Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(14)

“Dr. Bacall . . .” the redhead prompted.

“Lowe Magnusson?” the man answered. His head turned in Lowe’s direction, but his eyes didn’t see him. They were eerily blank. Albino white—no iris and barely a trace of pupil.

He was blind.

Good lord. What the hell had happened to Archibald Bacall?

Lowe cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, sir. It’s good to meet you.”

“Come in, come in. I have trouble moving around these days, so you’ll have to forgive me.” He lifted his head and spoke to the receptionist. “Miss Tilly, can you show him a chair, then close the door, please? This is a private meeting. No interruptions.”

As the door snicked shut behind him, Lowe removed his cap and studied the old man. Sagging, mottled skin. Frail bones. Balding. Liver spots. He’d seen fairly recent photographs of the man in archaeology publications—he’d had a head full of hair and didn’t look a day over fifty.

“It’s good to finally meet you after all our correspondence,” Bacall said in a half-British, half-American transatlantic accent. The one Hadley shared. If Lowe remembered correctly, Bacall was from some titled English family or another—he’d married the gold rush heiress after moving here from across the pond.

“You, as well.”

Could the man see him at all? Anything? Lowe waved his hand in the air. Bacall stared vacantly toward the back of the room.

“Quite a nest you stumbled upon outside the Philae temple,” the old man said. “Hard to believe it’s attracted so many scholars and tourists over the last couple of decades and no one noticed the sunken entrance.”

Lowe peeled off his driving gloves and stuffed them in his coat pockets. “Just happened to decipher a code on the temple walls that led me to the secret room. Stroke of luck, really.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I think you’re damn good at solving puzzles and finding things. Good scholars are a dime a dozen. In fact, we’ve got a dozen of them in these offices this afternoon. They can argue a theory and uncover new things sitting behind their desks, but they won’t get their hands dirty. An educated treasure hunter like you with sharp field skills and the brains to decode riddles? You’re a different breed altogether. An undervalued one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Society snobs like Bacall didn’t have respect for men like Lowe. Maybe the old man was trying to butter him up to get a better price, hard to tell. His daughter had been much easier to read.

The telephone rang.

“I thought I told her no interruptions,” Bacall murmured. “Excuse me one moment.”

Lowe sat back and waited for the man to finish his call. A few seconds into it, a brief knock sounded from an inner door in the corner of the room, and the door swung open. A familiar willowy figure marched in lugging a stack of file folders up to her nose.

Dressed in a black pencil skirt and gray sweater, with a string of faceted black beads swinging down to her waist, Hadley looked more Casket Saleswoman than Wealthy Funeral Attendee today.

With a grunt, she lowered the files onto her father’s conference table and attempted to straighten the teetering stack. She stilled and lifted her chin as if she were scenting the air. Then both her head and the string of black beads swung in his direction.

He grinned. Hard to tell if she was surprised or disgusted by his presence, but whatever it was, her hand slipped on the stack of folders. Half the files slid sideways and toppled onto the floor, paper scattering like autumn leaves.

He jumped to his feet to help her. “Funny seeing you here,” he said in a low voice as he steadied the remaining folders threatening to fall. “Jumped any trains today?”

“Please don’t mention that in front of Father,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder to check that the man was still talking on the telephone.

“The jumping part, or the torn dress part, or the spending the night together part?”

“The part where we did anything other than meet briefly in the first-class dining car.”

“Oh, ho-ho! Someone lied to dear old Daddy, did she?”

She glared at him like she was seconds away from scratching out his eyeballs.

“You have my word,” he said, etching an invisible “X” over his heart.

“Which is worth less than a trapdoor on a lifeboat.”

“Ooaf!” He bent with her to scoop up paperwork. “I get the distinct impression you aren’t glad to see me again, Hadley.”

“You aren’t wrong, Lowe.”

Despite her dour attitude, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was flirting with him. A strange little spark warmed his chest. “And to think, just yesterday morning I was waking up to the sight of your bed-mussed hair.”

“Keep your voice down!” she said, glancing back at her father once more.

“If you lied to your old man, what did you tell your boyfriend?” No ring, and she hadn’t mentioned anyone last night, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming about anything more than mummy dust. Maybe she kept time with some fancy-pants society doctor.

The barest of flushes colored her cheeks, but she didn’t look up from her task. “Are you here to make my life miserable?”

“I’m here to empty your father’s bank account. Making you miserable is a bonus.”