My Favorite Thief (23 page)

“So did your mother ever learn about what happened to her jewels?”

“Yes,” Harrison replied shortly. Even though Tony had been a friend of his for nearly two years, he did not like discussing his family's past with him. Some things were better left buried. “Her memory, however, became rather selective after my father died.”

“Maybe you should go to Lord Whitaker and offer to buy the necklace from him,” Tony suggested. “It would undoubtedly please your mother to have it back in her possession.”

Harrison's expression was noncommittal. “My mother's reactions to things can be a bit unpredictable. Also, it is doubtful that Lady Whitaker would be willing to part with a piece that has already generated her so much admiration and publicity.”

“You're right about that. She was positively glowing as everyone crowded about her, gawking at her great prow of a chest. I don't imagine she's had that many people toss her a second glance since the day she was married, and that was before I was born!” Tony laughed. “But if you are interested, you'd best make an offer quickly, before the Dark Shadow swoops down and steals the thing away. Everyone last night was nattering on about how once he gets wind of the fact that this famous necklace is in London, he'll be positively desperate to add it to his collection. It must be worth at least ten times whatever your father paid for it over forty years ago.”

Tony was probably right, Harrison realized. The thief currently playing the Dark Shadow had demonstrated his eye for the very best, and showed remarkable restraint each time he slipped into a house. Just as Harrison had, some sixteen years earlier. Harrison's rationale for doing so had been simple. He had only taken what he knew for certain had belonged to his estate. Those magnificent jewels his father had sold at a fraction of their value, in a heartbreaking moment of madness and desperation. Everything else Harrison had left untouched. That had the advantage of delaying the moment in which the owners of the purloined jewelry realized that something had been taken. By the time the police had been called in to investigate, they were rooting around a house that had been robbed days, or sometimes even weeks earlier. There were, quite simply, almost no clues to be had. All that was certain was that someone had slipped in and out unnoticed, destroying nothing, and harming no one.

That was the critical difference between himself and the man who had stolen his guise.

Harrison had been determined to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his, without causing injury or bloodshed. The current Dark Shadow was apparently only interested in stealing the most valuable jewels he could find. He didn't give a damn who got hurt or killed in the process. The longer he continued at his game, the greater the risk of more people being injured. For that reason alone he had to be stopped. But Harrison also had a more personal need to bring the daring thief's career to an end. By adopting the persona Harrison had created, this new burglar had aroused much interest in the past exploits of the Dark Shadow. While the detectives who had worked on the case sixteen years earlier had never been able to uncover Harrison's involvement, it was possible this time he would not be so fortunate. Some earnest young detective might take a renewed interest in examining the Dark Shadow's past exploits, to see how they compared to those of the present. That was dangerous. Whether the man playing at the Dark Shadow realized it or not, by emulating the thief Harrison had created, he had the power to bring Harrison's carefully constructed life crashing down around him.

Harrison could not permit that to happen.

“That was absolutely delicious,” said Tony, finishing off the last of his sweet roll. “That Mrs. Griffin of yours really is a gem. You mustn't let her slip through your fingers, Harry, or I'll be forced to find someplace else to drop in for breakfast. I have an idea,” he said brightly, setting his napkin aside. “Let's go down to the Marbury Club and see if anyone is taking bets on whether the Dark Shadow will try to nick Lady Whitaker's necklace tonight, before she and Lord Whitaker leave for Paris tomorrow. I'm bound to make a few pounds out of old Lord Sullivan on that.”

“How do you know which way Lord Sullivan will wager?”

“I don't,” he replied, shrugging. “I just tell him how I plan to bet, and he bets against me. He doesn't really care whether he wins or loses, he just enjoys the sport of telling everyone how completely idiotic my predictions are. If I bet that the Dark Shadow will try to steal the necklace tonight, Lord Sullivan will pronounce me a fool, and wager that the Dark Shadow will wait until Lady Whitaker returns from her trip abroad. There will be a lot of gruff arguing as Lords Shelton and Reynolds jump into the fray, a few names will be called, and then we can all have lunch. I think they're serving boiled leg of lamb with white sauce today—that's one of my favorites.”

Harrison's mind began to race. Tony was probably right, he realized. If the Dark Shadow knew about the Star of Persia—and given the attention the stone had aroused the previous evening, Harrison could not imagine that he didn't—then he would most likely attempt to steal it that night, before Lady Whitaker had a chance to take it abroad. If Harrison had wanted to steal the necklace, he certainly wouldn't have waited around for a month or more to see if it would return.

No point in permitting such a magnificent piece to go to France, where some other eager jewel thief could find it too tempting to ignore.

