Storm over the Caribbean

36. Mr Ambrose's Manoeuvre

Deep inside, I muttered a silent curse. The darn bastard just gave us a cheque! A cheque from the Bank of England covering not half the agreed sum, not even three quarters, but the entire darn amount!

But surely, Mr Ambrose wouldn't just accept it. We'd come here for information, not money, and surely, he wouldn't—

"All right."

Huh?

I watched, eyes wide, as Mr Rikkard Ambrose took the cheque, pocketed it, and rose to his feet.

"Then I believe this concludes our business. Come, Mr Linton. We're leaving."

"Huh? What? How...?"

I found myself grabbed by the shoulder and tugged to my feet. A moment later, I was manoeuvred out of the room and down the corridor, my brain still not able to process what had just happened. What the bloody hell...?

I wanted desperately to understand what the heck was going on. Had he really just given up on our only lead for a pay cheque?

No. No, surely, I had to be misreading the situation.

Or, at least, I hoped I was misreading it, for a certain someone's sake. If not, a certain someone's bollocks were going to be introduced to my sturdiest pair of boots.

I was on tenterhooks, the desire to demand answers so strong I was hardly able to resist. But, for the time being, I forced myself to be patient. Demanding answers here and now, with dozens of eager ears around, was probably not the best idea. So I waited. I waited until we were out of the mansion and off the grounds. I waited till Mr Ambrose and I had sped up our steps, putting a good deal of distance between us and our pirate bodyguards. Only once we were well and truly out of earshot did I grab him by the arm and pull him to a stop.

"What in the name of...?" Stabbing a finger into his chest, I glared up at him. "What was that?"

"That?" Cocking his head, he lifted the white rectangle of paper he was still holding in his hand. "That is a cheque."

"I know what a cheque is, you rock-headed halfwit!" I gestured wildly back in the direction of the mansion. "What I meant is what the heck that was back there! Why did we just leave?"

"Would you have preferred we stay for dinner?"

"No, of course not! But—"

"There you go."

"But...to just give up? To just get out of there? Without getting what we came for?"

Once again, he held up the check, clasped between two fingers. "Who says we did not get what we came for?"

"The cheque?" I blinked. "What are we supposed to do with that?"

"Why, cash it, obviously."

I stared at him. Was he really...? No. He couldn't be so bloody greedy, could he?

"...and then, find out who owns the account the money comes from."

My mouth dropped open. "You can do that?"

"Captain Rockface? No." Eyes glittering icily, Mr Ambrose sent me a look that made me wish we were far, far away in a comfy bedroom. "But Mr Rikkard Ambrose? He most certainly can."

Oh.

Oh my.

A wide, wicked smile spread across my face. Suddenly, I very much pitied the local bank manager.

***

With a contented sigh, Mr Gilbert Goodwin Hutchinson leaned back in his leather arm chair and took a puff of his cigar. He determined he had never made a better decision than requesting a transfer to the Caribbean. England was a cold, dreary place, and English banks, always striving for excellence, managed to surpass the rest of the country in that regard. Add to that the never-ending swarms of customers and horrific working hours...