A Dangerous Fortune(162)

“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 left: Augusta.

He was not as sure of her as he was of Edward. Edward had always been willing to do anything Micky asked. Augusta was independent. But she was his last chance.

He turned to go.

“Don’t leave me,” Edward pleaded.

There was no time for sentiment. “I can’t take a dying man with me,” he snapped.

Edward looked up, and his face took on a malicious expression. “If you don’t …”

“Well?”

“I’ll tell the police that you killed Peter Middleton, and Uncle Seth, and Solly Greenbourne.”

Augusta must have told him about old Seth. Micky stared at Edward. He made a pathetic figure. How have I put up with him for so long, Micky wondered? He suddenly realized how happy he would be to leave him behind. “Tell the police,” he said. “They’re already after me for killing Tonio Silva, and I might as well be hanged for four murders as for one.” He went out without looking back.

He let himself out of the house and got a hansom in Park Lane. “Kensington Gore,” he told the cabbie. “Whitehaven House.” On the way he worried about his health. He had none of the symptoms: no skin problems, no unexplained lumps on his genitals. But he would have to wait to be sure. Damn Edward to hell.

He also worried about Augusta. He had not seen her since the crash. Would she help him? He knew she had always struggled to control her sexual hunger for him; and on that one bizarre occasion she had actually yielded to her passion. In those days Micky had burned for her too. Since then Micky’s fire had abated, but he felt that hers had grown hotter. He hoped so: he was going to ask her to run away with him.