“What do you say, then, Harry? Are you up for a visit to your club?”

“Not today, Tony, I'm afraid,” Harrison replied. “I have a meeting scheduled for this morning, and then there are a number of matters I must attend to this afternoon. Sorry about that.” Tony was not a member of the Marbury Club, and therefore he relied upon Harrison to take him there as a guest. “Since Telford has gone upstairs with my mother, I'll see you to the door.” He rose from the table.

“That's a pity.” Tony looked genuinely disappointed as Harrison escorted him into the foyer. “What about tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow might be a possibility. We shall have to see.”

“Very well. Are you planning to attend Lord and Lady Beckett's party tonight? It promises to be quite grand. If you go, I shall do my utmost to protect you from Lady Elizabeth,” he joked. “Given her profound irritation with you last night, I fear you will need my protection.”

“I don't know whether I'll be going or not,” Harrison replied evasively. If he were going to break into Lord Whitaker's home that night, preparations had to be made. He did not want to waste time at some bloody party.

“Fine then, abandon me,” his friend teased. “I shall tell all the men that you're off having a torrid night of pleasure with a beautiful young French dancer, and inform all the women that you are preoccupied with going over your plans for a massively expensive addition to your country estate. That will give them all something to talk about.”

“I don't particularly want them talking about me,” Harrison said, opening the front door.

“That's impossible,” Tony pointed out. “You're titled, wealthy, relatively young, unattached, and from what I hear, women don't find your appearance altogether hideous. If you show up, they will gossip about how much you are currently worth, whom you are going to dance with, and who has a chance of ultimately becoming your bride. If you don't show up, they will gossip about how much you are currently worth, whom you danced with the last time they saw you, and what on earth you could be doing that could take precedence over attending such an important party. That is where I, as your friend, simply have to intervene. I don't want them to think you're at home padding about in your slippers, reading dusty books and sipping cocoa. It isn't good for your image, Harry,” he finished, going out the door. “Trust me.”

Harrison watched as Tony climbed into his waiting carriage. He didn't really give a damn about his image, he thought, closing the door. People could think whatever the hell they wanted about him—as long as they left his mother and the memory of his father alone.

And never found out the truth about the exploits of his past.

The Dark Shadow's reign of thievery was coming to an end, Harrison decided, filled with a sudden sense of urgency. If the thief were anything like him, he would not waste a moment trying to steal the exquisite Star of Persia. Harrison would break into Lord Whitaker's home that night, wait for the Shadow to appear, and confront him a final time. And this time, he would make sure no one else got hurt.

Even if that meant Harrison had to kill the murdering bastard himself.

Chapter Eleven

H
E LAY PERFECTLY STILL, HIS BREATH TRAPPED TIGHT
within his chest, slowly counting.

He had already started to hold his breath three times before, and had been unable to contain it for his usual time. His weakness infuriated him. It was possible that the dusty, dank air trapped underneath the bed where he hid was too wretched for his lungs to tolerate. It didn't matter. Excuses were for cowards and weaklings. Each time he had failed he forced himself to start over, sucking in a great long draught of air as he forced his chest, lungs, and abdomen to relax. But his body was treacherous. It protested. It twisted and strained and grew taut. His chest swelled until his ribs ached, his face contorted and became hot and bloated.
A few seconds longer,
he commanded, fighting for dominance of his physical needs.
A few seconds more
…

His mouth betrayed him, exploding open like a sudden yawning tear. He inhaled a stale breath of air, furious and frustrated. What the hell was the matter with him? He was about to perform the perfect crime. Each of his preceding robberies had been but an insignificant rehearsal for what he was about to do. Yet here he was gasping like a newborn, unable to summon either the discipline or the focus to achieve one of his most basic skills. Was this a warning that he was somehow off tonight? Should he reconsider going through with his carefully cultivated plan? Was the uncertainty that had started to nag him after he wrestled with Bryden several nights earlier an indication that he was losing his edge?

He gave himself a mental shake. He was not losing a goddamn thing. As for his edge, it had been too keenly honed after far too many years of bitterness and anger to be even remotely blunted by some cursory physical discomfort. Suffering was a catalyst for strength and determination. It had enabled him to shed his pathetic little existence and transform himself into someone of accomplishment and renown. In that unexpected way, what had happened to his family had actually been good for him.

It was far easier to sever one's roots when the ground in which they lay was putrid.

He heard a noise. He strained to listen, his ears attuned to the farthest corners of the house he could manage from the confines of the guest bedroom he had chosen. Whatever the noise was, it did not repeat itself. He permitted himself to relax a little, settling back against the hardness of the floor.

