and any witnesses to the murder — and escape by train.
Micky was a desperate man, and it was a fearfully risky scheme — but it had almost worked. He had needed to kill Hugh as well as Tonio, but the smoke from the engine had spoiled his aim. If things had gone according to plan no one would have recognized him. Chingford had neither telegraph nor telephone, and there was no means of transport faster than the train, so he would have been back in London before the crime could be reported. No doubt one of his employees would have given him an alibi, too.
But he had failed to kill Hugh. And — Hugh suddenly realized — technically Micky was no longer the Cordovan Minister, so he had lost his diplomatic immunity.
He could hang for this.
Hugh stood up. “We must report the murder as soon as possible,” he said.
“There’s a police station in Walthamstow, a few stops down the line.”
“When’s the next train?”
The railwayman took a large watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Forty-seven minutes,” he said.
“We should both get on it. You go to the police in Walthamstow and I’ll go on to town and report it to Scotland Yard.”
“There’s no one to mind the station. I’m on my own, being Christmas Eve.”
“I’m sure your employer would want you to do your public duty.”
“Right you are.” The man seemed grateful to be told what to do.
“We’d better put poor Silva somewhere. Is there a place in the station?”
“Only the waiting room.”
“We’d better carry him there and lock it up.” Hugh bent and took hold of the body under the arms. “You take his legs.” They lifted Tonio and carried him into the station.
They laid him on a bench in the waiting room. Then they were not sure what to do. Hugh felt restive. He could not grieve — it was too soon. He wanted to catch the murderer, not mourn. He paced up and down, consulting his watch every few minutes, and rubbing the sore place on his head where Micky’s cane had struck him. The railwayman sat on the opposite bench, staring at the body with fearful fascination. After a while Hugh sat beside him. They stayed like that, silent and watchful, sharing the cold room with the dead man, until the train came in.
MICKY MIRANDA was fleeing for his life.
His luck was running out. He had committed four murders in the last twenty-four years, and he had got away with the first three, but this time he had stumbled. Hugh Pilaster had seen him shoot Tonio Silva in broad daylight, and there was no way to escape the hangman but by leaving England.
Suddenly he was on the run, a fugitive in the city that had been his home for most of his life. He hurried through Liverpool Street Railway Station, avoiding the eyes of policemen, his heart racing and his breath coming in shallow gasps, and dived into a hansom cab.
He went straight to the office of the Gold Coast and Mexico Steamship Company.
The place was crowded, mainly with Latins. Some would be trying to return to Cordova, others trying to get relatives out, and some might just be asking for news. It was noisy and disorganized. Micky could not afford to wait for the riffraff. He fought his way to the counter, using his cane indiscriminately on men and women to get through. His expensive clothes and upper-class arrogance got the attention of a clerk, and he said: “I want to book passage to Cordova.”
“There’s a war on in Cordova,” said the clerk.
Micky suppressed a sarcastic retort. “You haven’t suspended all sailings, I take it.”
“We’re selling tickets to Lima, Peru. The ship will go on to Palma if political conditions permit: the decision will be made when it reaches Lima.”
That would do. Micky mainly needed to get out of England. “When is the next departure?”
“Four weeks from today.”
His heart sank. “That’s no good, I have to go sooner!”
“There’s a ship leaving Southampton tonight, if you’re in a hurry.”
Thank God! His luck had not quite run out just yet. “Reserve me a stateroom — the best available.”
“Very good, sir. May I have the name?”
“Miranda.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
The English were deaf when a foreign name was spoken. Micky was about to spell his name when he changed his mind. “Andrews,” he said. “M. R. Andrews.” It had occurred to him that the police might check passenger lists, looking for the name Miranda. Now they would not find it. He was grateful for the insane liberalism of Britain’s laws, which permitted people to enter and leave the country without passports. It would not have been so easy in Cordova.
The clerk began to make out his ticket. Micky watched restlessly, rubbing the sore place on his face where Hugh Pilaster had butted him. He realized he had another problem. Scotland Yard could circulate his description to all port towns by cable. Damn the telegraph. Within an hour they would have local policemen checking all passengers. He needed some kind of disguise.
The clerk gave him his ticket and he paid with bank notes. He pushed impatiently through the crowd and went out into the snow, still worrying.
He hailed a hansom and directed it to the Cordovan Ministry, but then he had second thoughts. It was risky to go back there, and anyway he was short of time.
The police would be looking for a well-dressed man of forty, traveling alone. One way to get past them would be to appear as an older man with a companion. In fact, he could pretend to be an invalid, and be taken on board in a wheelchair. But for that he would need an accomplice. Whom could he use? He was not sure he could trust any of his employees, especially now that he was no longer the minister.
That left Edward.
“Drive to Hill Street,” he told the cabbie.
Edward had a small house in Mayfair. Unlike the other Pilasters, he rented his home, and he had not been obliged to move out yet because his rent was paid three months in advance.
Edward did not seem to care that Micky had destroyed Pilasters Bank and brought ruin to his family. He had only become more dependent on Micky. As for the rest of the Pilasters, Micky had not seen them since the crash.
Edward answered the door in a stained silk dressing gown and took Micky up to his bedroom, where there was a fire. He was smoking a cigar and drinking whisky at eleven o’clock in the morning. The skin rash was all over his face now, and Micky had second thoughts about using him as an accomplice: the rash made him conspicuous. But there was no time to be choosy. Edward would have to do.
“I’m leaving the country,” Micky said.
Edward said: “Oh, take me with you,” and burst into tears.
“What the devil is the matter with you?” Micky said unsympathetically.
“I’m dying,” Edward said. “Let’s go somewhere quiet and live together in peace until I’m gone.”
“You’re not dying, you damn fool — you’ve only got a skin disease.”
“It’s not a skin disease, it’s syphilis.”
Micky gasped in horror. “Jesus and Mary, I might have it too!”
“It’s no wonder, the amount of time we’ve spent at Nellie’s.”
“But April’s girls are supposed to be clean!”
“Whores are never clean.”
Micky fought down panic. If he delayed in London to see a doctor he might die at the end of a rope. He had to leave the country today. But the ship went via Lisbon: he could see a doctor there in a few days’ time. That would have to do. He might not have the disease at all: he was much healthier than Edward generally, and he always washed himself after sex, whereas Edward was not so fastidious.
But Edward was in no state to help smuggle him out of the country. Anyway, Micky was not going to take a terminal syphilis case back to Cordova with him. Still he needed an accomplice. And there was only one candidate
