A Dangerous Fortune(58)

Tonio went on: “You know what fellows are like about these things—if you don’t pay up the next day you’re already under suspicion. But it would take me years to pay back a hundred pounds. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

“I don’t understand,” said Micky, though he understood perfectly.

“Will you give me the money?” Tonio pleaded. “You’re Cordovan, not like these English; you don’t condemn a man for one mistake. And I would pay you back, eventually.”

“If I had the money I’d give it to you,” said Micky. “I wish I were that well off.”

Tonio looked at Papa, who stared at him coldly and said simply: “No.”

Tonio hung his head. “I’m such a fool about gambling,” he said in a hollow voice. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. If I go home in disgrace I won’t be able to face my family.”

Micky said thoughtfully: “Perhaps there is something else I can do to help.”

Tonio brightened. “Oh, please, anything!”

“Edward and I are good friends, as you know. I could speak to him on your behalf, explain the circumstances, and ask him to be lenient—as a personal favor to me.”

“Would you?” Tonio’s face was suffused with hope.

“I’ll ask him to wait for his money, and not to tell anyone. I don’t say he’ll agree to it, mind you. The Pilasters have money by the bucketful but they’re a hard-headed bunch. I’ll try, anyway.”

Tonio clasped Micky’s hand. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said fervently. “I’ll never forget this.”

“Don’t raise your hopes too high—”

“I can’t help it. I’ve been in despair, and you’ve given me a reason to go on.” Tonio looked shamefaced and added: “I thought of killing myself this morning. I walked across London Bridge and I was going to throw myself into the river.”

There was a soft grunt from Papa, who clearly thought that would have been the best thing all round.

Micky said hastily: “Thank God you changed your mind. Now, I’d better go along to Pilasters Bank and talk to Edward.”

“When will I see you?”

“Will you be at the club at lunchtime?”

“Of course, if you want me to.”

“Meet me there, then.”

“Right.” Tonio stood up. “I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast. And—”

“Don’t thank me,” Micky said, holding up his hand in a silencing gesture. “It’s unlucky. Wait and hope.”

“Yes. All right.” Tonio bowed again to Papa. “Goodbye, Se?or Miranda.” He went out.

“Stupid boy,” Papa muttered.

“A complete fool,” Micky agreed.

Micky went into the next room and dressed in his morning clothes: a white shirt with a stiff upright collar and starched cuffs, buff-colored trousers, a black satin stock which he took the trouble to tie perfectly, and a black double-breasted frock coat. His shoes gleamed with wax and his hair shone with macassar oil. He always dressed elegantly but conservatively: he would never wear one of the fashionable new turndown collars, or carry a monocle like a dandy. The English were ever ready to believe that a foreigner was a cad, and he took care to give them no excuse.

Leaving Papa to his own devices for the day, he went out and walked across the bridge into the financial district, which was called the City because it covered the square mile of the original Roman city of London. Traffic was at a complete standstill around St. Paul’s Cathedral as carriages, horse buses, brewers’ drays, hansom cabs and costermongers’ barrows competed for space with a huge flock of sheep being driven to Smithfield meat market.

Pilasters Bank was a big new building with a long classical frontage and an imposing entrance flanked by massive fluted pillars. It was a few minutes past noon when Micky went through the double doors into the banking hall. Although Edward rarely got to work before ten, he could generally be persuaded to leave for lunch any time after twelve.

Micky approached one of the “walkers” and said: “Be good enough to tell Mr. Edward Pilaster that Mr. Miranda has called.”

“Very good, sir.”

Here more than anywhere Micky envied the Pilasters. Their wealth and power was proclaimed by every detail: the polished marble floor, the rich paneling, the hushed voices, the scratch of pens in ledgers, and perhaps most of all by the overfed, overdressed messengers. All this space and all these people were basically employed in counting the Pilaster family’s money. No one here raised cattle, mined nitrate or built railroads: the work was done by others far away. The Pilasters just watched the money multiply. To Micky it seemed the best possible way to live now that slavery had been abolished.

There was also something false about the atmosphere here. It was solemn and dignified, like a church, or the court of a president, or a museum. They were moneylenders, but they acted as if charging interest were a noble calling, like the priesthood.

After a few minutes Edward appeared—with a bruised nose and a black eye. Micky raised his eyebrows. “My dear fellow, what happened to you?”

“I had a fight with Hugh.”

“What about?”

“I told him off for bringing a whore into the house and he lost his temper.”