The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel (11 page)

“And I don’t suppose you’d care to reveal the identity of those well-placed sources?” Hugo asked.

“Funny thing,” Walton said. “Lord Pendrith here was the one who helped strengthen our press-shield laws so I don’t have to. Nice irony, don’t you think?”

“Very nice,” said Hugo. “You were about to tell us what you wanted.”

“Same thing you do, I expect,” said Walton. “I want to find and have a chat with our friend Harper. Maybe a little interview before you whisk him away into the bosom of the American embassy.”

“And what would you be seeking in return?” asked Hugo.

“I won’t say anything about you having lost him. Seems like that would set off a bit of a frenzy, don’t you think?”

“No can do, old boy,” said Pendrith. “Assuming you got your info from a couple of London reporters I know, then I shall further assume you’d appreciate that I already made that deal with them. So you can follow us all you like, write what you like, and pretty much go to hell.”

Walton sat back and stroked his chin, his head cocked as he stared at Pendrith. “Here’s the way I see it. By telling me about your little escapade in central London, they broke their promise to keep mum. Which means you owe them nothing. And, of course, they won’t know you have a deal with me because I wouldn’t be stupid enough to tell them.” He turned to face Hugo. “I will also assume that finding your lost charge is priority number one and that double-crossing a couple of London hacks wouldn’t be of great concern to the American ambassador. Am I right?”

“You are quite right about that, Mr. Walton.” Hugo leaned toward him, a thin smile on his face. “I can also assure you that the ambassador wouldn’t object in the slightest to a small red car being accidentally crushed by a large American one in the parking lot of a quiet English pub. He would be mildly upset if someone was in that small red car, but he’d get over it when he found out it was a journalist.”

“Mr. Marston, are you threatening me?”

“Yes,” Hugo said. “Very much so. I don’t like blackmail, Mr. Walton. Not one little bit, and in my experience the blackmailer almost always ends up getting squished, either by his supposed victim or by the law. Sometimes both.”

“Well then.” Walton rubbed his hands together and sat back. “If you will excuse me, I have a story to write. I’m not completely up to speed on the whole Internet thing, but my guess is that if you are here, you think Dayton Harper is. And that means anyone who reads my story will think so, too, putting about two thousand people into this village by daybreak. How will you get on, Mr. Marston, with two thousand people following your every move?”

As Walton stood, Hugo fought the urge to grab him by the neck and throttle him. He and Pendrith sat and watched as Walton stopped to pay his tab at the bar, then walked slowly out of the pub without looking back.

“Should dash out and slash the bugger’s tires,” said Pendrith. “And possibly his bloody throat.”

“Tempting,” said Hugo, “but would make for bad press.”

“Talking of which, I’m not sure he’s wrong.”

“About what?”

“About us being better off having him around than a thousand screaming Harper fans coming up from London and another thousand locals baying for his blood. All in this little village.”

“The shit is blackmailing us, Pendrith. I don’t take kindly to that.”

“I know, I know, and neither do I.” He stood. “Look, you don’t have to worry about constituents, but you damn well do need to worry about Harper. If that little twerp Walton makes this public right now, it’s not going to end well for either of us.”

“Where are you going?”

“To recruit that bastard to help us.”

“I don’t want his help.” Hugo drained his whisky glass and stood, reaching for his wallet. He threw three ten-pound notes onto the table, and both men moved quickly after Walton, shrugging on their coats and nodding to the publican on their way past the bar. “Be right back,” Hugo told the man.

A gust of wind tipped Hugo’s hat as they pushed open the door and started across the parking lot. He hurriedly buttoned his coat against the cold and briefly wondered if he’d ever get used to the combination of perpetual damp and slicing winds that seemed to take turns battering his body and souring his mood. He could see Walton putting his key into the door of the Mini, and he looked over at his own vehicle. He could squash the little rat with barely a dent to the Cadillac, and the world would have lost nothing more than an old, red Mini and one aging, blood-sucking journalist.

