07. To Watch for Fat and Gold

When I opened the door to his office, Mr Ambrose was sitting in his chair, glaring at a piece of paper on his desk as if he wanted to freeze it solid with his look. He didn't look up when I stepped in, but still managed to make me feel that the icy look was not for the paper alone.

'You are two and a half seconds late, Mr Linton!'

'Good Morning, Sir. It's very nice to see you again, too.'

'Send a message through the tubes! I want to know if my new cane has arrived yet.'

'Your new what, Sir?'

'My cane! I tried to hold on to my old one, but it slipped out of my fingers while swimming ashore.' He sounded as if having survived the sinking of the ship was an insignificant event that could in no way outweigh the horrendous loss of his invaluable walking stick. 'I have to buy a new one. If things continue at this rate, I'll be reduced to beggary soon.'

'Yes, Sir.'

'And it's going to be infernally expensive! I have to have it custom-made, of all things! They don't sell them like I want them.'

'Really, Sir? I can't imagine why shops don't usually sell walking sticks with hidden swords inside. They're such a handy, everyday item.'

'Mr Linton?'

'Yes, Sir?'

'Get a move on and get me my cane!'

'Yes, Sir!'

While Mr Ambrose continued to shoot death-stares at the paper in front of him, I went into the office next door, to a spot where there was a hole in the wall, and beside the hole a number of levers and buttons. They gave me access to the system of pneumatic tubes that ran through the entire buildings. Shove a small cylinder with a message into one of the tubes and push the right buttons, and it would pop out at almost any place in the building, saving my leg muscles from eternal cram and Mr Ambrose a lot of valuable time.

Dear Sallow-Face...

My hand stopped writing, hovering over the little bit of paper. Hm... I probably shouldn't address him like that. He might be offended. Men were funny that way.

But I had such bloody difficulties remembering the man's name! What was it again? Parsnips? Pumpkin? No, Pearson! That was it, Pearson!

Dear Mr Pearson,

Mr Ambrose has requested...

I halted again. Then I crossed out 'requested' and wrote 'ordered' instead.

Dear Mr Pearson,

Mr Ambrose has ordered me to inquire with you if his custom-made walking stick has already arrived. You know, the one with the pig sticker inside?

Yours Truly

Mr Victor Linton

The answer came back quickly and efficiently:

Mr Linton,

No.

Yours,

Pearson

Ah. Apparently the good Mr Pearson had embraced wholeheartedly Mr Ambrose's policy on quick and efficient communication in the workplace. Returning to Mr Ambrose's office, I handed him the slip of paper.

'Here, Sir! As requested, Sir!'

He through a glance at the paper. He didn't curse – curses were a waste of valuable breath, after all – but the way in which his little finger twitched spoke volumes. Ones with lots of dirty words inside.

'I can't go without some protection,' he growled. 'Not there! Who knows what they might get up to?'

Shoving his chair back abruptly, he rose from his desk and marched out of his office into mine. A moment later I heard the rustling of keys and knew what he was doing.

What the bloody hell does he want in the safe?

'No, not that,' I heard him murmur to clanking and thudding. 'Not that either, and that's not right at all... Ah, yes!'

Seconds later he re-entered his office. And he had found what he'd been looking for. My eyes went wide! It was a massive wooden cudgel, painted lines drawn around the top, and the image of a very determined, very ugly demon's face carved into it.

'What the hell is that?' I blurted out before I could control myself. He gave me a look. One of those looks. 'Sir,' I added, hurriedly.

'It is one of many trophies from my travels. Originally, I believe it had ceremonial purpose. But it will suffice for what I have in mind.'

He gave the thing an experimental swing, and I jumped back.

'What in God's name do you need a ceremonial cosh for?'

Picking up the letter he had been staring at from the desk, thrust it at me. 'Read!'

Carefully, not sure whether he would break out into any more sudden bouts of experimental stick-fighting, I took the piece of paper. Even more carefully I lowered my eyes to it.

Sir,

A situation has arisen at factory number 12 in Soho, and requires your immediate attention.

Yours Truly

Dennis Bradley

Factory Manager

Not far underneath that was scribbled in a rather hastier script:

P.S.: I resign.

'A situation?' My head snapped up to stare at Mr Ambrose. 'What kind of situation?'

'It doesn't say.'

'I know it doesn't say! That's why I'm asking you!'

