The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel by Mark Pryor Read Free Book Online Page B

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