Christian’s lips twitched. “Good evening to you, too, Cullen.” He stepped over the threshold.
Cullen snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Here—who’s these two with you?”
Christian glanced back at Tristan and Tony. “They’re just that—‘with me.’ Gallagher won’t mind. Incidentally, how’s his mood?”
Cullen scowled at Tristan and Tony, but allowed them inside, then shut the door and bolted it. He turned back to Christian. “He’s prepared to be entertained—which I’m thinking is just as well for you.”
Christian inclined his head. “We’ll see. I know the way.” He strolled down a barely lit corridor, then, ducking his head, stepped through an open doorway into a room that never failed to surprise.
It was Gallagher’s domain, and he’d set it up as a gentleman’s study, glaringly incongruous given what lay beyond the polished oak door, yet although no expense had been spared and the room was indeed luxurious, someone—Christian had always suspected Gallagher himself—had exercised restrained good taste.
Straightening, he walked farther in, nodding to the gargantuan presence behind the massive mahogany desk. “Gallagher.”
“Major.” Gallagher dipped his head a fraction—the best he could do by way of a nod. He had some condition that made his body store excessive amounts of fat, making the simplest movement difficult. But there was nothing wrong with his brain. He studied Tristan and Tony through small, bright blue eyes almost lost in rolls of fat, then looked at Christian and tipped his head toward the others. “Friends of yours?”
“Indeed. This is an insalubrious neighborhood, especially after dark.”
&nb
sp; Gallagher emitted a cackle. “At any time of day.” Evincing no further interest in Tristan and Tony, he fixed his gaze on Christian. “So what can I do fer you?”
Christian kept his smile easy. “You can tell me all you know about the proposed sale of the Orient Trading Company.”
Gallagher’s eyes widened a fraction. “You have an interest there?”
“I’m acting for one of the part owners.”
Gallagher wasn’t slow. “The heir, heh? Or should I say heiress? Heard tell it was Randall’s widow got the whole of his share.”
Christian nodded. Gallagher’s price was information; if you wanted some, you gave some in return.
“So has she decided to sell?”
“Until we know more, she can’t decide one way or the other.”
Gallagher raised his brows. “Not the sort of business a lady like I hear tell she is would want to sully her dainty fingers with, I’m thinking.”
“True. She doesn’t. But her brother knows the value of a cash-generating asset.”
“Ah-ha.” Gallagher took a moment to digest that, then offered, “Last I heard, before Randall got himself murdered, he’d come to an agreement of sorts with Neville Roscoe. Not a binding one—an agreement in principle, as it were. I heard tell Roscoe had some stipulations, some conditions he wanted Randall to meet before they shook on the deal.”
“But Roscoe’s price was right?”
“So I heard. Randall was right chuffed when he left Roscoe.”
Christian raised his brows. “You have a watcher inside Roscoe’s?”
Gallagher snorted. “Nah—not inside. What I wouldn’t give for that. But a body’s got to learn what he can howsoever he can—I’ve got someone keeping an eye peeled outside.”
Christian nodded. “Do you know who else was looking to buy?”
“The usual suspects—Edson, Plummer, and I heard tell Gammon was making overtures, too. But once Roscoe raised his hand, there weren’t much competition.”
“Unsurprising—Roscoe’s hells are probably even more profitable than the Orient Trading Company’s.”
“Aye.” Gallagher nodded. “So I’d think.” He studied Christian for a long moment, as if deciding whether to speak, then said, “I don’t know exactly why you’re asking, howsoever, if you’re thinking Randall’s murder had anything to do with the sale, I’d say you’re barking up the wrong tree. For certain Edson, Plummer, and Gammon weren’t best pleased when Roscoe butted in and snatched the prize, but unless there’s some bad blood there no one knows about, there’s no benefit to any of them in killing Randall. All that’s done—all it could ever do—is delay the inevitable.”
Gallagher settled on his massive chair. “From the business side of things, given the company was on the sale block anyway, Randall’s death hasn’t changed anything—unless the new owner decides to hold onto the company, and that, in effect, changes even less.”