Page 53

FORTY-FOUR

I understand now why you insisted on going back to your house to fetch a pry bar,” Ursula said. “You knew the warehouse would probably be locked. Excellent thinking, sir.”

Slater was in the process of wedging the iron bar into the narrow crack between the edge of the door and the frame. He paused long enough to shoot her an unreadable glance.

“I find it makes a pleasant change of pace.” He leaned heavily on the pry bar. “Thinking, that is.”

She blinked, not certain how to take the remark. “Change of pace?”

“Wouldn’t want to overindulge, of course. Might get in the habit.”

“Quite right,” she said coolly. “Nasty habit, thinking too much.”

“I agree.”

“I must say, you are in a rather sour mood this morning, Slater.”

“The odd thing is that I awoke in a very fine mood. Don’t know what happened to change the situation.”

She narrowed her eyes. “The weather, perhaps. It does appear as if we’re in for a storm.”

“Right. The weather.”

He leaned once more on the pry bar. The lock groaned and then gave way with a protesting shriek of metal and wood.

The door popped open. The musty smell of old, slowly rotting timber and damp air wafted out.

There were other odors, as well; a whiff of an acrid, herbal scent caught Ursula’s attention.

She stood beside Slater and looked into the shadowy gloom. There was just enough light slanting through the grimy windows to reveal the crates and barrels that littered the floor. Frayed ropes and hoists dangled from the loft.

“We have come to the right place,” Slater said. He studied the trail of footprints on the floor. “There have been visitors here quite recently.”

He followed the path toward a closed crate. Ursula fell into step beside him. She sniffed delicately and wrinkled her nose.

“I smelled that same odor inside Rosemont’s shop,” she said. “There is a large quantity of the drug stored in this place. But there is something else here, as well. A dead rat, perhaps.”

Slater stopped in front of the first of three crates. “These are locked and ready for shipment.”

He applied the pry bar to the lid of one of the wooden crates. When it popped open Ursula saw a number of canvas sacks stacked neatly inside. The smell of the drug grew stronger.

“Don’t move,” Slater said quietly.

She froze at the soft command. When she followed his glance she saw the dark stains on the floor. A chill swept through her.

“Blood?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Slater said. “And not very old.”

He followed the trail to a nearby crate. It was not locked. He raised the lid and looked inside.

“Well, this answers one question,” Slater said.

“Who—?” Ursula asked.

“The former owner of the walking stick stiletto.”

Ursula remained where she was. She had no desire to go any closer. She watched Slater lean over the crate and methodically rummage through the dead man’s clothes.

“How was he killed?” she asked.

“Shot. Twice. All very professional-looking.”

“Professional?”

“It’s safe to say that whoever murdered this man has had some experience in the business.” Slater paused, reaching deeper into the crate. “But he was somewhat out of practice.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He did not do a thorough job of stripping the body.”

Slater straightened and turned around. She saw a small white business card in his gloved hand.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The address of the Stokely Hotel. I found it tucked safely inside his shoe. I have the impression that our visitor from out of town was terrified of getting lost in our fair city. He kept the address of his hotel in a place where he could be certain he would not lose it.”

“What is our next step?”

“We’ve got a professional killer who has now become a murder victim,” Slater said. “We do what any concerned citizen would do. We contact Scotland Yard.”