His evening had been passed listening to the sounds of the household, from Lord and Lady Whitaker's animated arguments over what they needed to pack for their sojourn to Paris, to the irritated mutterings and frantic footfalls of their harried servants as they bustled to and fro. Eventually, a chilly calm descended upon the house. A series of polite “good nights” were exchanged. Doors were closed, water splashed in basins, beds squeaked. The soft orange light beneath the door was extinguished. And still he waited. For what he estimated was at least two hours more, until he could be sure that the warm waters of sleep had enveloped everyone within, save himself.

And, if God was generous, Bryden.

He flexed his fingers, slowly opening and closing his fists as he considered the two ways the night might unravel. The first was that he would simply break open the safe in Lord Whitaker's study, steal the Star of Persia, and make his way from the house with one of the most valuable diamonds in Europe tucked safely in his pocket. If that was all the evening held for him, he could hardly complain. His personal wealth would have increased severalfold in just one night. And the Dark Shadow could still go on to steal more whenever he felt it was necessary or even just amusing to do so.

He sighed. The idea of squeezing into more tight, dank spaces and waiting for hours on end to sneak out and nick some glittery bauble struck him as vaguely unappealing—even a bit torturous. Perhaps it was just his mood, or the fact that it was so bloody hot and close under the bed. More likely it was the recognition that each robbery had become progressively less exhilarating for him, despite the inherent danger and the exorbitant value of whatever he had stolen. If it were completely up to him, he would actually have preferred that this particular night be his last as the Dark Shadow.

Unfortunately, that was something that was beyond his control.

Suddenly restless, he shimmied out from under the bed, eager to get on with it. He stretched briefly, then reached under the bed and withdrew his carefully wrapped bundle of cracksman's tools. He didn't particularly like cracking safes, but it was a skill that could be learned like any other, and he figured he was about as good or even a bit better than any of the other cracksmen out there. At least he had the advantage of being able to afford the very best tools. He was also able to ascertain the degree of difficulty in opening a safe relatively quickly. If it didn't look as if he could do it within fifteen minutes, he didn't bother with it. There was always a jewel box somewhere holding a few pretty pieces that her ladyship hadn't bothered to give to her husband to lock up. He was quite certain, however, that Lord Whitaker would not have permitted such casual treatment of something as valuable as the Star of Persia. No, that stone could only be in Lord Whitaker's safe.

He had some work ahead of him.

He opened the door to the guestroom a crack, peered into the hallway, and listened. Silence. Satisfied that everyone was asleep, he slipped into the corridor, the black of his attire causing him to melt into the darkness. He made his way quickly down to the main floor. Then he crept along the walls, stealthy as a cat, searching for the door to Lord Whitaker's study. Once he had reached it he held still a moment, listening.

If Bryden had come, he was most likely in the study, lying in wait, just as he had been that night at Lord Pembroke's house. He set down his bag of tools and carefully withdrew his pistol from the waistband of his trousers. Then, moving with the silent grace for which the Dark Shadow was renowned, he eased the door open and pointed his gun at the darkness within, ready to fire at the slightest movement.

There was no one there.

A preliminary disappointment flushed through him. Not altogether convinced that he was alone, he entered the room, cautiously, his pistol ready. There was no great wardrobe in Lord Whitaker's study in which Bryden could hide. There was a modestly sized sofa at one end, but it sat upon feet that lifted it barely three inches off the floor. No space there for him to lie. His gaze darted to the drapes, which were closed and long enough to brush against the floor. Moving silently, he inched closer, studying the fall of the curtains. There were no bulges to suggest a man concealing himself behind them. A quick inspection of the floor revealed no feet peering out from beneath the fabric's hem. Turning, he advanced toward the desk, which was the final place a man might hide. His chest pounding, he leapt around it, his pistol pointed squarely into the black cavern beneath.

Empty.

He raked his gaze across the study once more, wary. He had been all but positive that Bryden would try to catch him. After all, Bryden had to have suspected that the Dark Shadow would want to steal the Star of Persia that night.

Or had his lordship thought that he would wait until Lord Whitaker returned from Paris?

He stood frozen, his pistol ready. Perhaps Bryden was still going to spring from somewhere. But after a span of relentless quiet, except for the ticking of a mantel clock somewhere in the dining room, he began to accept that Bryden was not there. He lowered his pistol and permitted himself to relax slightly, genuinely disappointed.

It was just another robbery, then.

