disappearance of a man called Pushy Pete. Perhaps Araminta’s story confirmed who was responsible.
If Kane had had Pete murdered, Griffin would have to apply more pressure, work faster. And it also meant that Araminta could be in trouble if Kane should discover the connection between the Calversons and her.
He wished he could grab the woman and talk some sense into her, drag her out of Kane’s house to safety. But Miss Woodhall would never tolerate that sort of treatment.
Griffin handed several coins to the doorman. “Send someone up to my rooms to tell my associates I’ve gone to the office and I’ll meet them there.”
He strode up the avenue in the opposite direction Araminta had gone, and attempted to dismiss her from his mind. He was faintly annoyed that he had trouble concentrating on other matters: the memory of her powerful eyes and delicious figure interfered.
Though he did not despise his appetite, he rarely indulged it. Perhaps that was why he had such difficulty concentrating on other matters. He had suppressed himself too long.
As he entered the building that housed the Calverson Company’s offices, a man greeted him with a gruff, “Hey! Mr. Calverson.”
Griffin turned and surveyed the broad-shouldered gray-haired man with the battered nose and even more battered homburg: Gregory Galvin, one of Griffin’s favorite businessmen.
“Galvin. Walk up with me.”
“I’m just here to drop off yer report.”
“Yes. But I hope you can spare a few minutes?”
Galvin eyed him briefly, then turned and waved at the two bull-like young men lurking behind him.
They made their slow way up to the fifth floor using the curving stairway rather than the elevator. Griffin knew the older man didn’t trust those boxes.
After he settled at his desk, Griffin held out a hand. Galvin fished through his pockets and pulled out a crumpled and grubby sheet.
Griffin read the paper, then folded it up and tapped it absently against his palm.
Galvin stood in front of the desk and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “That what you want?”
Griffin nodded. “Yes, it’ll do. Three gambling halls and two brothels more than I’d known about. Well-covered connections, too. It seems I underestimated Mr. Kane.”
“Not like you, boss,” Galvin said. “You’re not usually stupid, are ya?”
The two men with him shot horrified glances at him and then at Griffin, who stared back, entertained. Perhaps the two expected he’d pull out a dirk and stab Galvin for mocking him.
“Ah. Neither are you. Usually,” he said softly to see what the young men w wio. They took a step away from Galvin as if disassociating themselves.
Griffin had had enough playing around. “You two, excuse us. I need to speak to Mr. Galvin alone.”
After his employees had scrambled out the door, Galvin rolled his eyes and remarked, “Puppies. But Buckler’s loyal enough. And Hobnail, well, he’s a special case, ain’t he? They both follow my orders well enough.”
Griffin pointed to an armchair, and Galvin grunted as he eased himself into it.
“Tell me anything else about Kane’s households and domestic arrangements that wouldn’t show up in here.” Griffin flapped the paper he still held.
The older man fingered his tobacco-stained mustache. “He got the usual bunch of assistants, all bigger than dray horses, and at least one at all his establishments. Mostly to protect him, pick up cash, guard the door. He got an honest-to-God butler, maids, the works. Kane’s come a long way from running a couple of gin mills and a rat pit. And that mistress he installed at Park Avenue. Very classy female.”
“Miss Olivia Smith.”
“Yah. Whatever her name is, it probably ain’t Smith.”
“What is she like?”
Galvin’s blunt features were wreathed with wrinkles as his face curved into a smile. “Gorgeous. Perfect, bit thin but with a figure like . . .” Lost for words, he drew the inevitable curves.
Griffin grew impatient. He’d
If Kane had had Pete murdered, Griffin would have to apply more pressure, work faster. And it also meant that Araminta could be in trouble if Kane should discover the connection between the Calversons and her.
He wished he could grab the woman and talk some sense into her, drag her out of Kane’s house to safety. But Miss Woodhall would never tolerate that sort of treatment.
Griffin handed several coins to the doorman. “Send someone up to my rooms to tell my associates I’ve gone to the office and I’ll meet them there.”
He strode up the avenue in the opposite direction Araminta had gone, and attempted to dismiss her from his mind. He was faintly annoyed that he had trouble concentrating on other matters: the memory of her powerful eyes and delicious figure interfered.
Though he did not despise his appetite, he rarely indulged it. Perhaps that was why he had such difficulty concentrating on other matters. He had suppressed himself too long.
As he entered the building that housed the Calverson Company’s offices, a man greeted him with a gruff, “Hey! Mr. Calverson.”
Griffin turned and surveyed the broad-shouldered gray-haired man with the battered nose and even more battered homburg: Gregory Galvin, one of Griffin’s favorite businessmen.
“Galvin. Walk up with me.”
“I’m just here to drop off yer report.”
“Yes. But I hope you can spare a few minutes?”
Galvin eyed him briefly, then turned and waved at the two bull-like young men lurking behind him.
They made their slow way up to the fifth floor using the curving stairway rather than the elevator. Griffin knew the older man didn’t trust those boxes.
After he settled at his desk, Griffin held out a hand. Galvin fished through his pockets and pulled out a crumpled and grubby sheet.
Griffin read the paper, then folded it up and tapped it absently against his palm.
Galvin stood in front of the desk and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “That what you want?”
Griffin nodded. “Yes, it’ll do. Three gambling halls and two brothels more than I’d known about. Well-covered connections, too. It seems I underestimated Mr. Kane.”
“Not like you, boss,” Galvin said. “You’re not usually stupid, are ya?”
The two men with him shot horrified glances at him and then at Griffin, who stared back, entertained. Perhaps the two expected he’d pull out a dirk and stab Galvin for mocking him.
“Ah. Neither are you. Usually,” he said softly to see what the young men w wio. They took a step away from Galvin as if disassociating themselves.
Griffin had had enough playing around. “You two, excuse us. I need to speak to Mr. Galvin alone.”
After his employees had scrambled out the door, Galvin rolled his eyes and remarked, “Puppies. But Buckler’s loyal enough. And Hobnail, well, he’s a special case, ain’t he? They both follow my orders well enough.”
Griffin pointed to an armchair, and Galvin grunted as he eased himself into it.
“Tell me anything else about Kane’s households and domestic arrangements that wouldn’t show up in here.” Griffin flapped the paper he still held.
The older man fingered his tobacco-stained mustache. “He got the usual bunch of assistants, all bigger than dray horses, and at least one at all his establishments. Mostly to protect him, pick up cash, guard the door. He got an honest-to-God butler, maids, the works. Kane’s come a long way from running a couple of gin mills and a rat pit. And that mistress he installed at Park Avenue. Very classy female.”
“Miss Olivia Smith.”
“Yah. Whatever her name is, it probably ain’t Smith.”
“What is she like?”
Galvin’s blunt features were wreathed with wrinkles as his face curved into a smile. “Gorgeous. Perfect, bit thin but with a figure like . . .” Lost for words, he drew the inevitable curves.
Griffin grew impatient. He’d
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