FORTY-EIGHT
Slater ignored the barely veiled stares and the sudden hush that had descended on the club room. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Most of the men lounging in the deep, leather chairs were dressed in formal black-and-white. Bottles of claret and brandy sat on every side table. A haze of cigar smoke hung in the air.
One elderly man whom Slater recognized as a friend of his father’s snorted in amusement and winked. Slater nodded in acknowledgment and continued on his way into the card room. He had refused to surrender his greatcoat and hat to the porter so he dripped rainwater on the carpet.
Fulbrook was seated at a table with three other men. He held a handful of cards and he was chuckling at a comment one of the other players had just made when the room went very quiet. Like everyone else, he turned toward the door to see who or what had caused the sudden stillness. When he saw Slater, he grunted and made a show of examining his cards.
“Evidently the management of this club is allowing just anyone in these days,” he said to his companions, “including those who are rumored to be candidates for an asylum.”
One man snickered uneasily. The rest of the players concentrated on their cards as though the stakes had suddenly become life-or-death.
Slater walked to the table. “My apologies for the interruption, Fulbrook, but I have a rather important message for you.”
“I’m busy, Roxton. Some other time.”
“If you would rather discuss the matter of a certain journal and some photographs at a future date—”
Fulbrook shot to his feet so quickly his chair tipped over backward and clattered on the floor.
“Your father may have been a gentleman but it’s clear that your manners must have come from your mother’s side,” he said.
“Your insult to my mother has been noted,” Slater said. “But I have certain priorities tonight. Shall we continue with this discussion here or outside, where we can be assured of some privacy?”
“Outside. I don’t want to subject my friends and associates to your presence any longer than is necessary.”
Slater turned and went to the door without a word. Fulbrook hesitated and then followed. In the front hall the porter handed him his coat and his hat, gloves and umbrella.
Slater led the way outside and down the steps into the rain. He stopped at the edge of the circle of light cast by the streetlamp.
“I have a cab waiting,” he said. He nodded toward the carriage sitting across the street.
Fulbrook unfurled the umbrella and glanced warily at the cab.
“You really are mad if you think I’d get into a cab with you,” he said.
“As you wish. I’ll try to make this quick. I have the photographs and the blackmail journal that you stored in the safe in your study.”
“You’re lying.” Fulbrook started to sputter. “How could you possibly . . . you hired someone to break into my house, you son of a bitch. How dare you?”
“I didn’t hire someone. I did the work myself. Feel free to press charges but if you do I shall, of course, have to tell a jury what I discovered inside your safe.”
“You bastard.” Fulbrook sounded as if he were choking. “You stand there and admit that you are a burglar?”
“And you are a blackmailer—also an excellent bookkeeper. Your records are very precise. I noticed that you crossed out the names of two of your victims—the ones who chose suicide rather than provide you with whatever it was you demanded of them in exchange for keeping their secrets.”
“The time you spent on that damned island addled your wits, Roxton. You apparently have no idea who you are dealing with here.”
“You are the one who fails to grasp the severity of the situation. I am aware that you have formed a partnership with an American named Damian Cobb.”
“What of it? I admit I have done some business with Cobb. He might be vulgar but he’s a successful businessman, not a crime lord.”
“In this case, there’s not much distinction between the two. While we’re on the subject, there are two things you should know about Cobb. The first is that he has no intention of maintaining a long-term partnership. His goal is to set up a monopoly to control the drug and he plans to run his business from New York. That means he no longer needs your manufacturing, production and distribution network.”
Rage tightened Fulbrook’s face. “That’s a lie.”
“Why do you think he employed an assassin to murder Rosemont, the perfumer who prepared the drug for you, and your courier, Anne Clifton, and Mrs. Wyatt?”
“There was an explosion at Rosemont’s laboratory. The authorities believe that he was buried in the rubble.”
“You’re not keeping up with the news, Fulbrook. Rosemont’s body was discovered yesterday. Someone took a stiletto to the back of his neck. Mrs. Wyatt died as the result of a very similar accident with a stiletto.”
Fulbrook stiffened. “I heard she was murdered by one of her clients.”
“She was dealing quantities of the drug on the side. I’m not sure if Cobb got rid of her because she went into business for herself or if he simply decided that she knew too much. I suspect that’s the reason he had Anne Clifton killed.”
“The Clifton woman was a suicide or an overdose.”
“It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you are the one member of the British side of the business who is still standing.”
“That’s ridiculous. Cobb can’t get rid of me. I’m the only one who can supply him with the drug. He knows that.”
“I suggest you take up that matter with Cobb. He’s in town.”
Fulbrook snorted. “You’re wrong. His ship does not dock until tomorrow.”
“He deceived you, Fulbrook. Cobb and his pet assassin arrived a few days ago, right around the time of Anne Clifton’s death.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I found the assassin’s body last night. It was in a crate at the warehouse. You know the place, I’m sure. It’s where Rosemont delivered the ambrosia that was scheduled to be shipped to New York.”
