The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “I say, stop!” Pendrith grabbed the dash. “Lord, man, this is a one-way street.”

  Hugo clenched his teeth. “I’m only going one way.” He hit the horn to let Harper know he wasn’t giving up and to push the oncoming Mini over the curb and onto the narrow sidewalk. “When I get my hands on that little shit . . .” If I get my hands on him, he thought. If I don’t, Cooper will be the one doing the throttling.

  Harper was thirty yards ahead still, the iron railings that fronted the redbrick homes keeping him from jinking left or right. Hugo looked forward and saw trees the other side of a main road. “What’s ahead?”

  “That’s Piccadilly. And Green Park is the other side of it.”

  “A park? Shit.”

  They were right behind Harper now, Hugo could see his hair flopping as he ran. Ten yards from the intersection with Piccadilly, Hugo slowed, then stamped on the brake as a blue truck loomed on the right. But Harper barely paused, flitting between the back of the truck and a pair of motorcyclists who swerved in unison to miss him. He hopped the metal barrier that divided the road, and Hugo and Pendrith could do nothing but watch as he jogged across the street and disappeared into the trees.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Cadillac swept along Constitution Hill, the rolling grounds of Buckingham Palace Gardens visible through the trees on their right. But the beauty of the carefully tended green space went ignored as Pendrith and Hugo stared into the gloom for a glimpse of Dayton Harper.

  As they drew near the marble Victoria Memorial, Hugo swung into a gentle U-turn to head back the way they’d come. As he straightened up, they passed a policeman on a bicycle flagging down a red Mini for the exact same maneuver. Hugo had forgotten U-turns were illegal in England. He looked over at Pendrith and grimaced, then watched with concern as the Englishman pulled out his phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Hugo asked.

  “You’re not going to like it, but I think we need to get the police involved.” Pendrith held up a hand, “It’s not ideal, I know, but what else can we do?”

  “Wait just a minute.” Hugo swerved to the side of the road and stopped. He stared at Pendrith. “About twenty seconds after you call the cops, the press will know that Dayton Harper, movie icon and farmer-killer, is wandering the streets of London. Every human being north of the equator will be out looking for him, and what do you think they’ll do when they find him?”

  “I have no idea, old boy. Not been in this situation before.”

  “Me neither, but a mob has three options: kill him, hide him, or turn him over to the authorities. You willing to gamble on them picking number three?”

  “And your suggestion,” Pendrith said quietly, “would be to drive around London until we find him? How long do you think it’ll be before someone out there spots him and recognizes him?”

  “That’s the truth.” Hugo sank back into his seat. “We need to find him in the next hour. After that we’ll call in the cavalry.”

  “Agreed.” Pendrith rubbed his chin. “Those bloody reporters.”

  Hugo had momentarily forgotten the reason Harper was able to run off—the journalists, who had witnessed firsthand Harper’s flight. “Let’s find them first.”

  “Drop me off where we last saw them,” Pendrith said. “I’ll tackle those buggers while you look for Harper. If I don’t find them, I have some sway with their boss. Maybe I can hold the story up for a little while.”

  “Good. Write your phone number down, and take mine.” Hugo rattled off his number as he pulled back into traffic. “I’ll start with the assumption he’s headed somewhere familiar. Maybe his hotel.”

  “I believe he took rooms at the Ritz.”

  “That’s right,” said Hugo. “But how did you know that?”

  “Homework, old boy,” Pendrith said with a slight smile. “Always do your homework.”

  Hugo drove slowly along Piccadilly, scanning the rain-soaked sidewalk for Harper, touching his brakes every now and again as pedestrians ducked across the road in front of him, scurrying toward the raised islands of safety between the waves of smog-chugging cars and buses. The blank faces of those on foot matched the featureless sky, and Hugo wondered briefly if the sun would ever shine again. Rain in Texas was a respite, a welcome and occasional relief from the ever-present threat of drought, a threat realized virtually every summer as the plains and hill country surrounding Austin baked, day after day, under a merciless sun.

