The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel (5 page)

The elevator doors opened and a head appeared around the door, led by a red and pocked nose and the handlebar mustache Cooper had mentioned. “Hullo. Graham Stopford-Pendrith.”

“Come in, my lord,” Hugo said, moving forward and hoping he’d used the right form of address.

Stopford-Pendrith stepped through the door, a hand extended. “None of that ‘lord’ nonsense, old boy. I go by Pendrith.”

“You’re a lord? A real one?” Harper moved forward, hands working his hair back into place. “Dayton Harper, nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, old chap.” Pendrith said, pumping his hand. “Never met a movie star before, jolly exciting.”

“You’ve seen my movies?” Harper shot a sideways look at Hugo.

“Lord no, can’t stand the cinema. Wait, I did see one, something about hoodlums in Chicago. You played . . .”

“Johnny Moretti. A button man.”

“A what?” Pendrith asked.

“Low-ranking hood,” Harper explained. “I was a Mafia soldier. Started off low down and worked my way up. Ended up sleeping with the boss’s wife, which got me killed at the end.”

“Right, if you say so. Generally don’t watch movies, all that public chewing and sticky floors, it’s downright uncivilized. Even so, a movie star. Marvelous.” He finally let go of Harper’s hand and moved over to Hugo. “Heard a lot about you, sir. Delighted.”

The men shook hands and Hugo steered him to the couch. “Cup of tea?”

“I think something a little stronger to mark the occasion, eh what? What do you have?”

“A decent Macallan.”

“Splendid.” Pendrith turned back to Harper, and the smile on his face melted. “Good heavens, Harper, I am a fool. Please, accept my condolences. I am frightfully sorry, so caught up with meeting you that I . . . forgot myself. Terribly sorry, old boy. Suicide. Unimaginable.” He shook his head slowly, then looked over at Hugo. “Just a couple of rocks, Marston, if you don’t mind. Don’t like to pollute the good stuff too much.”

“Yes, sir,” Hugo said. “Dayton?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine. Wait, you got any beer?”

“Fridge,” Hugo said. Harper got up to help himself, and Hugo’s hand hovered on the bottle, wondering whether he should. Might as well join the party, he thought.

Pendrith mumbled his thanks as Hugo handed him his drink. “Bloody rotten do,” he said, shaking his head again. “How’s he holding up?”

“Hard to tell,” Hugo said truthfully. “People deal with this kind of thing differently.”

“I gather you have some experience with the seamier side of life.”

Hugo smiled. He couldn’t help but enjoy the Brit’s mastery of understatement. “Yeah, I’ve seen my share.”

“More than, I’m sure,” Pendrith said. He stood and held up his glass as Harper came back into the room with an open bottle of beer in his hand. “To your good lady, Mr. Harper. May she rest in peace.”

It was actually quite touching, Hugo thought. Pendrith’s obvious sincerity and Harper’s surprise at the Englishman’s words. He raised his glass.

“Right, shall we talk shop?” Pendrith said, settling himself back on the couch. Hugo sat in his chair, Harper to his left. “Bit of a horror what happened up in Hertfordshire,” he went on.

“Yeah. I really am very sorry about what happened,” Harper said, looking into his beer. “Sorry for Mr. Drinker and his family.” He looked up at Pendrith. “But it was an accident.”

“Yes, of course. No doubt. Thing is, the whole business of not stopping to help, not calling the police, not upping and taking responsibility.” He compressed his lips. “Rather smacked of the movie-star arrogance, you see. People are a little bit riled up by the whole thing.”

“That farmer—”

“That’s the other thing,” Pendrith interrupted. “It wasn’t just some old farmer. Chap was the only son of a rather important landowner.”

“Does that make a difference to anything?” asked Hugo.

“I’d like to say no, but honesty forbids. Fellow has pull and doesn’t want this incident to go quietly into yonder night, so to speak.”

“Meaning?” Hugo asked.

“That’s rather what we need to hash out.”

Harper looked over at Pendrith. “I want to go home,” he said, his voice sharp. “I want to take Ginny and go home.”

Hugo saw the pained look in Pendrith’s eyes. “Yes, I’m sure you do, old boy. A few hurdles to that one, I’m afraid.”

“Hurdles?” Harper looked between them. “What are you talking about?”

“Thing is, rather need you to stick around for a bit.”

“What are you talking about?” Harper said again. “Why can’t I just pay a big fine, get put on probation, and go home?”

