Chapter 8
The library smelled of old paper, polished walnut, and cold tobacco.
Silas stood beside the heavy mahogany desk, where a crystal decanter of bourbon sat next to the open manila folder. Across the room, standing beside the leaded glass windows, was Marcus, his face grim in the twilight.
Oswin walked to the desk, poured two fingers of amber liquor into a glass, and downed it in a single, smooth swallow. He didn't sit down.
"What did you find in Albright's car, Silas?" Oswin asked, setting the tumbler down with a sharp clink.
Silas flipped the folder open, tapping a typed document bearing the seal of the New York State Surrogate's Court.
"It wasn't just the commitment order, Boss," Silas said, his voice taut. "Julian Croft had a secondary filing drafted. A post-nuptial deed of transfer. If the wedding had concluded today, Leopoldine was scheduled to sign an emergency conservatorship over your estate on Wednesday morning."
Oswin’s gray eyes narrowed. "On what grounds?"
"Incapacitation," Silas said.
Oswin looked up from the desk. "Incapacitation?"
"Albright had two vials of synthetic succinylcholine in his medical bag," Marcus interjected from the window. "A neuromuscular paralytic. Colorless, odorless, undetectable in standard cardiac panels after forty-eight hours."
The silence in the library became suffocating.
"The toast," Oswin whispered, the pieces clicking into alignment with terrifying clarity. "Leopoldine insisted on pouring my vintage champagne herself."
"Yes, sir," Silas nodded grimly. "She was going to dose your flute during the formal reception. You would have suffered an apparent massive myocardial infarction at forty-five years old. The paramedics would have pronounced you in the ambulance. By sunrise, Leopoldine would have been the grieving widow in sole control of the Marlowe assets, with Celia locked away in Vermont as an incompetent minor."
Oswin reached out, his thick fingers curling around the edge of the mahogany desk until the wood groaned beneath his grip.
"They didn't just want the south wing," Oswin said, his voice dropping into a register that made both veteran enforcers stiffen. "They wanted the whole house."
"They wanted the kingdom, Boss," Silas said. "And they were forty-eight hours away from taking it."
"Where is Albright now?" Oswin asked.
"In the basement of the gatehouse," Marcus replied. "Bound to a wooden chair. He’s already given us the names of the three trustees in Chicago who funded the bond purchase."
"Did he name the head of the syndicate?" Oswin asked.
Marcus hesitated, exchanging a dark glance with Silas.
May you like
"Speak, Marcus," Oswin commanded.
"It wasn't just Chicago, Mr. Marlowe," Marcus said, stepping forward into the lamplight. "Albright claims the operation was financed through an offshore account in Zurich. An account registered under the maiden name of your first wife."
