Free More Twisted by Jeffery Deaver

traces of in Lord Mayhew’s dressing chamber—a material that neither he nor his servants had ever been in contact with. We found too a horse hair that matched one that I extracted from your chair.”
    “I’m at a loss—”
    “And what do you have to say about the fact that the brick dust in front of your store is the same as that which we found on the rungs of the ladder used to break into Lord Mayhew’s first floor? Don’t deny you are the thief.”
    “Of course I deny it. This is absurd!”
    “Go search the safe,” the chief inspector said to a constable, nodding toward the back office. He then explained, “When I was here earlier I tried to ascertain where you might have a hiding place for your ill-gotten gains. But your shop boasts far too much inventory and too many nooks and crannies to locate what we are seeking without searching for a week. So we stationed those two detectives outside on the street to make you believe we were about to arrest you. As we had anticipated, you led them off . . . I assume in pursuit of two parcels of no evidentiary value whatsoever.”
    “Those deliveries a moment ago?” Goodcastle protested. “I sent one music box home for myself to work on tonight. Another, my man was taking with him to do the same.”
    “So you say. But I suspect you’re prevaricating.”
    “This is most uncalled for. I—”
    “Please, allow me to finish. When you sent our men on a goose chase, that told us that your flight was imminent, so my colleague here and a typist from the precinct house came in as customers, as they’d been waiting to do for several hours.” He turned to the policeman who’d played the husband and added, “Capital job, by the way.”
    “Most kind of you.”
    The chief inspector turned back to Goodcastle. “You were lulled to incaution by the domestic couple and, prodded by the urgency of escape, you were kind enough to lead us directly to the safe.”
    “I am, I swear, merely an antiques merchant and craftsman.”
    The pale detective chuckled again, while the “husband” continued to take everything down in his notebook.
    “Sir,” the constable said as he stepped from the office. “A problem.”
    “Is the safe locked?”
    “No, sir. The door was open. The trouble is that ring is not inside.”
    “Ring?” Goodcastle asked.
    “What is inside?” the lean officer asked, ignoring the shopkeeper.
    “Money, sir. That’s all. About five hundred pounds.”
    “Are they guineas?”
    “No, sir. Varied currency but notes mostly. No gold.”
    “It’s the receptacle for my receipts, sirs. Most merchants have one.”
    Frowning, the head detective looked into the office beyond them and started to speak. But at that moment the door opened again and in strode Bill Sloat. The ruffian took one look at the constables and inspectors and started to flee. He was seized by the two coppers and dragged back inside.
    “Ah, look who we have here, Mad Bill Sloat,” said the bowlered inspector, lifting an eyebrow in his pale forehead. “We know about you, oh, yes. So you’re in cahoots with Goodcastle, are you?”
    “I am not, copper.”
    “Keep a respectable tone in your mouth.”
    Goodcastle said uneasily, “By the queen, sir, Mr. Sloat has done nothing wrong. He comes in sometimes to view my wares. I’m sure that’s all he’s doing here today.”
    The chief inspector turned to him. “I sense you’reholding back, Goodcastle. Tell us what is on your mind.”
    “Nothing, truly.”
    “You’ll be in the dock sooner than we have planned for you, sir, if you do not tell us all.”
    “Keep your flamin’ gob shut,” Sloat muttered.
    “Quiet, you,” a constable growled.
    “Go on, Goodcastle. Tell us.”
    The shopkeeper swallowed. He looked away from Sloat. “That man is the terror of Great Portland Street! He extorts money and goods from us and threatens to sic his scoundrels from the Green Man on us if we don’t pay. He comes in every Saturday and demands his