'I regret to inform you Mr Linton that I am not omniscient.' His face stone-hard, he gave the cudgel another experimental swing. 'But I think it's best to go prepared for anything.'

Realization settled in.

'You... you don't mean that you are going to go there by yourself?'

'No.'

'Thank God!' I let out a breath of relief. 'I thought for a moment–'

'I won't be by myself. You shall accompany me.'

'What?'

His gaze was a lance of ice, pinning me where I stood. 'You heard me.'

'But... but... there will be dozens of men there!'

'No. Hundreds. Two-hundred and thirty seven, to be exact, not counting any females and juveniles.'

'So don't you think any trouble there will be dangerous? Whatever the trouble is, they'll probably be angry!' Because you have a talent for making people heat to boiling point.

'I expect so,' he told me, as cold as a cucumber in a barrel of ice at the North Pole. 'I am certainly angry. They are lazing about while I pay them to work. And I intend to put a stop to that.'

'But... bloody hell, this will be dangerous!'

He raised the cudgel in his hand. 'Did you think I took this for decoration?' He took a step closer to me, cudgel still raised.

'Well...' Desperately, I floundered for something to say. On one level, I was excited. On another, I was something I would never admit being to myself. It started with a T, and continued with E, R, R, I, F, I, E, and D. 'Don't you have anything I could use as a weapon?'

'I have an African hunting bow. But I imagine that's not what you're looking for.'

'Not really, no.'

He shrugged. But... Was that a satisfied glint I saw in his dark eyes? 'You'll just have to rely on your fists, if it comes to a fight, Mr Linton. After all, you are as tough as any man, aren't you?'

The bloody son of a...!

I opened my mouth to say something, but he was faster. He had crossed the distance between us with two long strides, and was suddenly towering in front of me, a column of iron encased in black cloth. His dark, sea-coloured eyes held mine captive.

'Did you think working for me would be easy, Mr Linton? Did you think I didn't mean what I said? This work is not for you! Or did you think being my secretary would mean sitting nice and snug in your warm office all day?'

I had difficulties holding that powerful, dark gaze of his. Still, the corner of my mouth twitched up in an involuntary smile. 'My office is freezing cold, Sir. All the rooms in the building are, because you don't want to pay for gas or firewood.'

His eyes narrowed, infinitesimally. I could feel the tension in the air between us, crackling. 'Mr Linton?'

'Yes, Sir?'

'Be silent!'

'Yes, Sir!'

'And follow me!'

'As you wish, Sir!'

Going downstairs on Mr Ambrose heals was always a remarkable experience. He was the only man I'd ever met who had mastered the art of striding arrogantly down a staircase. How he managed it without knotting his legs or breaking his neck was beyond me.

Today, however, I was more than a little distracted from the show by the fact that we were, very possibly, going to have our brains bashed in.

You're going to have another adventure! Admit it, you're excited!

Well, possibly, part of me was. Still, there was this other part who was the unspeakable T-word I would never admit to.

Blast him! Why did he have to do this just to get rid of me?

But deep down, I knew he would do exactly the same if I weren't there. He was that kind of man: ruthless, and not afraid to march headlong into danger. Blast him thrice to hell and back!

Somewhere on the way down, I expected to be joined by others. If not by many people, at least by Mr Ambrose personal bloodhound Karim. But no one came. Was Karim still alive at all? I realized I hadn't seen him since we had split up on Île Marbeau. I really hoped the grumpy bodyguard hadn't gotten himself shot or drowned or dismembered. I would miss his disapproving glares. They made such a nice change from the disapproving glares I got from Mr Ambrose.

But Karim was nowhere in sight. Mr Ambrose couldn't really mean for us to do this all alone, could he?

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I couldn't hold it in any longer.

'Where's Karim?' I burst out. 'Isn't he going with us?'

Is he alive?

He looked over his shoulder, his cold gaze bored into me. 'Karim won't be coming. He is trying to clamp down on that scandal at Speaker's Corner, before any more rumours get spread all over London.'

He's alive! He's a live! He – wait! What did he say?

'Excuse me' I pictured the huge bodyguard, nearly seven feet tall even without his towering turban, a mountain of muscle and armed with a sabre that could easily sever limbs. 'You employ Karim as your public relations man?'

'No. I employ him as the man who scares people into keeping their mouths shut.' And with that, he strode across the hall and out onto the street.

Outside, I stopped to wait for a carriage. Mr Ambrose, however, strode off down the street. After a moment, I hurried after him.

