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*~*~**~*~*
There was a welcoming committee present when we arrived in the harbour. However, the committee did not consist of smiling family members. What a big surprise. The lights of cameras started flashing the moment I stepped onto the gangway.
‘Mr Ambrose! Mr Ambrose, why did you suddenly decide to come back to London after all those years?’
‘No comment!’
‘Mr Ambrose! A statement, please, Mr Ambrose!’
‘No comment!’
‘What do you say to the rumours that you ruined Harlow & Sons to take over their company?’
‘Yes.’
The reporters were so startled at my reply that they actually stopped badgering me with questions for a moment. The one right in front of me nearly dropped his pen and notepad. ‘W-what do you mean, yes?’
I took a step towards him, off the gangway and onto the embankment. ‘I should have thought that was obvious. I say yes to the rumours. I ruined their company to take it over. And if you don’t get out of my way I’ll do the same to your paper.’
‘Are you threatening me? I’m a member of the free press, and-’
‘-in my way.’ Taking the reporter by the scruff of the neck, I lifted him off the ground and, with a splash, dropped him into the harbour basin right beside me. He resurfaced a second later, spewing dirty seawater. I looked at the remaining reporters gathered all around me like a pack of hungry jackals, and cocked my head. ‘Do any of you gentlemen still have questions for me?’
They scattered.
‘The press here appears to be easier dealt with than in America,’ Karim commented, thoughtfully.
I nodded.
‘What about them?’ asked my bodyguard, pointing to a crowd of gape-mouthed gawkers who had gathered around the dock to stare at the splashing reporter, at the huge Mohammedan with the sabre and the turban on his head, and most of all - at me. Now that the reporters were gone, the gawkers were the only thing in our way. ‘Should I remove them, Sahib?’
I shook my head.
Stepping forward, I focused my gaze on the foremost of the spectators: a spindly little half-bald man with enormous ears. I lifted my hand, with three fingers outstretched.
One finger retracted.
Three…
Another finger followed.
Two…
I met the spindly man’s eyes. My last extended finger twitched.
The man moved faster than the fastest race horse. He stepped back so quickly that he stepped on the toes of the fat fishwife behind him. Instead of reacting in the usual manner of a fishwife and hitting him over the head with a haddock, she caught sight of me and stepped back just as hurriedly. As did the man behind her, and the one behind him, too. A corridor through the crowd began to open.
Any other man might have smiled, maybe even felt triumph. I didn’t. A lion doesn’t feel triumph when his prey steps aside.
At least I didn’t think he did. I had never actually asked one.
Stepping forward, I brushed past the people, easily parting what was left of the crowd in front of me. All around, I could hear whispers:
‘…Ambrose! Rikkard Ambrose…’
‘…richer that Croesus, they say! Richer than Midas!’
‘Back from the colonies…’
