Page 44

THIRTY-FIVE

B rice Torrence descended the front steps of his club shortly before midnight. He was dressed in the black-and-white formal attire he had worn to a ball that evening. He raised a silver-handled walking stick to signal the first cab in the line of vehicles that waited in the street.

Slater moved out of the deep shadows cast by a nearby doorway vestibule.

“I’d like a word with you, Brice,” Slater said.

Brice tensed and turned halfway around. His initial start of surprise was transmuted into anger.

“Roxton,” he said. “What in blazes do you want?”

“Some brief conversation. You owe me that much, don’t you agree?”

“Do you want me to apologize for what happened on Fever Island? To tell you that I’m sorry I left you for dead in those damned temple caves? How was I to know that you were still alive? Hell and damnation, man, I thought you were dead .”

Slater was stunned by the way the words spilled out of Brice. It was not the response he had expected. For a moment he was not sure how to handle it.

“I know you thought that I had been killed by that fall of rock,” he said. “I don’t hold you responsible.”

“I left you to die while I sailed home with a priceless artifact. Some things are unforgivable in a friendship.”

“This is not the conversation I want to have,” Slater said.

“What do you want to discuss? Restitution? How am I supposed to make things right between us? How do I change the past?”

“This is not about the past, at least not those aspects of it. I want to talk about the Olympus Club.”

Brice stared at him. “What the devil?”

Slater heard the door of the club open again. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two very drunk men come down the steps. Their laughter was too loud as they debated where to spend the rest of the night.

There was another man on the street, as well.

He came quickly along the walkway as though late for an appointment.

When he moved through the glary light of the streetlamps, Slater caught a glimpse of him.

He was small in stature but he cut a fashionable figure in an excellently tailored suit. He carried a walking stick in one hand.

Slater did not recognize him but he knew the sort—a clubman, making his nightly rounds of the most exclusive gentlemen’s haunts.

Slater turned back to Brice and lowered his voice.

“Will you come to my house with me?” he said. “We can discuss this over some very good brandy.”

“You can say whatever it is you think needs saying right here.”

“If you insist,” Slater said. “But perhaps we could put some distance between ourselves and the front door of your club?”

Brice looked wary but he accompanied Slater a short distance away from the light of the gas lamps that illuminated the front steps.

Slater glanced back to make certain that no one was close enough to overhear the conversation. He saw that the dapper little man with the walking stick was nearing the steps of the club. In another moment he would disappear through the doorway.

Slater shook off the uneasy feeling and focused on Brice.

“I warned her this was probably not a good idea,” Slater said.

“Warned who? You’re not making sense.”

Slater was about to respond but it occurred to him that he had not heard the small man’s shoes on the front steps of the club. Instead, the brisk footsteps were continuing along the walkway, coming closer.

The cab line was across the street, Slater thought. The little man was not headed in that direction, either.

The footsteps echoed in the fog, moving more quickly now and in a purposeful manner.

“Brice, do you know the man coming up behind me?” Slater asked. “The small fellow with the walking stick?”

“What?” Distracted, Brice peered past Slater. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Because you know just about everyone in Society. If you don’t recognize him, that is not a good sign.”

“Have you been drinking?” Brice demanded.

The footsteps were closing rapidly now. Slater glanced over his shoulder again. The little man had one hand clenched around the handle of the walking stick. He grasped the lower end of the stick in his opposite hand.

He looked very much like a man who was preparing to unsheathe a dagger.

Or a stiletto , Slater thought.

He took off his spectacles, dropped them into the pocket of his coat and turned back to Brice, who was speaking impatiently. Something about getting on with it. Slater fixed his attention on him, as though paying attention. But he listened, instead, to the footsteps closing the distance behind him.

And there it was, the slight shortening of the small man’s stride. Like a jumper collecting power to take the fence, the assassin was readying himself for the kill.

Slater shoved Brice into the bushes at the border of the pavement, simultaneously twisting away from the attack.

Brice yelped, outraged.

Slater whirled around to confront the assassin.

A needle of steel gleamed in the luminous fog.

Suddenly aware that he was going to miss his target, the little man tried frantically to change direction.

Slater took advantage of the opening. He made one hand into a straight edge and brought it down in a hard, chopping blow that caught the assassin on the forearm close to the wrist. Bone cracked. The stiletto and its walking stick sheath clattered on the ground.

It had all happened very quickly—a matter of seconds—but the commotion was starting to attract attention from the cab line.

“Footpad.”

“Send for a constable.”

Slater started toward the assassin.

“You crazy son of a bitch,” the little man hissed. “You’ll pay for this, I swear you will.”

He turned again and ran off into the fog.

“Damn.” Brice got to his feet, brushing off his clothes. “He got away. He’ll disappear into the stews.”

“Not likely,” Slater said. “You heard the accent. He’s an American criminal trying to escape in our fair city. I doubt that he’ll get far.”

“What do you mean? It’s a very big city, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“He’ll stand out on the streets,” Slater said. “After all, he can barely speak the language.”