Garden of Lies(83)

“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 tomorrow. 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.