CHAPTER NINE

T
he pub had three guest rooms, all on the third floor and all variations on the same theme: small. Each had a bare wooden floor that creaked underfoot and a single bed tucked under a sloped ceiling that threatened to give its guest a firm kiss atop his head if he tried to sit up in bed. There was no television and no telephone anywhere upstairs, as far as they could tell. And the only other furniture in Hugo’s room was a battered wardrobe that wouldn’t open and that leaned against a slightly sturdier oak dresser like an aging couple waiting for a bus that wouldn’t come, the tired and frail old man using his short, plump wife for support. Narrow but clean windows gave views over the parking lot or the beer garden out back. When checking out the rooms, Hugo had let Pendrith choose first and, for his kindness, the American had wound up with a view of the parking lot.

The door to each room opened into a foyer that was larger than all three rooms put together and furnished with two chintz-covered armchairs and a cloth sofa that smelled faintly of beer—and rather less faintly of mildew. The shared bathroom was also accessed from this seating area, and Walton got the bedroom beside that.

After assuring their host that these rooms would be fine for the night, they took a key to the front door from him. They waited until he descended the stairs past his own living quarters back to the bar, mumbling all the way about having to run a pub and take care of a sick woman at the same time.

Hugo and Pendrith took an armchair each, Walton noticing the smell too late to avoid the sofa. He sat down and wrinkled his nose, and Hugo suppressed a smile.

“I meant to say,” Walton began. “I’m a big fan of things American; I know sometimes English people can be a little snobby.”

“I’ve not noticed,” Hugo said, “but I’m glad you like us.”

“You’ve probably heard it before, but without you people the world of movies would be in a poor state.”

“Some say it is in a poor state because of the Yanks,” Pendrith chimed in.

“Nonsense,” Walton said. “The best movies come from there. My favorites are the old cowboy movies, and their modern version, the gangster movies.”

“We do good work with those,” Hugo said.

“I’ve always been fascinated by those living on the wild side, maybe because I write about them sometimes. But not the bad guys, the ones in the black hats or doling out favors while smoking fat cigars. No, I’m more interested in why the people lower down in the pecking order do what they do. The ones who ride behind the villain and rob the train with him. The man who does the don’s bidding, shaking down businessmen and whacking rivals.”

“The button man,” said Hugo.

“Right,” Walton nodded. “The button man. So, how do you like our little village, Mr. Marston? Off the record, so to speak.”

“I’ve not seen much of it. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. You have your movies, we have our history, and I’m always amused by the stock Americans put in the past, how impressed they are that our cottages and pubs are older than their entire nation.”

“You think they shouldn’t be impressed?”

“Oh, no, quite the opposite. I think England would be a better place if its citizenry looked a little more to the past than the future. Have you heard the tale of Jack O’Legs, for example?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“A wonderful, cautionary tale.” Walton rubbed his chin. “I have always thought, though, that he was actually executed at the church itself. I mean, it makes sense to do the deed where the hole is located, right?”

“Never really thought about it,” said Hugo.

“Right then,” interrupted Pendrith. “I suggest now is a jolly good time to start worrying about the future, specifically of our young friend on the lam. What’s our plan?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Hugo said. “Do you guys have any bright ideas?” He nodded toward Walton’s shoes. “I assume from the state of those, and the fresh mud splattered all over the underside of your car, that you followed us into the lane?”

Walton smirked. “Regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”

“Hardly,” said Hugo. “If I were, I’d have known you were following us.” He sat back and looked directly at Walton. “So what do you know about Braxton Hall?”

“Not a damn thing,” the reporter said. “I grew up around here, got my first newspaper job on the
Hitchin Gazette
, but I’ve never heard of the place.”

Pendrith cleared his throat. “We’re assuming that because of its name, Braxton
Hall
, it must be old. Maybe not. All these villages have been yuppified over the last ten years, people moving in from the city and commuting every day. People with money. Perfectly possible some banker or lawyer bought a few acres and built himself a mansion.”

“True,” Walton said. “Enough construction going on, dozens of bedroom communities, you could easily build a house in the woods or the middle of a hundred-acre field and no one would pay much attention.”

Pendrith looked around them, as if for something he’d lost, then got up and went into his room, mumbling to himself. The other two watched him go.

