CHAPTER THREE
“His was not an easy death, Mr. Walzer,” Lewis the butler said, looking down at the twisted corpse on the floor.
“No, it was not, Mr. Lewis. Cyanide can be so unpredictable,” Walzer said. “It took him five minutes to die. Too long, Mr. Lewis, too long. Indeed, it was a horrific, painful death. He said the brandy tasted bitter, and I think he knew. He was a strong man, and even when he was convulsing, he still tried to reach his carpetbag. Was there a firearm in there?”
“Yes, sir, a .45 caliber Colt revolver. I took the liberty of removing it before I pretended to leave the house,” the butler said.
Thunder slammed, and then Walzer spoke into the following quiet. “Money? Was there money?”
“Yes, sir, a large manila envelope, folded, and filled with high-denomination dollar bills. I left it on your desk in the study.”
“What about the scullery maid?” Walzer said. “Does she suspect anything?”
Lewis shook his head. “No, sir, not a thing.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Lewis? If there’s the slightest doubt we can dispose of her.”
“Annie Griggs is a dull, empty-headed girl who reads modern novels of the trashiest kind and lives her life through their pages,” the butler said. “We have nothing to fear.”
Walzer seemed satisfied with that answer, but said, “Still, keep good watch on her. No gossip, Mr. Lewis. I want no gossip . . . no scullery maids tittle-tattling over their tea.”
“Very good, sir,” the butler said. “As you ordered, Tom Watkins the cabbie is here.”
“Right on time, as usual,” Walzer said. “Send him in.”
Lewis bowed and left, and a few minutes later, Watkins stepped into the parlor, hat in hand, a powdering of sleet on his shoulders. The frayed ends of his muffler hung to his knees. He saw the body on the floor and said, “Poor American gentleman.”
“It was necessary,” Walzer said. “Business is business, after all.”
“Whatever you say, guv,” Tom Watkins said. “Necessity knows no law.”
“I want you to get rid of the body,” Walzer said. “There’s a gold sovereign in it for you. And you can keep his watch and chain and boots but I’ll hold onto the sword cane.”
“Thank’ee, guv. The American gentleman will slip into the Thames at Limehouse nice as you please,” Watkins said. “An’ him being a stranger here an’ all, nobody will ever be the wiser.”
Walzer nodded and then toed Forester’s corpse. “Good. Now get rid of the damned thing. It’s making me quite depressed.”
After a struggle, the stocky cabbie managed to sling Forester’s body over his shoulder. Panting, he said, “He’s a heavy gentleman, Mr. Walzer. But for a couple of pence I can hire an orphan boy to help me with him at the river. There’s plenty of ragamuffins sleeping in the streets around Limehouse and they’re terrified of the law.”
“Yes, yes, do what you must,” Walzer said, his gaze turned away from Forester’s dead face. He threw up his arms in a theatrical gesture and said, “Now, just . . . just . . . get him out of here.”
“Right-o, guv,” Watkins said. Then, smiling, “The gentleman is a long way from Texas, ain’t he?”
“I rather fancy that right about now he’s a long way from anywhere,” Ernest Walzer said.