An army of locals shoveled the road into town by late afternoon, and all the guests, save Curtis and his staff, departed.

It was another day before the electricity came on, thanks to Curtis’s surreptitious trip to the attic. No sooner had the road been cleared but temperatures rose and a new storm, a wild northeaster, swept through with driving wind and rains. The river ran high, and creeks off the Hudson overflowed their banks.

Joshua and Maureen made themselves indispensable to Victor Belgadt and his house. The schedule kept the two trusted employees busy but gave them free access to search all the rooms without Harder peering over their shoulders. Still, they found nothing.

By noon of the fourth day, telephone lines were repaired and service was restored. As Joshua served late-afternoon martinis and Maureen delivered trays of cheeses, caviar on ice, and finger fruits to Belgadt’s study, Curtis convinced the estate’s owner of his need to see proof of profit figures for his brothels and out-of-state trafficking if he was going to merge operations. “It’s down to you and me, Belgadt. Take it or leave it.”

Belgadt drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and glanced indecisively toward the far wall. He heaved a sigh as the telephone rang, making every other person in the room start. But Belgadt ignored the ring. He’d just risen and headed toward the opposite wall when a knock came at the door.

“Come,” Belgadt ordered, stopping in the midst of the room.

Collins, the new underbutler, bowed. “Mr. Drake Meitland on the line, Mr. Belgadt. He insists that it’s urgent he speak with you.”

“Meitland? What now?” Belgadt grumbled.

“Shall I handle it?” Curtis offered congenially.

But Belgadt ignored him and lifted the receiver from his desk. “Meitland, what is it?”

Curtis knew Belgadt’s silence went on too long. He heard the low rumble through the phone’s receiver and the staccato punctuations, urgent, though he could not make out the words.

Belgadt glanced up sharply, and Curtis knew he stood accused.

“Is there a problem?”

Belgadt pulled away from the receiver. “There doesn’t seem to be a Madame Trovetski or a Thaddeus Skyver in Washington. The address you gave Meitland for the brothel doesn’t exist.”

“That’s impossible!” Curtis exerted every bit of superior indignation he could muster. “Let me talk to him.” He reached for the phone, but Belgadt held back.

“This had better not be a setup, Morrow.” Belgadt held the receiver by his side. “As a matter of fact—”

Curtis jerked the receiver from his hand.

Belgadt was not used to such presumption.

“Drake, Curtis here. Did you go to the office on Green like I told you? . . . No—that’s impossible. . . . Of course he’s not going to admit it—he’s no reason to trust you. You’re right; I should have thought of that. . . . No, stay where you are. I’ll come down first thing tomorrow. . . . Yes, bad storm here, but trains are running again. Where are you staying? Right, just hold on.”

Belgadt pushed a pad and pen toward Curtis and watched as he scribbled an address.

“Yes, I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby tomorrow night. Don’t talk to anyone else. I don’t want you scaring them off. The operation’s made to shut down at a moment’s notice. Wait for me. I’ll contact you when I get there.”

Belgadt reached for the receiver, but Curtis replaced it—a little too quickly, Belgadt thought. A mistake? He wasn’t sure. “You don’t want to cross me.” Belgadt studied the man before him.

“Meitland’s ineptitude had better not have cost my DC operation,” Curtis threatened in return. “Need I remind you that I’m the one who’s lost most, thanks to Harder’s sticky fingers?” He jerked his cuffs below his jacket sleeves. “Now let’s finalize our business before I go. I’ll catch the first train tomorrow. Where are those ledgers?”

Eyes narrowed in concentration, Belgadt rounded his desk and settled slowly into his swivel chair. “I think our business can wait until you—and Meitland—return.” His fingers drummed the desktop. “That will be time enough to lay our cards on the table.”