anything, I wanted to spot something that young pup had missed, and Daley knew it. He smoked his spit-wetted cigar and watched my fruitless activity with obvious glee. I’d almost given up when something caught my eye.
    It was Hubbard’s handkerchief. In sharp contrast to the dead man’s vile tailoring, the wipe was made of an exquisite ivory-coloured silk of obvious antiquity. It was folded into three neat triangles, like a miniature mountain range, and there seemed to be some sort of exotic pattern on it. It might be a mere trifle, but trifles ain’t to be sniffed at when you’ve not even been invited to the party…
    Daley was watching me closely. I cleared my throat and straightened up as though satisfied.
    ‘Very well. There’s nothing more to be done here,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’
    Daley gave a little bow. I gasped suddenly, as though in pain, and dropped the torch, which rolled under the table.
    ‘Sorry!’ I managed through gritted teeth. ‘Damned wound!’
    Daley bent down to retrieve the torch and I swiftly whipped thehandkerchief from Hubbard’s breast pocket, stuffing it into my trousers just as the Domestic bobbed back up.
    ‘You get yourself to bed now, Mr Box, you hear?’ he said with a horrible grin. ‘Then maybe get on the boat back home to Eng-ur-land, huh? What with Christmas coming and all.’
    I smiled tightly and stalked off into the gathering snowstorm, the silken rag tucked firmly into my pocket.

2
You Might As Well Live
    T hose who have followed these incoherent memoirs may recall that my long and rather lovely hands are not to be trifled with. A youth of my acquaintance once compared them to Our Lord’s as depicted in Caravaggio’s Ecce Homo . I was, naturally, immensely flattered, though my digits had been engaged in singularly un-Christ-like activity at the time.
    Now, as blaring taxi cabs crawled around me in the sickly electric-yellow glow of the evening, I feebly raised my injured fingers and hailed one such, muttered the address of my hotel and slid inside the motor, avoiding the driver’s invective by studiously pretending sleep. The soft, wet patter of snow against the windows lulled me and I placed my