  But not here. In England, especially in London, it seemed as though a heavy sky and constant drizzle were part of the scenery, landmarks as permanent and gray as Parliament or Saint Paul’s Cathedral. He longed to escape, just for a weekend, and was convinced that his normally positive mood—his optimistic view of the world, even—had been slowly but surely worn down, eroded away by the relentless drizzle and perpetually overcast skies.

  Soon the Ritz London Hotel loomed to his left, and not for the first time Hugo wondered why one of London’s most famous hotels had been built to resemble a French chateau. Not that he minded: the intricate stone architecture of Paris had always been more appealing to him than London’s mishmash of occasional beauty wedged alongside postwar mediocrity.

  He pulled to the curb just before reaching a marked bus stop, hoping that his car wouldn’t be crushed or towed. As he climbed out, a white-gloved and uniformed employee swept toward him.

  “Are you a guest, sir? I’m afraid the authorities don’t allow cars . . .”

  Hugo pointed to the diplomatic plates on the front of the Cadillac and brushed past him with a smile. He didn’t like to abuse the privilege, but this was an emergency.

  He trotted up the steps and nodded his thanks at the old man holding the door open for him. Three guests were waiting for service at the reception desk so he headed straight for the concierge, where two smartly dressed employees, a man and a woman, stood looking at computer screens and talking quietly.

  “Yes, sir,” said the young man. He had tired, hungover eyes and a wedge of black hair thick with gel. A gold name tag identified him as Caleb. His female colleague was rail thin and very pale, with large, almond-shaped green eyes that spoke of Asian heritage, currently ringed with black eyeliner. Thick black hair was tied up and pulled behind her head. A Goth in her spare time? Hugo wondered. If so, she was a Goth named Merlyn, according to her tag.

  Hugo looked around to buy himself some time. He realized he hadn’t planned what to say, how to figure out whether Harper had been here, without causing a stir. He looked back at the expectant faces and smiled.

  “I work for the United States Embassy,” he said, slipping his credentials from his pocket and displaying them discreetly on the counter. “I’d like to know if Dayton Harper has a room here still.”

  “Dayton Harper?” Caleb said. He swapped looks with his colleague. “He’s not been here for days. A week. I thought he was in some kind of trouble.”

  “You could say that,” Hugo smiled. “I just need to know whether he has a room here still.”

  Caleb glanced at Hugo’s badge and then his computer. “I don’t think I’m supposed to . . .”

  “I understand,” Hugo said. “Celebrities and all, you need to respect their privacy.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s exactly it,” Caleb said, clearly relieved.

  “Which is why it would be much easier for you to tell me whether or not he has a room still, you know, to save the four armed policemen waiting outside from striding through here and accosting your supervisor.”

  “Armed . . . ?”

  The English weren’t used to guns, Hugo knew, even in the hands of law enforcement, so the prospect of putting his boss in the firing line had rattled the kid.

  “On the other hand,” Hugo said gently, “a simple yes or no could save everyone a lot of trouble, don’t you think?”

  “He checked out two days ago,” Merlyn said, looking up from her computer. “Says here his reservation for the next two weeks was canceled, as well.”

  Hug
o nodded. “That’s all I needed to know, thanks.” He started to go, then turned back. “Wait. Does it say who checked him out and canceled the reservation?”

  Merlyn looked down at the computer. “No, sorry.” She looked at him for a moment as she spoke, and Hugo had a feeling that he’d not quite asked the right question.

  Hugo thanked them again and started back across the reception area, deep in thought and impervious to the glistening finery around him. In truth, he’d never much liked these luxurious hotels. Not only were they ludicrously expensive, but he’d always felt there to be an odd dynamic between most staff and customers, the former trying to impress with the poshness of the premises, the latter eager to show they were wealthy enough to belong. These kinds of hotels were havens for snobbery and inverse snobbery, and Hugo imagined both guests and employees walking around with their noses so high in the air the luxury around them was sniffed but not seen.

