Or, anybody.
Had to get moving now, and be quick about it. He’d just seen an urgent text message on his PDA from Alex Hawke. He was in Oman and he needed help bad and he needed it now. He turned from the window.
Time to loot. And maybe, shoot.
Chapter Forty-six
New York City
AMBROSE CONGREVE WAS A LIGHT SLEEPER. THE SOUND OF sirens and garbage trucks on the streets of old New York nudged him awake at 5:00 A.M. He dozed fitfully for an hour or two, then, through sheer force of will, woke himself up. He slipped out of his warm bed and into his leather slippers and robe. He stretched and yawned and briefly considered jumping right back in bed. No, he was hungry. Ravenous. Small wonder. It was nearly tea back in London.
He fumbled for the bedside phone and rang room service. Yes, two eggs over easy, toast, a pot of black coffee and some fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. Thirty minutes? Thanks very much.
He gently replaced the receiver in its cradle. Turned on the bedside lamp. Ouch. It was bright. A sensation one might describe as severe pain bloomed somewhere behind his eyeballs. What on earth was the matter? He was a vigorous chap long accustomed to rising at the crack of nine. Ah, yes. Jet lag. Two days in New York and he was still suffering mightily. True, he and Captain Mariucci had stopped off for a nightcap, but—ouch. His head was banging.
Jet lag and—well, truth be told, he was a bit hung over. A wee touch of the Irish flu, to be perfectly honest about the thing. He had only a vague memory of going to bed in the first place.
After their midnight thrills at Coney Island, Congreve and Mariucci had fallen victim to consecutive nightcaps in Bemelman’s Bar, an establishment just off the Carlyle lobby downstairs.
“One and done,” Mariucci said when the cruiser braked to a halt outside the Madison Avenue bar entrance. One? Neither man knew the meaning of the word one when it came to adult potables. Yes, cold, wet, and exhilarated by their stunning success in the dark heart of Brooklyn, the two old chums had succumbed to the siren call of Mr. Bemelman’s bar.
The colorful and storied bar at that hour had been very nearly deserted. They chose the chocolate brown leather banquette beneath Ambrose’s favorite scene, an enchanting depiction of picnicking rabbits. After reviewing the evening’s macabre events, they had come to Joey Bones’s poignant last moments on the floor of the Ferris wheel car.
“Hell of a thing, Ambrose,” Mariucci said, draining the last of his third Gin-Gin Mule, “Seeing him go out like that.”
“Didn’t know Joe, obviously,” Ambrose agreed, sipping his delicious Macallan’s. “Still, I must confess I rather hated to see the old boy exit this mortal coil. I quite liked him during our brief acquaintance.”
“Well, you got your deathbed confession, Chief Inspector. Now what? Storm the beaches of France again? Take Paris? What?”
“The president of France is almost certainly a cold-blooded murderer. We now have eyewitness testimony to a murder. Interpol and the Yard will issue warrants and we’ll journey to Paris and take him into custody.”
“Simple as that, huh?”
“No one said it would be easy. He won’t give up without a horrific fight.”
“What’s this ‘we’ crap? I ain’t going to Paris. I got my hands full right here in River City.”
“In that case, I suppose I shall have to take sole credit for the collar of the century, Captain,” Ambrose said. Looking at his watch, he rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet. He thanked Mariucci profusely for his help and then bade the good captain a very good night indeed. Or, at least, that’s the way he seemed to recall his leave- taking.
Ambrose hadn’t even dared look at the clock when he’d switched out the light and climbed into bed. He didn’t want to know. He supposed he’d had two or three hours of sleep. In that time, he’d had a remarkable dream. The lovely Diana Mars had the starring role.
She was in some kind of danger. His cousin Bulling was slinking about, stalking her. No, no, it was that butler, Oakshott. He shook his head. Couldn’t remember anything more. He hoped Sutherland was keeping a watchful eye on her in his absence. He worried about her. No, he missed her.
Now, feeling as if he were moving underwater, he padded across the room to one of the corner windows. His slippers made slapping noises on his heels. A watery grey light was leaking through a crack in the draperies. Pulling the heavy chintz aside, he looked out at the city below. The skies were indeed grey, though the storms of the previous evening had abated, leaving only a soft rain to swirl against the window.
His mission was satisfactorily concluded. He’d call Kelly and Hawke and give them the details. Then he’d book himself on the evening BA flight to Heathrow. That left him with a free day in New York to spend any way he wished. Perhaps he’d stroll over to the Met. There was an exhibit of the drawings of Peter Paul Rubens he was keen on seeing and that would be a lovely way to spend—
The telephone jangled. He crossed the room and picked it up.
“Hullo?”
“Is that you, Ambrose?”
“Diana?”
“Yes.”
“You sound like you’re just next door.”
“I am, almost. I’m at the Colony Club on Park Avenue.”
“You’re in New York?”
“Arrived late last night.”
“Good heavens. You’re here. Are you quite all right?”
“Of course I’m all right. It’s just that—”
“Just that what, Diana?”
“Detective Sutherland thought it a good idea for me to go on holiday. To get away from England for a time.”
“Why? Did something happen?”
“Well, it was nothing really. Someone got into the house. The night before last. About three in the morning. I heard a noise and called the number you and the detectives gave me.”
“Yes? Go on, go on.”
“Well, there are police on the property, as you know. They came at a run. But someone was right at my bedroom door. It was locked obviously, but the—the knob was turning and—”
“Good lord.”
“Yes. One hopes. At any rate, I got my trusty shooting iron from under the bed and went to the door. I gave fair warning. I said, ‘I’ve been waiting all my life to do this,’ and opened fire. It was quite marvelous.”
“Did you hit anything?”
“Well, the door, certainly.”
“I mean—did you shoot anyone?”
“No, unfortunately. He, or she, was gone by the time the coppers got there. No blood on the carpet, so I suppose I missed. I was disappointed, frankly. The nerve of someone to—”
“Thank God you’re safe.”
“Safe as houses, I suppose. What are you doing today?”
“Me? Well, I’ve a few phone calls to make. My trip’s been a great success. I can’t wait to tell you about it. And then—well, I was thinking of popping over to the Met. Been ages since I’ve had a good look round. There’s a good Rubens show on if you’d like to join me?”
“Oh. I can’t, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, well. Perhaps another—”
“Ambrose, the reason I called is this. I’ve been invited out to the Hamptons for a few days. My dear friends