'Wait! Where's the cab?'

'Do you honestly think I would waste money on that?'

'What? You mean we'll have to walk all the way?'

Without turning back to me, he waved a dismissive hand. 'It's not far. And with the streets as crowded as they are we'll be faster on foot in any case.'

After about twenty minutes of brisk, silent marching, it had started to sink in that Rikkard Ambrose and I had very different ideas of the meaning of the words 'not far'. My feet hurt worse than after hours of dancing, but I trudged on without complaint.

You probably should be grateful he didn't make you walk back all the way from Dover!

Well, maybe so. But at the moment, gratitude was at the bottom of my things-to-feel list.

Around us, the city slowly changed. Men's and women's clothes grew shabbier. Fancy carriages were replaced by carts and wagons full of goods. Then, the goods became less and less, and after another few minutes there weren't even empty carts anymore. The smoke in the air grew thicker, and so did the crowds of people. Finally, we stepped into a street that was lined on both sides with large, flat buildings, their chimneys spewing clouds of black into the air. The high walls around them, some with iron spikes on top, didn't exactly make our surroundings any more inviting.

'Number twelve...' Mr Ambrose murmured, his eyes raking searchingly over the facades. The numbers were hardly legible from here. 'Which is number twelve...?'

'How about that one?' I panted, pointing to one of the walls, with the large red letters 'Freedom for Workers!' and 'To Hell with the Rich!' scrawled on the side.

'A reasonable supposition, Mr Linton. Let's go.'

The door in the wall of that factory wasn't closed like the others. As we approached, I could see it stood slightly ajar. Not just that, I could hear the murmur of voices inside. Voices – not the rattle of machines, even though it was the middle of a workday. My heart beat faster. Was this it? What was going on in there?

Mr Ambrose seemed to feel none of my hesitation. He marched towards the gates with iron determination. He was just six steps away from the entrance when something whizzed through the air above him and knocked his top hat clean off his head.

Mr Ambrose didn't yelp, or curse, or jump. Instead, he froze, and slowly turned up his face. I followed suit.

On top of the factory wall – it was one of those without iron spikes on top – sat a small boy in grubby clothes and with a grubby face. He was grinning from ear to ear, and weighing a second stone in his hand. Immediately, my hands went up to clutch my hat.

Mr Ambrose sent the boy a look that by all rights should have frozen him solid and knocked him off the wall. The little twerp must have been a tough nut, though, because all the look did was make him lower the stone a little bit. Without taking his eyes off the boy, Mr Ambrose bent to pick up his hat. Carefully, he dusted it off and placed it on his head. Then, he focused his full intention on the miscreant again.

'You!'

Ignoring him, the little boy tossed his stone into the air and caught it.

'You, up there on the wall! I'm talking to you.'

'Get stuffed, you skanky tosser,' the youth replied, merrily.

'I shall most certainly remain unstuffed,' Mr Ambrose returned, coolly. 'Taxidermists charge insufferable fees, nowadays. Now, tell me what is going on in there, in that factory!'

The little boy beamed. Apparently, Mr Ambrose had hit upon his favourite subject.

'We're striking,' he proudly proclaimed.

'Striking?' Mr Ambrose's left little flinger twitched. His voice was as low and controlled as before, but that didn't fool me. 'Are you, now?'

'Yes, guv! We're fighting O-presh-ion and Ecs-ploi-tay-shion.'

'How fascinating.'

'Oh, yes, it is! We're fighting for our rights, you know, and for the first time really standing up to the bastard who owns this dump! Some rich bugger named Ambrose! 'e's been making us slave for 'im for years for a pittance, and in all that time 'e never once dared to show his ugly mug 'ere!'

Covering my mouth with my hands, I sent a prayer to heaven for the little boy who had just damned himself to a fate worse than death. Mr Ambrose cocked his head, narrowing his eyes.

'So you don't know what this Ambrose looks like, I assume?'

The little boy made a dismissive gesture. 'Ah, those rich buggers in their fancy clothes look all the same!'

'Indeed?'

'Aye. I'm supposed to keep watch out 'ere, you know, for when he arrives in his fancy carriage and drags his fat paunch inside.'

'Indeed?' Mr Ambrose little finger twitched again, and his eyes narrowed another micrometre. 'Well, why don't you keep on watching for Mr Ambrose's fancy coach? I'm sure he'll be along any minute to drag his fat paunch inside, as you so eloquently put it. Mr Linton and I will just go into the factory for a minute. We have a small matter to discuss with your fellow strikers.'