  “Excuse me, sir?” The voice behind him was low but firm and he turned to see Merlyn trailing behind him.

  “Yes?” he said.

  She inclined her head and he followed her toward the exit, stopping beside a marble column, as if she wasn’t supposed to be talking to him.

  “Can you tell me if he’s OK?” she said.

  “Harper?” A Goth and a groupie, Hugo thought. Great.

  “He’s a nice guy and what happened,” she shrugged and looked away. “Seems like people are being extra hard on him because he’s so famous.”

  “Do you know him?” Hugo asked.

  “A little.” She looked up at him. “That’s why I stopped you. If you’re from the embassy, you’re here to help him, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “OK. Well, I don’t know what’s going on with him or anything else, but he does have a room. He and his wife.”

  “So he didn’t check out?”

  “Oh, he did. Or someone did. From here.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he has a room at another hotel. A couple of streets away. He and his wife use it as a getaway I guess. They seem really nice and in love, so I suppose they want to be able to sneak away without anyone finding out.”

  “How do you know this?” Hugo asked.

  She hesitated, but not for long. “I work at that hotel, too. A six-hour shift here, then one there. It’s decent money and I need it.”

  Hugo felt his pulse quicken. “What’s the name of the hotel?”

  “The Cork Hotel. Not even a mile from here, on Cork Street.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a boutique hotel,” she said. “Used to be a pub and has a butcher’s shop next door. Has fifteen rooms, and a reputation for being quiet and discreet.”

  “What do you mean ‘discreet’?”

  She had given him that lingering look again and now she winked. “Thick walls.”

  “OK, thanks.”

  She nodded. “You are . . . you really are trying to help him, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Hugo said. “I really am. Which is why I need to get over there right now.”

  Merlyn looked over her shoulder, then back at Hugo. “Wait here, I won’t be a sec.”

  “I have to—”

  “You won’t get anywhere over there without me,” she called over her shoulder as she strode toward Caleb. “Discreet, remember?”

  “Right,” Hugo muttered. “Discreet.”

  She followed him out to the car and climbed into the front seat.

  “So you didn’t make fun of my name,” she said.

  “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

  “You’re about the first person who didn’t.”

  He looked over as he buckled up. “I assume there’s a story behind it. Your dad was a wizard?”

  “I was born Hailey,” she said. “When I was ten my parents had a baby boy and called him Merlyn. I think they were high when they named him, and probably when they conceived him. Anyway, he died when he was five. I changed my name so he’d always be around.”

  “I’m sorry to hear he died, but that’s very sweet of you.”

  “I used to hate the name. Made fun of my parents for giving it to him. But now, every time I hear it, I smile.” She shrugged and touched the wood dash of the car. “Anyway, nice wheels. You Yanks always get the biggest and best, huh?”

  Hugo suppressed a smile. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Cork Street is one-way, so probably best to go down Albemarle Street and around.” She pointed. “That one.”

  Hugo checked the mirrors and pulled out, the tires under the heavy vehicle screeching on the damp road as he accelerated across the intersection into Albemarle Street.

  “Go all the way to the end, then follow the road to the right into Old Bond Street.”

  Hugo grunted, his eyes scanning the sidewalk for careless pedestrians as he zipped along the narrow road, scanning also for Harper. Just in case. He fought the car around a tight corner bringing them into Old Bond Street, slowing as he caught sight of a small, slim figure closing the door of a red phone booth, swearing under his breath when he saw the man was older and bald. Merlyn pointed and he turned left into Burlington Gardens for one short block, then left again onto Cork Street.

  “There’s an alley on the right,” she said. “Park in there. It’s a dead end so it won’t matter if you block it.” Hugo looked over and a smile twitched on her face. “You probably have diplomatic plates, don’t you?”

  “I probably do,” Hugo said, slowing and easing into a side street that was barely wider than his car. “This good?” he asked.

