Page 49

FORTY

H ubbard stumbled out of the hansom. He was exhausted and panicky and in great pain. He was certain that his wrist was broken.

He had concluded early on that he did not like London but tonight he had come to truly loathe the hellish place.

His mad flight into hiding in the wake of the failed commission had proven disastrous.

It had taken him into a dark maze of terrifying lanes and alleys.

One narrow passage, in particular, had nearly been the end of him.

Two men armed with knives had cornered him in a dark doorway. He had feared for his life.

He had been saved by the miraculous arrival of a hansom that had disgorged two very drunk gentlemen bound for a nearby brothel. The would-be thieves had disappeared into an alley. Hubbard had leaped into the hansom.

When the driver inquired about a destination he had to stop and think for a moment.

He dared not go back to the hotel. Cobb would be furious.

Roxton and his companion had both gotten a good look at him.

Without a doubt they had recognized his accent.

Worst of all, Roxton had managed to seize the stiletto walking stick.

The staff at the hotel would most assuredly remember it if questioned.

There was only one safe place for him at that moment—the warehouse. He needed to rest and collect his nerve, and then he needed to find a doctor.

He needed Cobb’s assistance.

He paused beneath a streetlamp and tried to get his bearings. It was nearly hopeless. In the moon-infused fog all of the warehouses looked alike. He had been in the vicinity on only one other occasion—the night that he and Cobb had brought the perfume maker here.

Cobb had pointed out the warehouse at the end of the street and given him precise instructions and a key.

“Make a note of the address. If problems arise that make it dangerous for us to meet at the hotel, you are to let yourself into that building and wait for me. If I conclude that something has gone wrong I will know to look for you there.”

Hubbard left the eerie glow cast by the single streetlamp on the corner and trudged nervously along the pavement. Abandoned warehouses loomed on either side. He listened for the smallest sounds in the mist, terrified that he would hear footsteps coming up behind him.

He knew that at least some of his victims had sensed him in the instant before the kill.

He had seen the unnatural stillness that had come over them just before he drove the stiletto into their necks.

A few had even glanced over their shoulders as he approached—only to dismiss him immediately.

The relief he had glimpsed in their eyes had always amused him.

His stock-in-trade was the fact that he did not appear the least bit threatening.

Indeed, most people looked straight through him, as if he did not exist. That had been the case with the brothel madam.

But tonight the target had heard him or sensed him in some primal way. Roxton had not only registered the threat immediately, he had acted.

In that brief encounter, Hubbard had glimpsed the icy awareness in the other man’s eyes and known that Roxton was not just another commission.

Hubbard had known true fear for the first time in a very long while.

The panic and terror had only grown stronger during the time it had taken him to find his way to the warehouse.

He told himself that his shattered nerves would recover once he got home to New York.

In time his wrist would heal, provided he could get it properly set by a doctor. He would survive.

Not much longer now, according to Cobb. Soon they would both be free of this nightmarish city.

He had to strike a light to locate the door of the warehouse. It took two or three attempts to get the key into the lock and for a few seconds he almost despaired. But in the end he got the door open.

He sucked in a shaky gasp of relief when he saw the shielded lantern that someone had left on top of an empty crate. He got the device lit and held it aloft to survey his surroundings.

At first glance the warehouse appeared to have been abandoned. There were a number of empty crates and barrels scattered about. Frayed hoisting ropes dangled from the loft. Bits of moldy straw covered much of the floor.

When he looked more closely, however, he saw a trail of muddled footsteps. Rosemont’s, he concluded. The perfumer must have come here frequently during the past several months delivering the crates filled with the drug and preparing them for shipment to New York.

He followed the prints to the crates. When he reached them he stumbled to a halt and sank down onto one of the wooden containers.

He took off his coat, folded it neatly and set it aside.

His tie seemed to be restricting his breathing so he removed it and loosened the collar of his shirt. Gingerly he examined his aching wrist.

It was, he reflected, going to be a very long night.

But in the end, the night proved remarkably short.

Hubbard was stretched out on top of the crate, trying in vain to rest, when he heard the door open. A sharp jolt of panic stabbed through him. His heart pounded. He sat up abruptly and fumbled with the lantern.

“Who’s there?” he called out. “Show yourself.”

The newcomer held his own shielded lantern aloft.

“Calm down,” Cobb said.

“Oh, it’s you, sir.” Hubbard pulled himself together. It was not a good idea to let the client sense nervousness or anxiety. “For a moment there— Never mind.”

“Are you injured?” Cobb asked with some concern.

“The bastard broke my wrist.”

“When you failed to return to the hotel I assumed something had gone wrong with the plan. What happened?”

“Unfortunate turn of events.” Out of long habit, Hubbard adopted his most assured, most professional tone. “These things happen. I’ll take care of the matter within twenty-four hours.”

