The Devil in Amber Read Free Page B

driver’s hairy hand, I clambered out into the cold, rubbing my neck and swiftly making my way into the December-dark lobby. Palm fronds poked out from tobacco-fogged niches where old men, already dressed for dinner, gleefully scanned the obituary columns.
    Exhausted, and anxious to take a proper look at the ‘handkerchief’, I crossed to the lifts and jabbed impatiently at the button. Above my head, a gilded arrow on illumined green glass crawled slowly round. I sank against the wall and sighed heavily. A dullache was banging behind my eyes and my hand hurt like billy-o. I’d had hell’s time that day.
    When at last the lift arrived and the heavy lattice screen was dragged back, I stepped inside without looking up. The interior was all walnut.
    ‘Fifteen, ain’t it, Mr Box?’
    I glanced over, and my scowl melted instantly away. It was a bellhop I’d noticed only that morning, red-headed and pale as a Tudor portrait, noticing me from under long-lashed eyes.
    Now he held his head on one side, as though trying to dislodge a marble from his ear, one of those silly round hats at an acute angle on his well-oiled hair. He had huge green eyes and lips as red as raspberries.
    ‘Do we know each other?’ I asked at last.
    He seemed flustered by this and looked away. ‘Um…old Van Buren–that is, Mr Van Buren, the manager, sir. He told me your name. There’s a package come for you and he said, “Rex, you be sure and take that up to Mr Box when he comes back.” And I says, “Is Mr Box that tall, refined-looking gentleman—”’
    ‘Yes, all right. Just bring me the parcel, Rex .’ I stepped out of the lift and looked him directly in his emerald eyes as the grille closed over his face. ‘Room Fifteen-o-eight.’
    Smiling a little to myself and feeling much better, I let myself into said room. It was large and well appointed, a big white divan cover on the bed, cream-coloured leather armchairs in each corner. The warm aura from discreet lamps prevented the whiteness from appearing too stark and I found it immensely comforting after the privations of the outside world.
    Throwing off coat and hat, I reached into my trousers, pulled out Hubbard’s silken rag and carefully unfolded it on one of the pillows.
    Though roughly handkerchief-shaped, it had clearly been torn from a much larger piece of material. Two of the edges were ragged and bore crabbed text in what looked like some species of Latin.The bottom corners were highly decorated with coloured emblems, a picture of a mountain and dragon’s heads. There was a sort of fiery motif, embroidered rather beautifully, the flames licking over what looked like an animal on a spit.
    I examined the thing until my vision swam then decided to abandon it for the night. After all, I was almost certainly clutching at straws. Perhaps Percy Flarge hadn’t bothered with it because it was nothing more than a snotty rag.
    Pulling off my shoes, I padded to the bathroom and ran a tub. It was a huge relief to strip off the sweat-drenched togs and I stood naked for a moment, letting my bare feet sink into the deep white pile of the carpet, before plunging into the bath. The heat made me feel raw. I closed heavy lids and rested my injured hand on the soap dish.
    That I’d failed pretty spectacularly at my mission to rub out Hubbard was scarcely in question. Also, I’d been somewhat humiliated by friend Flarge. But worse things happened at sea, as I knew from that funny old night on the Lusitania . And Hubbard was at least dead, so perhaps I was exaggerating the calamity. Come on, old man, I told myself. Chin up. I was sound in wind and limb and, most importantly, alive.
    Something about this matter, though, didn’t add up. Why were my superiors so keen to bump off small fry like Hubbard? The dreary narcotics trade was surely a police matter. What did it have to do with the RA? And why hadn’t a local been pressed into service?
    Yours not to reason why, Box old chum, you might well say.