Page 42

THIRTY-THREE

H ubbard watched from the shadows of the hansom as Roxton and the woman emerged from the park.

He could tell from the swift manner in which Roxton bundled the female into a closed cab that they had discovered the body.

It was possible they would go to the police but that was of little concern.

The death of a brothel madam might interest the gutter press but it was doubtful that the authorities would conduct a serious investigation.

Even if they bothered to look into the death it would do them little good.

Back home in New York where his work had not gone unnoticed and where he enjoyed a bit of a reputation—the press had labeled him The Needle—he was still free to go about unrecognized on the streets.

He prided himself on being neat and tidy in his work.

He rather suspected that the reason the police did not search very hard for him was because, as a rule, he specialized in removing some of the very same people they were paid to take off the streets.

His employer’s business interests were extensive, crossing all the murky boundaries that were supposed to separate legitimate enterprises from those that operated deep in the criminal underworld.

Damian Cobb employed an army of lawyers, accountants and sharp managers to deal with the competition in the respectable side of his affairs.

When it came to his less respectable businesses, he used different types of experts.

It was a competitive environment, to be sure.

There was ample work for a professional who carried out tasks cleanly and skillfully while avoiding detection.

Hubbard watched the closed carriage pull away into traffic. Then he spoke to the driver through the opening in the roof of the hansom.

“The Stokely Hotel,” he said.

“Aye, guv.”

The driver shook the whip over the horse’s rump. The hansom rolled forward.

Hubbard wondered if the driver intended to cheat him when it came time to pay the fare.

The problem with being a visitor in town was that for the most part he had no idea of where he was at any given moment.

He knew New York well. He had grown up in the city.

But London was a sprawling maze that defeated his sense of direction.

He hated the place. Here he was totally reliant upon the cab drivers, who all seemed remarkably well versed in the mysteries of the streets.

Fortunately, Cobb did not intend to remain in London for long. The loose ends were almost all completely snipped off. When the business was concluded they would sail home to New York.

Hubbard looked down at his gloved hands. He was impatient to return to his room at the hotel. His technique ensured that very little blood was spilled. Nevertheless, he always washed his hands afterward.