“Well,” Pendrith frowned at his scotch. “See now, there’s been a bit of a spanner in the works.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Harper said.

“Look,” Pendrith began, “I’m not sure how to tell you this but you can’t go anywhere for a while. Weeks, probably.” He cleared his throat and looked up at Harper. “This is a murder investigation now.”

“Murder?” said Hugo and Harper together.

“It was a fucking accident!” Harper was on his feet. “Fine, I was drunk, I admit it. Two beers, maybe three. Fuck it: four. But Jesus Christ, can’t you people understand? It was a goddamn accident. Now you’re saying I murdered that farmer?”

Pendrith was staring at Harper, eyes wide and unmoving. If Harper didn’t get it, Hugo did, and he put a hand on Harper’s sleeve, pulling him gently back into his seat. “No, he’s not.”

“Yeah, he is. He just fucking said it. Murder, for fuck’s sake.”

“No, Dayton. He’s saying someone murdered your wife.”

CHAPTER FIVE

H
arper looked back and forth between them. The silence was broken by the phone ringing in the study, but Hugo ignored it.

“I thought you said suicide?” Harper said to Hugo. The actor wandered over to the large windows and stared into the gray world outside.

“I don’t think anyone can be sure at this stage,” Hugo said gently. He turned to Pendrith, who was recharging his glass. “Why are you saying murder?”

The Englishman looked at Harper and then back at Hugo, as if to say, should we do this in front of him? Hugo walked past the actor, sunk deep into his own world, and stood by Pendrith, who murmured, “Thing is, we’re not sure. All a bit odd, but given everything together, the chaps at Scotland Yard think it best to pursue it as a murder.”

“What things?” Hugo asked.

“Odd place to hang yourself, for one. Then the lack of note or any kind of message.” Pendrith leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “And she had a hood over her face.”

Hugo inclined his head.
So, I was right about that.

“Silk. A bag. Bloody strange, if you ask me,” Pendrith said. “The whole business.” His mustache twitched with concern, only calmed by a steady draught of whisky.

So, I’m stuck with him for a while
, Hugo thought, immediately chiding himself for being uncharitable. He looked at Harper, who stood staring into space, a megastar to millions but a hollow-eyed waif today, the superhero sucked into oblivion, leaving behind a fragile shell.

Harper caught him looking. “Am I going back to jail?” he asked.

“You’re on American soil now, old chap,” said Pendrith. “To be honest, I suggest you stay here.” He furrowed his brow. “Why would you think you’re going back to jail?”

“Aren’t you accusing me of killing her?”

Hugo and Pendrith exchanged looks. “You were in jail when she died,” Hugo said. “Do you know something about what happened?”

The blank look on Harper’s face gave the answer long before the actor shook his head. “God no. Who would do this?” he mumbled. “Why?”

“And how, that’s what I want to know,” said Pendrith. “Doesn’t seem very likely to me, frankly. Murder by hanging? Hardly likely.”

Hugo silently agreed. He’d never seen it, and he’d seen more murders than any other cop or medical examiner he’d ever met. And, as one of the FBI’s roving behavioral scientists, he’d been all over America to the most bizarre crimes scenes imaginable. No hangings, not one. “So what happens now?” he asked Pendrith.

“’Fraid I have to ask for his passport. Scotland Yard chappies wanted to come in here, meet the fellow, you know, do it themselves. Told them to keep their autograph books at home, I’ll collect it and spare the poor fellow more harassment.”

Hugo nodded. “Thanks.” He’d known someone would come for Harper’s passport and had kept it apart from his other belongings for that very reason. “They really think murder?”

They both turned as Harper got up and walked slowly past them toward the spare bedroom, his head down. When he reached the doorway he stopped and looked back at them. Hugo hadn’t realized how pale the man looked, how the strong features had been borne down by the weight of events, aging him ten years. Harper ran a hand over his face and shook his head slowly. The ghost of a smile appeared.

“It’s like a movie, isn’t it?”

Then he went into his room and shut the door, not waiting for an answer.

“Poor bugger,” Pendrith said, a finger stroking his mustache. “Listen, you going to be chaperoning him while he’s here?”

“Looks like it,” Hugo said with a grimace. “My boss thinks so, I guess that’s what matters.”

“Come now, he’s Dayton Harper, a bloody movie star. Jolly exciting, I should say. Probably pop back for a visit or two myself, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Sure. Have him stay with you, if you like,” Hugo offered hopefully.