Slater started to turn away. He stopped when Fulbrook grabbed his arm.
“Take your hand off me,” Slater said very softly.
Fulbrook flinched. He released Slater’s sleeve as though the fabric were made of hellfire.
“You said Cobb is in London,” Fulbrook hissed. “If that’s true, prove it. Where is he staying?”
“I can’t be absolutely certain,” Slater said. “But I found a card from the Stokely Hotel on the dead assassin. I sent a man to take a look. Sure enough, there is an American businessman registered there under a different name. The assassin apparently masqueraded as his valet.”
Fulbrook was dumbfounded. “You’re lying. You must be lying.”
“We’ll soon find out, won’t we? The news will be a great sensation in the press.”
“What news?”
“Your death, of course. The murder of a gentleman who is as well-known in social circles as you are is always news.”
“Are you threatening me, you bloody madman?”
“No, I’m doing you the courtesy of giving you a warning,” Slater said. “I suggest you go directly to the railway station and depart London on the first available train. It is your only hope.”
“Cobb would not dare murder me. He needs me, I tell you.”
“I suppose there is a slight possibility that he won’t kill you.”
“He would hang.”
“If he got caught,” Slater said. “But even if I’m wrong about Cobb’s intentions, that still leaves all your other enemies, doesn’t it?”
“Now what are you talking about?”
“I have made arrangements for the various pages of your journal and the photographs and negatives to be delivered to your respective victims t
omorrow. Notes will be included mentioning that the materials were discovered in your safe. How long do you think you will survive once the powerful men you are blackmailing discover that you are the extortionist? Perhaps, instead of a train ticket, you should consider booking passage to Australia.”
Fulbrook stared at him, stunned. “You’re a dead man. A dead man.”
Slater did not bother to respond. He walked across the street and climbed into the hansom. The cab set off at a brisk pace.
He glanced back just before the vehicle turned the corner. Fulbrook was still standing in front of his club looking as if he had just received a visitation by the devil.
FORTY-NINE
The bastard was lying. Roxton had to be lying. Everyone said that his experiences on Fever Island had affected his mental balance.
But that did not explain how he had come to learn about the journal and the photographs and the business association with Cobb. There was only one explanation—Roxton had, indeed, gotten into the safe. The high walls, the fierce dog, the modern locks—all for naught.
Fulbrook was still shivering with rage when he climbed out of the cab and went up the steps of his house. He banged on the door several times and swore when no one responded. It was nearly three in the morning. The servants were in their beds but that was no excuse. Bloody hell. Someone should have come to the door. Lazy bastards. He would fire them all in the morning.
He fumbled with his key and finally got the door open. He moved into the dark, empty hall. He tossed the hat onto the polished table but he was in too much of a hurry to bother with his coat.
He rushed down the corridor to his study. At the door of the study he paused again to take out another key. He stabbed the damned lock three times before he finally gained access to the room.
He turned up the lamp. A flicker of relief went through him when he saw that the safe was still locked. Perhaps Roxton had been bluffing. Still, how could he have known about the photographs and the journal?
He crouched in front of the safe and spun the combination lock. Whatever small hope still flickered within him was snuffed out when he got the door open. The journal and the photographs were gone. In a subtle but exquisitely cruel taunt, the bastard had left the several thousand pounds’ worth of banknotes behind.
He went to the desk and collapsed into the chair. He buried his face in his hands and tried to think. It was difficult to imagine that Cobb would dare attempt to murder him. The American needed him. But he had to get away from London before the blackmail victims discovered that he was the one who had extorted certain financial and social favors from them during the past year. Roxton was right about one thing—some of the men he had blackmailed were dangerous.
He had to think. He had to escape. He had to protect himself.
He raised his head and unlocked the top desk drawer. The pistol was still inside. At least the bastard had not taken it. Another insult, no doubt.
He checked to be certain the gun was loaded and then he slipped it into the pocket of his greatcoat.
Lurching to his feet, he went back to the safe and scooped out handfuls of banknotes. He stuffed the money into his pockets.
He considered waking a member of the staff to pack his clothes and then concluded that he did not want to waste even that much time.
He left the study and went upstairs to his room. Halfway down the hall he stopped in front of Valerie’s door. It was closed.
An acidic rush of rage flooded through him. This was all her fault. She was the one who had explained the properties of the ambrosia plant and painted a beguiling vision of how it could be used to make a fortune and control powerful people. He wanted nothing more than to strangle her.
Rage briefly overcame his panic. He tried the doorknob. When he discovered that the door was locked he hammered the wooden panels with one fist.
“Valerie, you stupid bitch.”
There was no response.
Sanity returned in a searing flash of urgency. He did not have time to break down the door. He would deal with Valerie later.
