Page 97 of Garden of Lies

Slater ignored the barely veiled stares and the sudden hush that had descended on the club room. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Most of the men lounging in the deep, leather chairs were dressed in formal black-and-white. Bottles of claret and brandy sat on every side table. A haze of cigar smoke hung in the air.

One elderly man whom Slater recognized as a friend of his father’s snorted in amusement and winked. Slater nodded in acknowledgment and continued on his way into the card room. He had refused to surrender his greatcoat and hat to the porter so he dripped rainwater on the carpet.

Fulbrook was seated at a table with three other men. He held a handful of cards and he was chuckling at a comment one of the other players had just made when the room went very quiet. Like everyone else, he turned toward the door to see who or what had caused the sudden stillness. When he saw Slater, he grunted and made a show of examining his cards.

“Evidently the management of this club is allowing just anyone in these days,” he said to his companions, “including those who are rumored to be candidates for an asylum.”

One man snickered uneasily. The rest of the players concentrated on their cards as though the stakes had suddenly become life-or-death.

Slater walked to the table. “My apologies for the interruption, Fulbrook, but I have a rather important message for you.”

“I’m busy, Roxton. Some other time.”

“If you would rather discuss the matter of a certain journal and some photographs at a future date—”

Fulbrook shot to his feet so quickly his chair tipped over backward and clattered on the floor.

“Your father may have been a gentleman but it’s clear that your manners must have come from your mother’s side,” he said.

“Your insult to my mother has been noted,” Slater said. “But I have certain priorities tonight. Shall we continue with this discussion here or outside, where we can be assured of some privacy?”

“Outside. I don’t want to subject my friends and associates to your presence any longer than is necessary.”

Slater turned and went to the door without a word. Fulbrook hesitated and then followed. In the front hall the porter handed him his coat and his hat, gloves and umbrella.

Slater led the way outside and down the steps into the rain. He stopped at the edge of the circle of light cast by the streetlamp.

“I have a cab waiting,” he said. He nodded toward the carriage sitting across the street.

Fulbrook unfurled the umbrella and glanced warily at the cab.

“You really are mad if you think I’d get into a cab with you,” he said.

“As you wish. I’ll try to make this quick. I have the photographs and the blackmail journal that you stored in the safe in your study.”

“You’re lying.” Fulbrook started to sputter. “How could you possibly... you hired someone to break into my house, you son of a bitch. How dare you?”

“I didn’t hire someone. I did the work myself. Feel free to press charges but if you do I shall, of course, have to tell a jury what I discovered inside your safe.”

“You bastard.” Fulbrook sounded as if he were choking. “You stand there and admit that you are a burglar?”

“And you are a blackmailer—also an excellent bookkeeper. Your records are very precise. I noticed that you crossed out the names of two of your victims—the ones who chose suicide rather than provide you with whatever it was you demanded of them in exchange for keeping their secrets.”

“The time you spent on that damned island addled your wits, Roxton. You apparently have no idea who you are dealing with here.”

“You are the one who fails to grasp the severity of the situation. I am aware that you have formed a partnership with an American named Damian Cobb.”

“What of it? I admit I have done some business with Cobb. He might be vulgar but he’s a successful businessman, not a crime lord.”

“In this case, there’s not much distinction between the two. While we’re on the subject, there are two things you should know about Cobb. The first is that he has no intention of maintaining a long-term partnership. His goal is to set up a monopoly to control the drug and he plans to run his business from New York. That means he no longer needs your manufacturing, production and distribution network.”

Rage tightened Fulbrook’s face. “That’s a lie.”

“Why do you think he employed an assassin to murder Rosemont, the perfumer who prepared the drug for you, and your courier, Anne Clifton, and Mrs. Wyatt?”

“There was an explosion at Rosemont’s laboratory. The authorities believe that he was buried in the rubble.”

“You’re not keeping up with the news, Fulbrook. Rosemont’s body was discovered yesterday. Someone took a stiletto to the back of his neck. Mrs. Wyatt died as the result of a very similar accident with a stiletto.”

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