Garden of Lies(73)

“Calm down,” Cobb said.

“Oh, it’s you, sir.” Hubbard pulled himself together. It was not a good idea to let the client sense nervousness or anxiety. “For a moment there— Never mind.”

“Are you injured?” Cobb asked with some concern.

“The bastard broke my wrist.”

“When you failed to return to the hotel I assumed something had gone wrong with the plan. What happened?”

“Unfortunate turn of events.” Out of long habit, Hubbard adopted his most assured, most professional tone. “These things happen. I’ll take care of the matter within twenty-four hours.”

“What, precisely, occurred?”

Cobb sounded as if he was inquiring about a minor carriage accident or some equally mild mishap. As well he should, Hubbard thought. Missing the target tonight was not a major catastrophe. Considering his spotless record, it was only right that Cobb ought to overlook a small error, one that could easily be corrected.

“The son of a bitch noticed me,” he said, maintaining his authoritative tone of voice. “That sort of thing doesn’t usually affect the outcome but Roxton reacted more swiftly than the average person in such circumstances.”

“In other words, you missed your target.”

“As I said, I’ll take care of the problem soon enough.”

“Where is your stiletto stick?”

Hubbard flushed. “Lost it along the way. No matter. I’ve got a spare in my trunk.”

“Which is at the hotel.”

“Yes, well, if you would be good enough to deliver it to me, I’ll take care of Roxton.” Hubbard looked down at his creased shirt and trousers. “I would be grateful if you would bring a change of clothes, as well.”

“You lost the stiletto at the scene, I assume?”

“Roxton chopped it right out of my hand. Never seen anything like it.”

“Did you speak to Roxton?” Cobb asked.

“What? No. Why would I do that?”

“Did you say anything at all? Did you swear?”

Hubbard suddenly sensed where the questions were going.

“No,” he said quickly. “Never said a word. Just took off running. Someone was shouting for a constable.”

“I think you’re lying, Hubbard. I must assume that the police are now aware that a killer with an American accent attacked a man in front of a gentlemen’s club and is now loose on the streets of London. I expect the press will have a field day tomorrow.”

“No,” Hubbard said. “Roxton never got a good look at me.”

“He didn’t need a close look in order to provide the police with a fairly accurate description. You won’t require a change of clothes or your spare stiletto, Hubbard. You are no longer of any use to me.”

Belatedly sensing disaster, Hubbard looked up very swiftly. But he was too late. Cobb had taken a revolver out from under his coat.

“No.” Hubbard stared in disbelief. “I’m the best there is.”

“I have news for you, Hubbard. There are plenty more where you came from.”

Hubbard froze, just as so many of his victims had, in that last instant.

Cobb pulled the trigger twice. The first shot struck Hubbard in the chest with such force that he was thrown backward onto the crate. He was still trying to comprehend what had happened to him when the second bullet entered his brain.

—

COBB STOOD OVER THE BODY for a moment making absolutely certain of death. He did not want any more complications. The plan had been simple and straightforward. He would gain exclusive control of the drug and use it to build an empire that would rival the kingdoms founded by Rockefeller, Carnegie, J. P. Morgan and the other men the press labeled robber barons. What’s more, he would adopt their business tactics to achieve his objective—he would establish a monopoly on a product that a great many people would pay dearly to obtain.

It was unfortunate that a woman had been the key from the start. In his experience females were difficult, demanding and unpredictable. But a man had to work with what he had. He could only be grateful that Valerie was not only quite beautiful, but also unhappy in her marriage. That had made her seduction much less of a chore than would have been the case had she been a dowdy, middle-aged hag.

He had worked for months to construct the foundation of his business in New York. Eventually the network of greenhouses, laboratories and distributors would reach across the continent. He had come to London to implement the final stages of his strategy. Everything should have gone smoothly but there had been one complication after another.

It all came down to women. One had been the key to his empire but now another female, Ursula Kern, had become a serious problem. Because of her, a wealthy, powerful man had taken an interest in the death of the courier. One thing had led to another and now disaster loomed.

The strategy had appeared obvious—remove Roxton, whose murder would cause a great uproar in the press. While the focus of attention was on that spectacular homicide, it would be possible to quietly dispatch Kern. In the end Hubbard would be found dead and the police would be satisfied that the American killer was no longer haunting the streets of London.

Hubbard had been useful but even the best employees could be replaced. The real question, as always in such situations, was how to dispose of the body. In New York he relied on the river for that sort of thing. There was a river here in London and evidently bodies turned up all the time. But tonight he was faced with the task of dragging Hubbard out of the warehouse and along the street for some distance. He did not want to take the risk of being seen.