He hurried down the hall to his own bedroom. It took some time to find a suitcase. Packing was servants’ work. How was he to know where the travel necessities were stored?
He stuffed a few essentials into the case and slammed the lid shut. Hefting the bag, he went out into the hall and made his way down the stairs. Belatedly it occurred to him that he should have instructed the cab to wait. No matter. He would find another one soon.
He let himself outside and started walking quickly toward the far end of the street. He listened fearfully but the steady rain muffled the sounds of the night.
A man in a greatcoat and carrying an umbrella appeared in the glow of a streetlamp. The figure came toward him. Each step appeared chillingly deliberate.
Terror ripped through him. He fumbled with his pistol.
A moment later the figure in the greatcoat went up the steps of a large town house and disappeared through the front door.
The relief that swept over Fulbrook was so intense that he was not aware of the presence behind him until a gloved hand slapped across his mouth. The knife slashed open his throat before he could understand what had happened.
He crumpled slowly onto his back. Through glazing eyes he looked up at the face of the figure bending over him. He tried to speak but he could not get the words out.
“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” Cobb said. “But a better financial opportunity has presented itself. I’m sure you understand.”
FIFTY
The following morning Ursula was in the library with Slater going over their notes on the case in an effort to construct a proper timeline, when the door opened.
“The biggest unknown here is the exact timing of Cobb’s arrival in London,” Slater said.
He broke off as Gilbert Otford rushed into the room. The journalist was flushed with excitement.
“Fulbrook’s body was discovered early this morning by a constable,” he announced. “Throat cut by a footpad. The Flying Intelligencer is printing a special edition as we speak. My editor is going with the headline Murder in Mapstone Square. Rumors of a Great Scandal.”
An eerie shock lanced through Ursula. Her palms tingled and the back of her neck felt as if it had been touched by fingers from a grave. It was not the news of Fulbrook’s death that provoked the disturbing sensation—it was the realization that Slater had anticipated the report of the murder.
She looked at him. He sat quietly behind his desk, pages of notes arranged in a neat row in front of him, and looked at Otford with an unreadable expression.
It was one thing to use logic to deduce that a man might be the next target of a killer, she thought. It was another matter altogether to have that reasoning proved accurate. The fact that Fulbrook deserved his fate was not important. It was the realization that one had predicted the outcome—and that the outcome was death—that chilled the spirit.
“Where was the body discovered?” Slater asked quietly.
Otford consulted his notes. “Not far from his front door. It’s believed that Fulbrook was attacked either after he got out of a cab or while trying to summon one. None of the neighbors heard or saw anything.”
“Of course not,” Ursula said.
“Not that the lack of witnesses will stifle the scandal.” Otford snapped his notebook shut. “The murder of a gentleman on his own doorstep in an exclusive neighborhood is always a sensation. Every reporter in town is covering the story but thanks to you, Mr. Roxton, I’m the only one with knowledge of Fulbrook’s connection to the Olympus Club, where men of rank enjoy a strange drug and the services of the women of the Pavilion. Mrs. Wyatt’s murder will now also become a sensation because I can link her business to the club and the club to Fulbrook.”
“I take it you are once again working for The Flying Intelligencer?” Slat
er said.
“My editor rehired me this morning when he realized I had a close connection to the story. Meanwhile, I will prepare the first edition of my new magazine. I’m going to call it The Illustrated News of Crime and Scandal.”
“That should appeal to a wide readership,” Ursula said with a small sniff.
“Yes, indeed,” Otford said, unfazed.
Slater leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk. “What did you tell your editor about Cobb and the drug business?”
“Don’t worry,” Otford said. “I’ve kept mum about the American crime lord and the ambrosia drug.”
“You’re certain you did not mention Cobb to your editor?” Slater said.
Otford looked sly. “Never said a word to him. Between you and me, the Cobb connection is my ace in the hole, as the Americans say. I’m saving it for the first edition of my magazine, which will be ready to go to press the moment this affair is concluded.”
“We are assuming that Cobb will make a wrong move and manage to implicate himself,” Ursula said.
“He will make one more mistake,” Slater said.
Otford and Ursula looked at him.
“How can you be so certain of that?” Otford demanded, fascinated.
Slater shrugged. “He is responsible for the murder of a number of people, including a high-ranking gentleman, and at this point he thinks that no one suspects him because his ship does not dock until today. He will very soon be sailing to New York with a beautiful woman who sees him as a knight in shining armor. He’s a crime lord and he’s in the process of building an empire. Trust me, at this moment, he believes he is invincible. That is why he will make his last mistake.”
“If you say so.” Otford slipped his notebook back into his pocket. “I’ll take your word for it. You haven’t been wrong so far. Now I must be off. The police have promised that they will have an announcement for the press at one o’clock at the Yard. There’ll be the usual idle chatter about how much progress they’re making in the search for Fulbrook’s killer, et cetera, et cetera. Nonsense, of course, but my editor will want it for the paper.”