A Dangerous Fortune(161)

Hugh knelt by the body. Tonio had been hit between the eyes, and there was not much left of his face. “My God, what a mess,” said the railwayman. Hugh swallowed hard, fighting down nausea. He forced himself to slide his hand under Tonio’s coat and feel for a heartbeat. As he had expected there was none. He remembered the mischievous boy with whom he had splashed around in the swimming hole at Bishop’s Wood twenty-four years earlier, and he felt a wave of grief that pushed him close to tears.

Hugh’s head was clearing, and he could see, with anguished clarity, how Micky had planned this. Micky had friends in the Foreign Office, as did every halfway competent diplomat. One of those friends must have whispered in his ear, perhaps at a reception or dinner party last night, that Tonio was in London. Tonio had lodged his letters of accreditation already, so Micky knew his days were numbered. But if Tonio were to die the situation would become muddled again. There would be no one in London to negotiate on behalf of President Garcia, and Micky would be the de facto minister. It was Micky’s only hope. But he had to act fast and take chances, for he had only a day or two.

How had Micky known where to find Tonio? Perhaps he had people following Tonio—or maybe Augusta had told him that Tonio had been there, asking where to find Hugh. Either way, he had followed Tonio to Chingford.

To seek out Hugh’s house would have meant talking to too many people. However, he had known that Tonio had to come back to the railway station sooner or later. So he had lurked near the station, planning to kill Tonio—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.

2

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!”