Storm over the Caribbean

40. Interrogation a la Ambrose

"Mr Ambrose, Sir?"

"Yes, Mr Linton?"

"I am not quite sure you understand the meaning of the word 'interrogation', Sir."

"Indeed?"

"Because, you know, it usually involves interrogating them, as in speaking to them, not just silently staring at them while letting water drop on their head and waiting for them to break."

"It worked, didn't it?"

I opened my mouth—then glanced down at the thick stack of notes in my hand that constituted the entire confession of a certain Frenchman and closed it again. He had a point. It is amazing how hard it is to resist when Mr Rikkard Ambrose is staring holes into your very soul.

I should know. I had tried more times than I could remember.

As for Lachance...

My eyes swivelled over to the Frenchman.

"Ha...ha...ha..." Panting, the man hung in his bindings, droplets of water running down his face. Only some of them were due to sweat.

"Mr Linton?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Recapitulate. What do we have so far?"

"Hm..." I started flicking through my notes. "Let's see...locations of all the goods robbed from your ships, secret stashes of supplies and a secondary camp. Then we have a long list of names of people involved in organizing the attacks on your ships, the numbers of various bank accounts where the proceeds from the sale of the plunder have been stashed and, ehem..." I cleared my throat. "...a long, long list of bank numbers of bank accounts full of money that have nothing whatsoever to do with the current situation."

I gave my dear husband a meaningful look, which he promptly ignored.

"I see. Can you think of anything else?"

"No, Sir."

"Then, only one final question remains..." Turning towards the captive once more, Mr Rikkard Ambrose pinned him to the mast with an icy stare. "Who. Is. Your. Employer?"

The Frenchman wheezed, then smiled ever so slightly. "There...there's no point in torturing me. I don't know! I never knew! Do you really think I'm in charge of this thing? I'm so low on the totem pole it's not even funny, mon ami! I only took this job because it came with a cushy life in a mansion and little in the way of work. Should have known it was too good to be true."

"Then who is above you? You must have gotten your instructions from somewhere!" Raising his cutlass, Mr Ambrose placed it at the man's neck. "Who gives you your orders?"

The Frenchman shrugged, or at least did the best approximation he could manage while tied to a mast with a blade at his throat. "Some straw man. Forgettable face, even more forgettable name."

Mr Ambrose stared at him for a moment, searching his face for any sign of deceit—something which I had no doubt he would be able to spot instantly. Finally, he seemed to spot what he was looking for, and nodded.

"Pity. Then we'll just have to rely on our own intelligence to hunt down this straw man and squeeze the information out of him." He turned away—until he froze abruptly at the burst of ragged laughter from Lachance. Slowly, Mr Rikkard Ambrose's head swivelled back to face the Frenchman

"Something amusing?"

"Too late!" Lachance rasped, his lips twitching spasmodically in a poor excuse for a smile. "You're too late!"

Mr Ambrose went very, very still. "You did not mention that earlier."

The smarmy French bastard smirked. "You didn't ask, mon ami."