  “Yep. We can go in through the service entrance.”

  Out of the car, they walked twenty yards farther down the alley, then Merlyn stopped at a pair of innocuous, green metal doors. A waist-high trash can next to them tinged the air with the odor of rotting food, wearing its circular lid at a jaunty angle like a drunkard unable to hang onto his cap. She waved a keycard over a pad on the wall and the right-hand door clicked. She tugged it open and they walked into what Hugo saw was a storage bay, its tile floor damp from a recent mopping. Crates of fruit and vegetables lined the walls, and ahead a curtain of thick plastic strips hung between them and what he assumed was the kitchen.

  “Follow me,” Merlyn said. She pushed her way through the plastic curtain and strode past two men in white smocks, a tubby older man with white hair, and a scrawny kid who looked more like an apprentice than a chef. Hugo was right about it being a kitchen, a compact one, with an eight-burner stove to his right, several refrigerators and a sink on the left wall. “Hey guys, don’t mind us,” she said with a wave.

  The two men gave Hugo barely a glance before going back to work, the chef chopping and his helper dropping dirty pans into a tank-sized sink brimming with bubbles.

  They passed from the kitchen into a narrow hallway, the tiles replaced by flagstones, the walls beside him white stone. They paused at an archway; to their left, a reception area continued the stone motif. He could see several arches, all adorned with tortured angels or grotesque demons. It reminded Hugo of a church crypt or the cellar in an old monastery. He half expected to see spider webs on the ceilings and rats scuttling across the flagstone floor, but the place was immaculate and the ornate wooden reception desk, almost black, so perhaps teak, looked sturdy and new.

  “Hang on, I’ll get a key,” Merlyn said.

  Hugo waited by the archway and watched as Merlyn walked over to the reception desk, looking around as if she were surprised to see it unattended. She circled the end of the desk and typed something into a computer. Then she took a blank key card and swiped it through a machine, punched a couple more buttons on the computer, and started out from behind the desk.

  She stopped in her tracks and Hugo heard a woman’s voice, deep and scratchy.

  “Hey hun, what are you doing here so early?”

  A short, round woman with tight red curls waddled into view, bumping Merlyn out of the way with a playful hip as she
rounded the reception counter. She waved a stack of cash at her employee and winked before stashing it below the counter. Merlyn shot Hugo a look and turned the key card over and over in her hands.

  “Hi Rose, what’s up?”

  Rose stopped in front of the computer and frowned, then looked at Merlyn. Then she saw Hugo and looked back and forth between the two. “Everything OK, hun?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Merlyn said. “Dandy.”

  “So who’s the gentleman? Checking in?”

  Hugo stepped forward and gave Merlyn a look. Once again, the choice of lying or being up front.

  “My name is Hugo Marston,” he said. “Merlyn is helping me with a matter that is both urgent and sensitive.”

  “Oh yes?” Rose lifted an eyebrow. She turned to Merlyn. “What is so urgent and sensitive in my hotel that I can’t be told?”

  “Rose, it’s OK, trust me,” Merlyn said.

  “Trust you about what, missy? If that’s one of my keys, I need to know what’s going on.” She put her hands on her hips, and Hugo saw they were at an impasse.

  “One of your guests is in a lot of trouble,” he said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we need to find him,” Hugo said. “And fast.”

  “Who?”

  Hugo looked at Merlyn and realized he was seeking confirmation about the trustworthiness of a stranger from an almost-stranger. But when Merlyn nodded for him to go ahead, he knew he had little choice.

  “Dayton Harper.”

  “Well, now I know you’re lying,” Rose said. “He’s in jail.”

  “No, he’s not,” Hugo said. “He was released today to my custody and he’s disappeared.”

  “You lost him?” Rose smiled slightly. “And who might you be?”

  “I work for the US State Department.”

  Rose turned to Merlyn. “And how do you know him, my dear?”

  “He came into the Ritz looking for Mr. Harper,” Merlyn said.