Hugo smiled and angled left toward the door. When he got there, he paused to check for curious eyes and, seeing none, pushed open the door and slipped out of the Cellar.
He found himself in a small alcove. The door to the outside was on his right, and to his left was a set of stone steps — the fire escape, he assumed. He trotted up the stairs, feet scuffing against the stone, his ears pricked for sound. He went up to the first landing and paused by the door, which bore a sign that read: “Private Residence. Keep Out.” He put his ear to the door. All was quiet, so he pressed the metal bar and opened it. This was Nicholas Braxton’s side of the house, according to Merlyn, and while the fat little man himself was in the Cellar, friends, family, or guests could still be here.
Hugo stood still for a moment, watching, listening. A hallway extended to his left, opening into what looked like a living room, and to his right, where it ended in large double doors. Hugo guessed the doors opened into the more public area of the house, which meant they could be his escape route into safer territory, even to the front door.
He moved to his left, walking on the rug that ran down the center of the wooden floor. A half-open door to his right made him pause, but it was dark as well as quiet. He poked his head in and waited for his eyes to adjust. Beginner’s luck, Hugo thought, as he found himself looking into Braxton’s study. If there was going to be a list of the hall’s members, or a stack of waivers, this is where they’d be.
And something was bothering him. He had no real reason to think Pendrith was connected to this place, but coincidences always made him hesitate. Sure, it could be chance that Pendrith had inserted himself into this investigation without knowing any of the players, but his interest in Harper had seemed … unusual. And here Hugo was, in a secretive mansion in the very territory Pendrith claimed to know so well. And if Pendrith was indeed aboveboard and not hiding anything, how come he’d disappeared in a puff of smoke? Hugo wondered if an answer to one of those questions, or at least the hint of an answer, lay filed away in this room.
What of Walton? Had he decided on his story and left for London? Somehow Hugo didn’t think so, though again he couldn’t come up with any reason why Walton should be up to no good. A gut instinct, Hugo thought, no more and no less. And he never dismissed those instincts entirely, not until he was sure they were leading him astray.
He closed the door behind him before flicking on the overhead light. Tall filing cabinets flanked the door, while directly opposite was an impressive wooden desk. Heavy green curtains covered a bank of windows to his right, and in the far corner, behind the desk and opposite the windows, a shoulder-high safe squatted in the corner.
He ignored the safe, knowing he didn’t have time to mess with it and almost certainly didn’t have the skill to open it. An image of a good friend, one he’d not seen in a while, in far too long, popped into his head; Tom Green, his roommate at the FBI Academy and close friend ever after, would be able to get into the safe, one way or another. Hugo rounded the desk and pulled open drawers, rifling through papers but not seeing anything resembling a member list. He turned his attention to the filing cabinets, starting at the top and working his way down. He found copies of bills and old legal documents, brochures for real estate in London and others for the kind of equipment Hugo had seen in the Cellar.
But no list of names.
Hugo stood by the door, his hand on the light switch, when he spotted a leather-bound ledger sitting on top of the safe, near the back edge. He went over and opened it, smiling to himself when he saw a long list of initials.
What was it Merlyn had said when they signed in? MHS from Putney. The list was three pages long and written in the same format as Merlyn’s self-description to Cat Woman at the door. Just a column of initials, followed by a list of towns. He checked to make sure he was looking at the right thing by locating Merlyn’s initials. A thought occurred and he looked for Harry Walton’s initials, knowing that the reporter came from the Hertfordshire area. But no HW on the list. He then scoured it for Pendrith.
There it was, surely. GSP. Chelsea/Paris.
Paris? Hugo knew Pendrith lived in Chelsea, he’d said so during the brief car ride with Harper. But Paris? No surprise that he had the money to buy a place there — wealth being another indication that maybe this GSP was indeed Graham Stopford-Pendrith. No wonder he’d inserted himself into this investigation, Hugo thought. He remembered the MP’s obvious sincerity, the gentleness in his voice when he expressed his sympathy to Harper for his wife’s death. They knew each other.
He turned as the door to the study opened behind him. The doorway was filled by a bald and very muscular man in a tight, black T-shirt and jeans, about an inch shorter than Hugo but forty pounds of solid muscle heavier. Not dressed for the party, Hugo noted. Dressed like security, with a clipboard in his hand.
“Who are you?” the man said.
“Michael Sudduth,” Hugo lied, intentionally disguising his accent.
Instinctively the man looked down at the clipboard, and Hugo knew he’d guessed right about it being the guest list. “Middle name, and where from, please.”
“Harry, from Putney.”
The man grunted and looked up, apparently satisfied with the MHS Putney that Hugo knew was on the list. “What are you doing in here?”
“Looking for something,” Hugo said. “But I found it, thanks.” He started toward the doorway but the man didn’t budge.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You American?”
“Texan, actually. You?”
“Funny man, eh?”
Hugo shrugged and smiled. “I try. After all, look at what I’m wearing.”
“Stay where you are pal, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“That makes two of us,” said Hugo. “But I should be getting back to the party.”
The smile on Hugo’s face disappeared as the man reached behind his back and tugged at something in his waistband. The man pulled out a walkie-talkie, his eyes never leaving Hugo. “I got him. Mr. B’s study.” A crackle of noise and the words “Hold him there” came through. The man nodded to no one and tucked the walkie-talkie away. He stood in the doorway like a sentry, arms crossed over his chest, feet planted wide apart like the roots of an old elm tree anchoring him to the ground.
“Here’s the thing,” Hugo said. “I have no beef with you, your boss, or what you guys get up to here. None at all. But I’m looking for someone who has gone missing, and I’m responsible for his safety.” Not a literal truth, but Hugo did feel that he should have foreseen or somehow prevented Pendrith’s disappearance.
“You can tell it to the boss.”
“Yeah, except I don’t have time for that.”
“Oh?” A sardonic smile touched the man’s lips. “Gonna throw yourself out a window? I wouldn’t bother, they’re reinforced glass.”
“That’s OK,” Hugo said, walking to within two feet of the man. “I think I’ll play it conventional.” Hugo wafted his left hand in the air, a simple but effective distraction that gave him the split second he needed to drive his first and second knuckles into the man’s sternum. Size didn’t matter when you couldn’t breathe, a lesson Hugo had learned for himself in the past.