“What, precisely, occurred?”

Cobb sounded as if he was inquiring about a minor carriage accident or some equally mild mishap.

As well he should , Hubbard thought. Missing the target tonight was not a major catastrophe.

Considering his spotless record, it was only right that Cobb ought to overlook a small error, one that could easily be corrected.

“The son of a bitch noticed me,” he said, maintaining his authoritative tone of voice. “That sort of thing doesn’t usually affect the outcome but Roxton reacted more swiftly than the average person in such circumstances.”

“In other words, you missed your target.”

“As I said, I’ll take care of the problem soon enough.”

“Where is your stiletto stick?”

Hubbard flushed. “Lost it along the way. No matter. I’ve got a spare in my trunk.”

“Which is at the hotel.”

“Yes, well, if you would be good enough to deliver it to me, I’ll take care of Roxton.” Hubbard looked down at his creased shirt and trousers. “I would be grateful if you would bring a change of clothes, as well.”

“You lost the stiletto at the scene, I assume?”

“Roxton chopped it right out of my hand. Never seen anything like it.”

“Did you speak to Roxton?” Cobb asked.

“What? No. Why would I do that?”

“Did you say anything at all? Did you swear?”

Hubbard suddenly sensed where the questions were going.

“No,” he said quickly. “Never said a word. Just took off running. Someone was shouting for a constable.”

“I think you’re lying, Hubbard. I must assume that the police are now aware that a killer with an American accent attacked a man in front of a gentlemen’s club and is now loose on the streets of London. I expect the press will have a field day tomorrow.”

“No,” Hubbard said. “Roxton never got a good look at me.”

“He didn’t need a close look in order to provide the police with a fairly accurate description. You won’t require a change of clothes or your spare stiletto, Hubbard. You are no longer of any use to me.”

Belatedly sensing disaster, Hubbard looked up very swiftly. But he was too late. Cobb had taken a revolver out from under his coat.

“No.” Hubbard stared in disbelief. “I’m the best there is.”

“I have news for you, Hubbard. There are plenty more where you came from.”

Hubbard froze, just as so many of his victims had, in that last instant.

Cobb pulled the trigger twice. The first shot struck Hubbard in the chest with such force that he was thrown backward onto the crate. He was still trying to comprehend what had happened to him when the second bullet entered his brain.

—

C OBB STOOD OVER THE BODY for a moment making absolutely certain of death.

He did not want any more complications. The plan had been simple and straightforward.

He would gain exclusive control of the drug and use it to build an empire that would rival the kingdoms founded by Rockefeller, Carnegie, J.

P. Morgan and the other men the press labeled robber barons.

What’s more, he would adopt their business tactics to achieve his objective—he would establish a monopoly on a product that a great many people would pay dearly to obtain.

It was unfortunate that a woman had been the key from the start.

In his experience females were difficult, demanding and unpredictable.

But a man had to work with what he had. He could only be grateful that Valerie was not only quite beautiful, but also unhappy in her marriage.

That had made her seduction much less of a chore than would have been the case had she been a dowdy, middle-aged hag.

He had worked for months to construct the foundation of his business in New York.

Eventually the network of greenhouses, laboratories and distributors would reach across the continent.

He had come to London to implement the final stages of his strategy.

Everything should have gone smoothly but there had been one complication after another.

It all came down to women. One had been the key to his empire but now another female, Ursula Kern, had become a serious problem. Because of her, a wealthy, powerful man had taken an interest in the death of the courier. One thing had led to another and now disaster loomed.

The strategy had appeared obvious—remove Roxton, whose murder would cause a great uproar in the press.

While the focus of attention was on that spectacular homicide, it would be possible to quietly dispatch Kern.

In the end Hubbard would be found dead and the police would be satisfied that the American killer was no longer haunting the streets of London.

Hubbard had been useful but even the best employees could be replaced.

The real question, as always in such situations, was how to dispose of the body.

In New York he relied on the river for that sort of thing.

There was a river here in London and evidently bodies turned up all the time.

But tonight he was faced with the task of dragging Hubbard out of the warehouse and along the street for some distance.

He did not want to take the risk of being seen.

He heaved Hubbard’s body into an empty crate and closed the lid.

The disposal completed, he collected the lantern and went outside into the fog. He had told the driver of the hansom to wait two streets away.

Revolver in hand, he started walking.

The city of London considered itself to be socially more polished than New York, culturally superior in every way that mattered.

But he failed to see the appeal. He detested the fog, the filthy, dangerous streets and the damned accents that made it next to impossible to comprehend cab drivers, shopkeepers, servants and upper-class snobs alike.

His ship could not sail soon enough, as far as he was concerned. He would be very happy to see the last of London.