Without waiting for an answer, Mr Ambrose shoved the gate wide open and strode inside. I, bloody fool that I was, hurried after him.

Come on! Admit it! This will be fun!

Yes, if we didn't get torn to pieces...

The voices from inside the factory were louder now. They weren't murmurs, they were shouts and bellows and yells! Metal crashed against metal, and glass broke. Not far away, another boy darted over the courtyard. Raising a stone in his hand, he hurled it through one of the factories upstairs windows. It shattered, and there was a roar of approval.

Mr Ambrose didn't slow his stride. He didn't even hesitate.

I swallowed. 'Um... Sir?'

'Yes, Mr Linton?'

'Don't you think it might be wiser not to go in there?'

'No, Mr Linton.'

'Oh.'

He halted, then. He didn't turn around, but simply said: 'You can leave at any time, Mr Linton.'

My temper shot upwards. Against it, my good sense had no chance whatsoever! 'Not on your sweet life! And not on mine, either!'

'I see. Then let's stop wasting time.'

We had nearly reached the door of the factory by then. It was a rough thing, two raw and splintery slices of wood forming the wings of the gate under a brick arch. There was no telling what colour the wood or bricks had been originally, so blackened and stained were they by soot. On the steps leading up to the door, there was a smear of some dark red liquid. So, all in all, it looked extremely cheery. There was probably a party with tea and cake waiting on the other side.

'Death to the capitalists!' came a shout from inside, seconded by a roar of approval.

Mr Ambrose nodded, thoughtfully gazing into the gloom beyond the entrance. 'That would be me, I presume.' And with that, he stepped into the factory.

Bloody stone-faced son of a bachelor! Does he think nothing can harm him? Is his brain made out of stone, too?

For a moment, I hesitated – then I hurried after him. Huzzah! Apparently, both our brains were made of stone. How wonderful!

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My dear Lords, Ladies & Gentlemen,

I proudly present my promised surprise: one additional early chapter of 'In the Eye of the Storm'!  I hope it was to your liking? :) And I have more great news for you! Not only shall our dear Lilly and her stingy boss most likely carry away the trophy at the  "Story of the Year Award 2015", but the 2 of them have also achieved a thing that is far more difficult to accomplish! They say an image says more than 1000 words, so here we go:

Yes, you saw correctly! This page is copied directly from Amazon, proving to all the world that you are the most awesomely supportive Ifrits anywhere! Thanks to you, we're heading up the Amazon bestseller lists! We're nearly where Mr Ambrose really wants to be - the top! Anyone who hasn't ordered their copy yet - or anyone who feels like owning a collection of 'Storm and Silence' paperbacks ;-) - please order your copy NOW!  I'll do it myself, and shall bug all my family members until they've all ordered one as well! ;-)

If we all pitch in, we can make Lilly & Ambrose a #1 BESTSELLLER! :)

Wouldn't that be SPIFFING?? :)

Yours Truly

(an incredibly excited) Sir Rob


P.S: Here are the ANSWERS TO  A FEW OF QUERIES which have recently been asked by some of you, my dear readers, in the comments:

1. Will "In the Eye of the Storm" be available to purchase not just from Amazon.com, but also via other local branches of Amazon, like Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.ca, Amazon.de or Amazon.in, etc? [ANSWER UPDATED January 2017]  

Yes, by now the story is available from all the various branches of Amazon.

2. Can I get the book from my local bookstore? [ANSWER UPDATED January 2017]

Any books of the "Storm and Silence" series probably won't be lying around on display, but you can definitely order them from there, unless you live in one of a few countries that are the exception. (See the next question.)

3. I live in a country that is quite far away from the USA, where the paperback version of "In the Eye of the Storm" is printed & packaged. Will the book be available in my home country?

The book can be ordered from nearly everywhere in the world (except maybe a few places in central Africa, unfortunately).

4. Is the special additional material from Mr Ambrose's point of view that is available in the paperback also going to be inside the ebook edition?

Yes! Definitely! :-)

If you've got any more questions, please don't hesitate to comment! I'll do my very best to keep an eye open for them during the next couple of days so I can give you the answers in my very next author's note!

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GLOSSARY:

Tosser: British English insult, which means something like 'badly smelling jerk'.

Taxidermists: People who stuff things, particularly of the dead animal variety.

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