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...
Well, suffice it to say that, when a post had opened at a certain branch bank on the Islands of Bermuda, he had packed his things and, first chance he got, skedaddled off to a nice Caribbean island with sunny beaches and wonderfully warm weather all year round.
Suddenly, he heard the door creak open and felt a cold draught that sent a shiver down his back.
"Close the door," he barked at his clerk. Customers never came at this time. Well...they never really came at any time, period. What a lovely job! "It's draughty!"
"Oh, is it?" an unfamiliar voice rang out. An unfamiliar, icy voice that brought the temperature of the room down by twenty degrees. Jerking his head up from his adventure nove...ehem, important banking documents, Mr Hutchinson stared at the tall man with the stony face who stood in the doorway.
He blinked.
Could it be...?
Was it really...?
"A...customer?"
The man in the doorway cocked his head. "This is a bank, is it not?"
"W-why yes, Sir, it is." Rushing out from behind his desk, Mr Hutchinson pulled out the chair in front of his desk and inconspicuously tried to wipe the dust off the seat. "It most definitely is! What can I do for you today?"
"Cash this." Striding forward, the newcomer placed a small, white rectangle on top of the bank manager's desk.
With an energetic nod, Hutchinson snatched up the piece of paper. "Why, certainly, Sir. I'll—"
Then his eyes fell upon the cheque. Specifically, the number of zeroes.
"Cnglrx," he said.
"No," the customer corrected. "Cash."
Staggering back a step or two, Hutchinson slumped into his armchair. "Ehem...right. What is your name again, Sir?"
"Ambrose. Mr Rikkard Ambrose."
The manager frowned. He was slightly out of date regarding the latest financial news, but that name sounded rather familiar. Where had he heard...
All colour drained from his face.
"Y-you mean—"
"Yes. That Rikkard Ambrose."
Mr Hutchinson considered for a moment whether he should get up to bow and grovel. In the end, he decided not to. No matter how awe-inspiringly wealthy and powerful the man in front of him was, he himself was a distinguished bank manager of the Bank of England! He had his dignity! He also had legs that felt like noodles and would probably not hold him up at the moment.
"Cheque," a cold voice suddenly interrupted his inner musings. "Cash. Now."
He nearly jumped out his chair.
"W-why, yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!" Reaching for a bell that sat on his desk, he rang it loudly. "Cooper? Cooper, get in here!"
A thump came from the room next door, as if from a heavy object hitting the ground, or maybe a sleeping man falling off his chair. Moments later, the door opened, and a bespectacled young man stuck his head into the room, rubbing his bruised temple. "Yes, Mr Hutchinson, Sir?"
"Take this cheque and cash it!"
"Sure thing, boss. I'll do it right after my lunch brea—"
"Now!"
"Um...all right?"
Scurrying forward, Cooper snatched the cheque and dashed back to the door—where he stopped and glanced around. "Um, boss...are you sure I can't eat lunch first? If I take care of this now, my stew will grow cold and—"
"Go!"
"Y-yes, bo—I mean Sir! Yes, Sir! Right away!" Face pale, Cooper scurried out of the room. Hutchinson didn't really pay him any attention, being far more focused on the presence of a certain man who was, at this very moment, trying to turn him into a block of ice with an arctic stare alone.
"Ehem..." Shifting in his seat, the manager gave Mr Ambrose his best servile smile. "We hope that you are satisfied with our work. Our bank has long since been known for our superlative customer service."
The man opposite him stared him down, one eyebrow rising about half a millimetre. "Indeed?"
"Um...yes?"
They continued to sit there, staring at each other. The only noise in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, the buzzing of a fly near the ceiling, and the pounding of Hutchinson's poor, stressed heart. He should probably go visit a doctor after this.
"I, um...am sure Cooper will be back directly."
"Indeed."
Hutchinson's face twitched. Deep inside, he decided he was starting to hate that word.
More time passed. The bank manager felt sweat trickling down his neck. What had he been thinking earlier about the nice, warm weather?
He really should learn to not put his foot in his mouth.
Dang it, what is Cooper doing? Why is he taking this long? And why am I stuck in here and not the bugger who's supposed to work for me?
"Ehem..." Clearing his throat, Hutchinson offered his guest a cigar. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Once again, those bloody arctic eyes pierced into him. "Hurry up."
"Oh. Um...right."
Hurry the hell up, Cooper!
As if in answer to his silent curses, the door swung open and Cooper staggered into the room, swaying under the weight of a massive, scuffed leather briefcase. It slammed down onto the desk, and from within issued a mix of rustling paper and jingling coins.
"He-here!" he panted. "Everything!"
The human iceberg grabbed hold of the briefcase, flipped it open, scanned the contents and...had that man just counted an entire suitcase full of money in three seconds?
Nah. That couldn't be possible.
"Adequate." With a sharp clack, Mr Ambrose snapped the case shut and lifted it off the desk. "I shall be on my way then."
Hutchinson did his very best to keep his shoulders from sagging in relief. "Well, if you must. But if there is anything else we can do to be of service, don't hesitate to—"
"Unnecessary." Rising to his feet, Mr Ambrose turned and strode towards the door. This time, Hutchinson's shoulders did sag in relief—that is, until the tall, stony figure stopped in its tracks. "Oh, by the way..."
The bank manager swallowed. "Yes?"
"Where did the money come from?"
"Pardon me?"
"The money. Where. Did. It. Come. From?" Half-turning, the business mogul lifted the case in his hand. "And more importantly, whom?"
"W-well, ehem..." Hutchinson cleared his throat, wishing he had never set foot on this blasted island. "Telling you that would be against bank polic—"
His voice died as Mr Rikkard Ambrose pinned him to the spot with an icy stare. "Who?"
"WaitjustaminuteI'lllookitupforyou!"
"Appreciated."
Before he could think better of it, Hutchinson rushed to do his temporary new overlord's bidding. Five minutes later, he was back, with a piece of paper in his hand that, if it ever fell into the hands of his higher-ups, would see him reassigned to the bank's branch in North Siberia. Although...
He looked into the arctic eyes of the man in front of him.
...that might actually be preferable to the current situation.
"Here, Mr Ambrose, Sir." Bowing deeply, he handed over the paper. "All the information you asked for."
"Hm."
Ten seconds later, Hutchinson was wonderfully, blissfully alone in his office.
Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Hutchinson made his way back to his desk and slumped down in the comfortable plushness that was his leather armchair. Phew! That was...intense. Why had he wanted that information anyway? Why was a man such as he even here?
Shrugging, Hutchinson lit his cigar and took a deep puff. Well, it couldn't be anything that important, right?
***
I watched as Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode out of the Bank of England, a massive briefcase in his right hand. I, however, was much more focused on the piece of paper in his left.
"You've got it?" I demanded, heedless of anyone hearing. Our two guards had long since been sent back to the ship, and I couldn't care less if any passer-by heard what I said. Not right now. Not when we were so close.
"I do."
Vicious triumph surged inside me.
"What is his name?" I demanded.
What is the name of the dog I'm going to put down?
Unfolding the paper, he shared a last, lingering look with me.
Not you alone, that look said. We're going to face him together.
"The man we're looking for," he told me, eyes darting down to the paper, "is named..."
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I overslept again ;) Hence short author's note. Thank heavens for alarm clocks.