“Why’s he in on this?” Walton asked.

“Seems like that’s a question for him.” Hugo eyed the journalist. “So what happens if we find Harper and he doesn’t want to give you an interview? You’ve risked blowing an exclusive for nothing.”

“Some risks are worth taking, Mr. Marston.” Walton shrugged. “If I can break the story of him escaping and get an interview to boot, I’ll be on every news program for a week. I’m too old to be chasing starlets and their drunken husbands, I want them to know who I am, to come find me for a change.”

“You been doing this for a long time?”

“Not this exactly, no. Crime is my main interest, my first beat, you might say. I like to lighten it up with some celebrity stalking now and again.” He grinned. “And you’d be amazed how often the two subjects intersect.”

They looked around as Pendrith came back into the room, locked his bedroom door with a frown on his face. “A pub and not a drop to drink in there. Bloody disgrace.” He sat back in his chair, then turned to Walton. “Be a good fellow, run down and grab a bottle of something strong and three glasses. My tab.”

“You serious?” Walton asked, wide-eyed.

“Lord yes,” Pendrith said. “Didn’t have time to pack a toothbrush, let alone stock up on other essentials. No point drying out too much up here, especially if we’re going to sort out some kind of plan of action. After all, we’re not savages.”

Walton stood, uncertain at first, then started down the steps. Halfway, he turned as if to say something but apparently decided better of it and soon disappeared from view. Pendrith looked at Hugo.

“So what are we going to do?” he said.

“Braxton Hall is the only lead we have,” Hugo said. “And because we’re not officially welcome, our options are limited.”

“Are you, by any chance, suggesting a stealth visit?”

“Not if you’ve got a better idea.”

“No, old boy, I don’t. But I don’t think we want our weaselly friend with us when we go, do you?”

“You think he’ll insist on coming?”

“Let’s not find out.”

They grabbed their jackets from their rooms, Pendrith again locking his with a wry smile at Hugo, and met back in the sitting room. Hugo closed the door to his room, too, then went into the bathroom, turned on the cold tap, and left it running as he closed the door behind him. He nodded to Pendrith and the two men trotted quietly down the stairs. At the second floor landing, Hugo spotted a bathroom that, he assumed, belonged to the owner and his wife. The door stood open and he couldn’t see movement elsewhere in the apartment, so he beckoned for Pendrith to follow him. They stepped into the little room and closed the door most of the way, Hugo watching for Walton through a small opening. He knew they wouldn’t have much time, maybe a minute or two before Walton figured out they were gone.

The journalist trudged by a few seconds later, carrying a bottle of Bell’s whisky and three glass tumblers. Behind Hugo, Pendrith sighed at the quality of the booze Walton had procured and Hugo silenced him with a nudge. As Walton’s feet disappeared up the final flight to their rooms, Hugo stepped into the hallway and the two men moved quickly down the stairs to the bar.

The pub had filled since they’d gone upstairs, a group of rowdy young men eyeing a larger group of even more rowdy young women, slightly older and dressed for a bachelorette night, Hugo thought. They waved at the harried publican on the way past, but he was too busy to care what they were doing. Hugo glanced back as they went out the front door and saw no sign of Walton, just the red-faced landlord balancing a bottle of white wine and too many glasses on a small tray.

Hugo winced at the beep of the Cadillac when he unlocked it, and they climbed quickly inside. The doors closed with a gentle
whump
, and in three seconds they were out of the parking lot.

“He might guess where we’re going and follow,” Pendrith said.

“He might. But he also knows he might get an ass full of buckshot if he goes back down that lane. Assuming his Mini will even make it down there.”

“Any particular reason that we won’t be in for some lead shot ourselves?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Care to share?” Pendrith said.

“Let’s assume you are right about Braxton Hall being fairly new. How did the builders get in there? It wasn’t down that Roman road, I’m pretty sure of that.”

“Another entrance,” Pendrith nodded. “But how do we find it?”

“Easy,” Hugo said, patting his GPS monitor. “This thing.”

“Well, it didn’t find it before.”