“Love to, old thing, but like I said, best he stays on American soil. The mood’s a little unpredictable right now.”

“Whose mood? Public or the police?”

“Yes, well, insightful question, actually.” He wrapped his fingers around his glass. “You asked before, whether they really think it’s murder. I’m not sure they do.”

“What are you saying?” Hugo loved England and the English, but had never felt that he understood them. It was as if they moved through life determined to keep their true motivations and thoughts hidden, revealed only when absolutely necessary, and maybe not even then. That was more true of the upper classes, people like Pendrith, brought up to believe that blunt honesty was a crude and unnecessary affront to civilized society. Every member of the ruling class had been raised to act like a spy; polite, friendly even, but with a hidden agenda you didn’t discover until you’d been stripped, skewered, and roasted.

“Unlikely scenario for murder, as I said before,” Pendrith was saying. “Did you know her sister was killed by a drunk driver?”

“Ginny Ferro’s?”

“Yes. I gather the family went haywire after she was killed. Mum blamed Dad, Dad blamed Mum, and little Ginny caught in the middle. Or rather, left in the middle and ignored. Point is, family destroyed by the whole thing.”

“You know a lot about the family dynamic,” Hugo said, an eyebrow raised.

Pendrith smiled. “It’s not only the FBI who do their homework, you know.”

Ah, yes. Former MI5. “Fair enough,” Hugo said. “So why tell Harper it’s murder if you don’t think it is?”

Pendrith looked surprised. “Better than suicide, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Buggered if I know.”

Hugo put his glass down. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re talking in circles. You’re contradicting yourself, trying to figure out how I feel about . . . something.”

“I am?”

“Yes. I’d be grateful if you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, old boy.”

Which is why you won’t look at me
, Hugo thought. And then something else occurred to him. “Jesus, it’s not me you’re playing with, is it?”

Pendrith said nothing, but a smile shaded his lips.

“It’s not me at all, is it?” Hugo repeated. “It’s him. Suicide, then murder. No one does that.”

“Does what, old boy?”

“Lets a man think that his wife committed suicide, and then tell him she was murdered.”

“Not me who changed the schematics. Thank the coroner for that.”

“No, Pendrith, when you got here you said ‘suicide,’ knowing full well it wasn’t. Or might not be. You’re MI5. You know what meaning those words carry and you don’t use them unless you’re sure. Or unless you’re very unsure.”

“Now who’s talking in circles?” Pendrith turned back to his whisky.

“It’s not a question of what you think happened, is it? It’s a question of what he thinks happened. Why?”

“Cooper was right, you are a clever fellow.” Pendrith shot a look at Harper’s closed door. “Look. I don’t know if she was murdered or committed suicide. But her death is as high-profile a tragedy as you get and if he knows something, anything, I’d like to find out. I’m not always as subtle as I should be, but then I was trained in this shit a few hundred years ago.”

“Hey, I get it,” Hugo said, holding up his hands. “You like to get your facts straight, I’m just not sure toying with a grieving man’s head is the best way to go.”

“Yes, well, like I said. A hundred years ago.” Pendrith glanced up. “And I really do like the chap, admire him. His wife, too.”

“Yes,” Hugo smiled, “I did notice the crush you have on him.”

“What?” Pendrith colored. “What absolute nonsense. Crush indeed, never heard such guff.”

“Sure, OK.” Hugo turned away to stop himself from laughing. A moment later, they both looked over as Harper’s door opened. He stopped in the doorway and looked at them, and Hugo noticed that he’d changed clothes and brushed his hair into perfection. “You guys think we could get out of here? Feeling kind of cooped up.”

“‘Out of here’ where?” Hugo asked.

“Wherever. Tour of London or something. I just need to be doing something, looking at something other than these walls.” He smiled. “I’m not real good at sitting still, you’ll find that out about me pretty quick.”

“Well,” Hugo said, “we need to stay on US soil, so we could take a stroll around the embassy grounds.”

Harper gestured to the rain-streaked windows. “Yeah, sounds awesome. We can’t take a drive around town?”

“No,” said Hugo. “Not a good idea.”

Pendrith cleared his throat. “Oh, come now, Marston. A wee drive in our fair city can’t hurt. Maybe a spin through Chelsea, where I live. You have diplomatic plates on your car, yes?”