He retrieved his tool kit from the hallway, closed the study door, then moved behind Lord Whitaker's desk. He set his pistol down upon its polished surface and opened his bag. He removed a small dark lantern, struck a match and lit the stubby candle within. A feeble yellow glow spat forth, barely enough to light a foot in front of the lantern, but ample for his purposes. He scanned the walls behind the desk, which were elegantly paneled in dark English oak. Sliding his fingers along the lower wainscoting, he felt for a slight variance in the spacing between the panels. After a moment he found it. He gripped the wood trim at the top and pulled, causing the panel to swing open and expose the black iron safe behind. He moved his lantern closer, inspecting the formidable door's make, markings, and lock. It was a Chubb brand, well regarded for its strength and reliability. A quick study told him that it was an old model, however, manufactured before the improved locks that the company had introduced in 1860.

Thankfully, Lord Whitaker was not a slave to newfangled technology.

He knocked lightly upon the safe door, trying to ascertain its depth and strength. The more recent safes were made heavier and more durable, with casings that were resistant to almost any drill. With the right tools and sufficient skill, however, the older models could be penetrated. He debated the best way to crack it. He considered using a peter-cutter, which fixed a center bit into the keyhole of the lock, after which a drill was attached. With sufficient strength and determination, the lock could be broken and the door forced. It could be a time-consuming job, however, and the results were not certain. Blowing the lock apart with gunpowder was another option, but that would be too noisy.

Ultimately, he removed his drill, center bit, a lock to hold the drill fast, a metal saw, and a heavy, stout crowbar called a jemmy. He would drill and cut an opening above the keyhole, making it just big enough for him to slip his hand through. Then he would reach inside, pull back the bolt of the lock and open the safe door.

A bit time-consuming, but beautifully simple and sure.

He carefully laid his tools out on the carpet before him, in the precise order in which he intended to use them. He rubbed his sleeve over the metal door, polishing the spot where he planned to drill. Then he fixed his bit onto his drill, pressed it hard against the black metal and began to turn the crank, driving its sharp point into the safe's cool surface.

It took him a little longer than he had anticipated to carve and chisel an opening sufficiently big for him to put his hand through. When he finally had succeeded, his mask and clothes were wet with perspiration, and his arms aching from exertion. None of that mattered, however. Filled with anticipation, he eased his hand into the hole he had cut and felt around for the mechanism of the lock. Then he closed his eyes and ran his fingers over it, learning its structure. Once he was sufficiently acquainted with the complex nooks and rounds, he found the bolt and gently pushed it back.

The door slipped open.

His heart pounded with triumph and relief. The hardest part was over. He reached deep into the safe's grotto, searching for the box or bag in which the magnificent Star of Persia would be resting.

“It isn't there,” drawled a voice.

He froze.

Summoning calm, he gradually extracted his arm from the empty safe. He was in a squatting position, which was advantageous, he realized, squinting through the gloom at the sober-faced man who had managed to creep into the study without his knowledge as he labored on the safe. His fingers lightly grazed the carpet, grasping the jemmy. He stood slowly, concealing the iron bar behind his sleeve.

“I'm placing you under arrest,” Lewis informed him, leveling his pistol upon him. “If you have any weapons, I advise you to drop them. You won't be harmed as long as you cooperate.”

His captor could only be a police officer, he realized, to spew such utter nonsense with such grave sincerity. His lack of uniform suggested that he was an inspector. That made him feel a little better, at least.

He would have hated to think that he had been lured into a trap by some lowly, underpaid constable.

“My pistol is on the desk,” he said quietly, making it sound as if he were resigned to his fate. And then, because he sensed his captor was quite sensibly wary of him, he added in a reassuring voice, “I won't fight you. I know when I've been bested.”

Lewis stared at him guardedly. Lord Bryden was a gentleman, who probably considered his word to be infallible. Unfortunately, he was also a cold-blooded murderer, who had cut down two men without mercy during his illustrious career as a jewel thief.

Lewis did not intend to become his third victim.

“Step away from the desk, slowly,” Lewis commanded, seeking to put some distance between the thief and his weapon. His voice was unnaturally high, betraying his nervousness. He cleared his throat. “Very good. Now don't move.”

He had no experience in arresting a criminal as dangerous as the Dark Shadow. All he had to do was get the manacles on him, and then he could be sure the thief was under control. He was tempted to call for Constable Wilkins, who was positioned on the uppermost floor. Lewis had ordered him to watch all the servants' doors, in case the Dark Shadow decided to enter by way of the roof. Lewis knew that on occasion he had done so in the past. But not that night. Lewis wasn't sure how the thief had entered Lord Whitaker's home. At that particular point, it scarcely mattered. He had finally caught him. As long as the Dark Shadow didn't try to evade arrest, his deadly career was finally over.