‘I see.’ Mr Ambrose didn’t seem to be fazed by the information. But then, when did he ever seem fazed by anything? ‘How did it happen?’
‘Th-they came to my house one evening. They told me that they had a proposition for me, that they would pay much better than that miser Ambro-’
Simmons almost bit his tongue off, realizing a bit too late that it might not be very wise to relate the men’s exact words. I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from sniggering. Karim noticed and threw me a look that could have burned holes in solid metal.
‘Is that what they said?’ Mr Ambrose mused, his facial expression not changing a bit. ‘Well, and did they pay much better than that miser Ambrose?’
‘Um… well…’
‘Let’s assume from the suitcase of banknotes we found in your room that they did indeed. What did you do for them?’
‘I… I gave them information on your daily routine, your correspondence, on what files and papers passed through my hands, Sir. At least at first.’
‘And later?’
‘Later they wanted more, Sir. They wanted me to start taking things. When I refused, they started threatening they would reveal to you what I had so far done for them.’
Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘Of course. You are stupid, Simmons, do you know that?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Simmons lowered his eyes, but Mr Ambrose stepped closer and with his penetrating dark gaze forced the man to look up again.
‘These things you took - what were they?’
‘All manner of things, Sir. Business letters, tables of cargo, personal letters…’
The silence in the room was sudden, frigid, and cut Simmons' speech off more effectively than the loudest of screams.
‘You,’ whispered Mr Ambrose in a voice I had never heard him use before, ‘gave my personal correspondence to these men?’
‘Err… yes.’ There was a squeak of panic in Simmons' voice now. ‘But… that’s not that bad, is it? It’s not like you ever read it, Sir?’
‘Letters written by a woman?’ Mr Ambrose inquired, ignoring the question. ‘Letters in pink envelopes?’
‘Y-yes, Sir.’
Silence again. Then Mr Ambrose stated, as cold as Antarctica itself: ‘You are lucky that Karim is the one holding the sabre right now.’
‘Yes, Sir. I am sorry, Sir.’
‘You certainly will be.’
Again Simmons tried to look down, and again Mr Ambrose held him with his dark gaze. ‘Now tell me. Tell me about the day you stole the file.’
‘Well… they told me to take it and… and I did.’
‘How many days did they have to work on you before you agreed?’
‘A w-week and a half. I didn’t want to take it. I knew it was important.’
Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. Simmons winced as if he’d been hit with a whip.
That reaction told me more about the contents of the file than any of my wild guesses.
‘Oh, you’re right about that,’ Mr Ambrose said in low voice. ‘It’s important all right. When and how did you leave the house the night of your theft?’
‘I… I was just finished with work, Sir. I knew you were still working on the Emerson papers in your office. I locked the door to the hallway, went into the safe and took the file.’
‘How did you know where to look for it? You had never handled that particular file.’
‘They told me it had to be in the safe, and told me the time it concerned. I knew your filing system, and so knew what to look for.’
‘I see. And your way out?’
‘That was easy. I am - was - your private secretary. Nobody challenged me on the way out. I had the file concealed under my waistcoat, tucked into my trousers.’
‘Trust!’ It was a vicious growl, a sound unlike any other I had ever heard escape from my employer’s throat. With surprise I saw that Mr Ambrose had both hands clenched into tight fists. ‘Of course, it would have to be trust that brought me down! Again! Ah, but we will change that. No more! Karim!’
‘Yes, Sahib?’
The huge Mohammedan stepped forward.
‘Talk to Warren. Have him station one of his men at the exit to my offices’ inner sanctum at all times. From now on, we will search everybody who comes in and everybody who leaves. Understood?’
‘It shall be as you command, Sahib!’
Karim left the room. Something clicked outside, and after only a few moments he was back in the cell. How…? He couldn’t possibly have run up the corridor and delivered the message that quickly, could he? Then I remembered: pneumatic tubes. Apparently, they didn’t only connect Mr Ambrose’s office and mine. They had to be running through the whole building!
My employer, meanwhile, had his full attention focused on his captive again.
‘What did you do with the file next?’
Simmons wet his lips. He seemed to be getting more and more nervous, which I didn’t understand. He had already admitted the worst - taking the file, right? So what was there about his story that could cause him greater anxiety?
‘I took it right away to a house in Penrose Street.’
‘Mr Linton?’
It took me a few seconds to realize that Mr Ambrose had addressed me. He was still staring fixedly at Simmons, his back to me.
‘Um… yes, Sir?’
‘I haven’t been back in London long, and neither has Karim. We’ve spent years away in the colonies. What kind of street is Penrose Street?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Not a very reputable one, I believe, Sir. It’s one of the names that often comes up in police reports in the papers.’
Simmons nodded eagerly and shuddered. ‘It was a dreadful place, full of coolies and other lowlife. I have no idea why they always wanted to meet there.’
‘I can think of only one explanation,’ Mr Ambrose mused. ‘In case you were caught or followed there, they wanted everybody to think it was low criminals with whom you were consorting. Which makes me think that the exact opposite was the case.’
‘They weren’t criminals?’ I asked, confused.
‘Oh, they were criminals all right. But certainly not low ones. In fact I suspect they were rather high up the food chain. Am I correct?’
Simmons' shudder was more than enough answer.