‘Of course!’ He exclaimed. ‘I’m at your service, Sahib. Where shall we go? Where shall we send…’ His eyes rested for a moment on me, while he searched for the proper pronoun. ‘…this individual?’
I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but Mr Ambrose was quicker.
‘No, Karim. We will not go together. You will go one way. Mr Linton and I shall explore the other corridor.’
Something like hurt showed under the black curls of Karim’s beard. I might have been sorry for him if I hadn’t been so busy suppressing a gigantic grin.
‘You’d rather be accompanied by this creature than by me, Sahib?’ the Mohammedan demanded.
Mr Ambrose made a terse movement with his head towards the second corridor. ‘I’d rather send somebody I can rely on where I cannot go myself, Karim.’
Nice. The grin stopped trying to force its way onto my face. So he couldn’t rely on me, could he?
Mollified by Mr Ambrose’s words, and probably also by the sour look on my face, Karim bowed.
‘I shall do as you command, Sahib.’
‘If you find the file, leave. If you find nothing, leave. Don’t wait for us. We will meet back at Empire House.’
Karim didn’t look too happy about that order. But he bowed again.
‘As you wish, Sahib.’
Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the corridor to the left.
‘Come on.’ Mr Ambrose motioned down the other corridor and started forward. ‘We have wasted enough time.’
I almost ran after him. Not that I would ever have admitted it, but leaving Karim behind sent a tingle of fear up my spine. No matter how many soldiers Lord Dalgliesh had at his command, I couldn’t see any of them getting past the huge Mohammedan. Now that he was gone, all Mr Ambrose had for protection was his cane, which just now didn’t seem as impressive to me as on the first occasion he had drawn its hidden blade.
Suddenly, Mr Ambrose stopped and held up his hand. That was a sign even I, with my very limited experience in burglary, had no problems understanding. I halted, and waited with baited breath.
When, after a few moments, nothing had happened, I whispered: ‘What is it?’
‘Voices,’ he said in a low, but otherwise normal, tone of voice. ‘Be quiet. And if you have to speak, don't whisper. We are soldiers, remember? We are supposed to be here, and if we whisper, it will sound suspicious.’
That actually made sense. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And don't call me “Sir”,’ he added, still peering down the corridor, his back to me. ‘If somebody catches you doing it, we will be under immediate suspicion. We wear uniforms of the same rank.’
A grin spread across my face. ‘Do we, now?’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Si- um, I mean, yes, mate?’
‘I can feel your smile. Dispose of it immediately.’
‘Yes, mate!’
‘And don't call me mate. Only drunken sailors do that.’
‘Yes, Si- ma- um… thingy.’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes?’
‘Be silent! I am trying to listen.’
I decided against giving an answer. I had run out of forms of address in any case, and I was just as interested as he to hear what was going on up ahead. Straining my ears, I tried to catch the voices he had mentioned. There was something… Not voices, only indistinct noises. A clang of metal here, a dull thump there, that was it.
Then it came: a low shout, just before the next thump. Again a shout, a bit like a command, but not really, and then another thump.
‘What do you suppose it means?’ I whispered.
His hand jerked up.
Blast! I had forgotten: no whispering. Quickly, I continued in a more normal tone of voice: ‘That doesn't sound like an office, does it?’
He shook his head.
‘Well? What is it?’
‘I am reluctant to venture a guess with only audible data at my disposal, Mr Linton. But it sounds very much like a dock. Like a ship being loaded.’
‘But… we’re still a long way away from the docks, aren’t we?’
‘Yes.’
Without any further explanation, he started forward again.
Yes? That’s all you’re going to say?
Cursing inwardly, I hurried after him. He still marched along the corridor as if the whole place belonged to him, as if he had a right to be here that nobody could dispute. I did my best to imitate him, but probably didn’t quite succeed. Slowly, the noises up ahead grew louder, the voices clearer. It was clear now that things were being loaded. I could hear the recurring thumps of the load as it was let down from high above, and the squeak of what I supposed were pulleys and cranes.
The shouted commands made it certain:
‘Two yards to the left!’
‘Down! Now!’
‘A bit to the right!’
‘You’ve got it! Gently now, gently. This stuff is valuable!’
I could see light up ahead. Suddenly, the corridor opened in front of us into a wide hall. I wanted to duck back, but Mr Ambrose hissed at me out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Don’t you dare! They have already seen us!’
And he was right. The eyes of several soldiers who were standing on a gallery that lead all around the room were on us. They were out of hearing range, but they could see our every move.
‘Oh my God!’ I breathed. ‘What now?’
‘Do as I do,’ he hissed. ‘Exactly as I do, on the other side. Now!’
And he took a few steps to the right, until he stood at the left end of the corridor, and assumed an erect position, his arms clasped behind his back, his legs clamped together. Having no idea why, I did the same, and felt pretty silly about it.
After a few moments, the soldiers on the gallery seemed to lose interest in us. Their eyes wandered on to more important things, like the crates full of dried cod that were piled on top of one another in a corner of the hall.
I stared at them, fixedly, waiting for the ‘Seize them!’ or ‘Shoot!’. But no such command came.
‘What is the matter?’ I asked out of the corner of my mouth. ‘Why aren’t they suspicious? Why aren’t they even looking at us anymore?’
‘Because we are acting as soldiers are supposed to act,’ Mr Ambrose replied. I had no idea how, but he managed to speak without actually moving his lips. ‘We are standing guard.’