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“That’s different,” he said, talking when he should have said nothing. “That’s just good business.”
“It’s war profiteering. Lucky for you, I don’t look down on such a thing.” Wentworth sucked on his cigar, blowing out smoke before adding, “But imagine, for a moment, that I did. It would be my duty as a patriotic American to alert your commanding officer about your little agreement with Barnett. Think about what would happen then, Jack. A court-martial. A dishonorable discharge. Definitely jail time. You can go through all that or you can help me out and make ten times as much as your deal with Barnett.”
Cowed by that prospect, Lapsford realized there was no way out of the situation. He had to go along with Wentworth’s scheme, as despicable as it was. It was either that or the destruction of his career, his reputation, his whole goddamn life.
“You’re a ruthless bastard,” he said.
Wentworth bowed his head, as if he’d just been paid the ultimate compliment. “Thank you.”
“Why are you so hell-bent on doing this?” Lapsford asked. “And don’t tell me again that it’s to rally the country around the war effort. That’s a crock, and we both know it. So what’s your real reason?”
“I hate Arthur Matheson,” Wentworth said. “And I want to destroy him.”
“There are other ways of doing that.”
“But this will guarantee it.”
“What did he do that makes you hate him so much?”
Wentworth swirled the scotch in his glass, staring at the amber liquid. “He took something from me. And now he’s going to pay for it. With your help, of course. And your reward will be more money than you’ll know what to do with.”
Kenneth Wentworth was right in that regard. Lapsford ended up making a fortune. But now all the things Wentworth threatened him with that night are literally staring him in the face. Lapsford stares back, sizing up Agent Reginald Davis and finding him lacking. As a military man, he has little respect for the FBI. Despite both being on the same side, Lapsford finds them too flashy, too full of themselves. Especially that J. Edgar Hoover. Agent Davis is no different, sporting a smug look as he says, “Did you murder Judd Dodge and Edith Gerhardt?”
Lapsford doesn’t respond.
“If you did, you might as well admit it,” Anna Matheson says. “You’re going to prison regardless.”
Lapsford looks at her, wondering if she knows what her father took from Kenneth Wentworth. He suspects not. She’s probably just as oblivious as he is. Wentworth never gave him more details, even after Art Matheson was long dead.
“My attorney will beg to differ.”
“He’s not here right now,” Agent Davis says. “So how about I ask you some questions I know you can answer. How well did you know the deceased?”
“I didn’t know them at all, really. Just a few brief encounters.”
“What were your opinions of them?”
“You’re assuming I had opinions of them,” Lapsford says.
“You didn’t?” Agent Davis asks. “Why not?”
Lapsford yawns, feigning boredom. “It wasn’t worth my time.”
“Speaking of time,” the agent says, using a segue so awkward it makes Lapsford audibly groan. “Where were you between our gathering in the observation car and Edith being found dead there?”
“Right here,” Lapsford says.
“The whole time?”
“Of course.”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Anna leans forward, a glint in her eye that Lapsford doesn’t like one bit. “After all, you lied earlier about being in the galley not long after the train left the station.”
“Who told you that?” Lapsford says, to his instant regret. It almost sounds like a confirmation, which it isn’t. Even though he was in the galley shortly after seven, he’d never admit it.
“Edith,” Anna says. “Is that why you killed her?”
“I won’t be saying another word until I have a lawyer present.”