2
MICKY MIRANDA STOOD IN A DOORWAY in Berwick Street, wearing a light overcoat to keep out the chill of a spring evening. He was smoking a cigar and watching the street. There was a gas lamp nearby but he stood in the shadow so that his face could not easily be seen by passersby. He felt anxious, dissatisfied with himself, soiled. He disliked violence. It was Papa’s way, Paulo’s way. For Micky it always seemed such an admission of failure.
Berwick Street was a narrow, filthy passage of cheap pubs and lodging houses. Dogs rummaged in the gutters and small children played in the gaslight. Micky had been there since nightfall and he had not seen a single policeman. Now it was almost midnight.
The Hotel Russe was across the street. It had seen better days, but still it was a cut above its surroundings. There was a light over the door and inside Micky could see a lobby with a reception counter. However, there did not appear to be anyone there.
Two other men loitered on the far pavement, one on either side of the hotel entrance. All three of them were waiting for Antonio Silva.
Micky had pretended to be calm in front of Edward and Augusta but in fact he was desperately worried about Tonio’s article appearing in The Times. He had put so much effort into getting Pilasters to launch the Santamaria railroad. He had even married that bitch Rachel for the sake of the damn bonds. His entire career depended on its success. If he let his family down over this, his father would be not only raging but vengeful. Papa had the power to get Micky fired as minister. With no money and no position he could hardly stay in London: he would have to return home and face humiliation and disgrace. Either way, the life he had enjoyed for so many years would be over.
Rachel had demanded to know where he was planning to spend this evening. He had laughed at her. “Never try to question me,” he had said.
She had surprised him by saying: “Then I shall go out for the evening, too.”
“Where?”
“Never try to question me.”
Micky had locked her in the bedroom.
When he got home she would be incandescent with wrath, but that had happened before. On previous occasions when she had raged at him he had thrown her on the bed and torn off her clothes, and she had always submitted to him eagerly. She would do it yet again tonight, he felt sure.
He wished he could feel as sure of Tonio.
He was not even certain the man was still living at this hotel, but he could not go in and ask without arousing suspicion.
He had moved as quickly as possible, but still it had taken forty-eight hours to locate and hire two ruthless toughs, reconnoiter the location and set up the ambush. In that time Tonio might have moved. Then Micky would be in trouble.
A careful man would move hotels every few days. But a careful man would not use notepaper that bore an address. Tonio was not the cautious type. On the contrary, he had always been reckless. In all probability he was still at this hotel, Micky thought.
He was right.
A few minutes after midnight, Tonio appeared.
Micky thought he recognized the walk as the figure turned into the far end of Berwick Street, coming from the direction of Leicester Square. He tensed, but resisted the temptation to move right away. Restraining himself with an effort, he waited until the man passed a gas lamp, when the face became clearly visible for a moment. Then there was no doubt: it was Tonio. Micky could even see the carroty color of the side-whiskers. He felt relief and heightened anxiety at the same time: relief that he had Tonio in his sights, anxiety about the crude, dangerous attack he was about to make.
Then he saw the policemen.
It was the worst possible luck. There were two of them, coming down Berwick Street from the opposite direction, helmeted and caped, their truncheons hanging from their belts, shining their bull’s-eye lanterns into dark corners. Micky stood stock still. There was nothing he could do. They saw Micky, noted his top hat and his cigar, and nodded deferentially: it was none of their business what an upper-class man might be doing loitering in a doorway—they were after criminals, not gentlemen. They passed Tonio fifteen or twenty yards from the hotel door. Micky fidgeted in frustration. Another few moments and Tonio would be safe inside his hotel.
Then the two policemen turned a corner and were gone from sight.
Micky gestured to his two accomplices.
They moved fast.
Before Tonio reached the door of his hotel, the two men seized him and bundled him into the alley alongside the building. He shouted once, but after that his cries were muffled.
Throwing away the remains of his cigar, Micky crossed the road and entered the alley. They had stuffed a scarf into Tonio’s mouth, to prevent his making a noise, and they were beating him with iron bars. His hat had fallen off, and his head and face were already covered with blood. His body was protected by a coat, but they slashed at his knees and shins and his unprotected hands.
The sight made Micky feel ill. “Stop it, you fools!” he hissed at them. “Can’t you see he’s had enough?” Micky did not want them to kill Tonio. As things stood, the incident looked like a routine robbery, accompanied by a savage beating. A murder would create a great deal more fuss—and the policemen had seen Micky’s face, however briefly.
With apparent reluctance the two thugs stopped hitting Tonio, who slumped to the ground and lay still.
“Empty his pockets!” Micky whispered.
Tonio did not move as they took from him a watch and chain, a pocketbook, some coins, a silk handkerchief and a key.
“Give me the key,” Micky said. “The rest is yours.”
The older of the two men, Barker—humorously known as Dog—said: “Give us the money.”
He gave them each ten pounds in gold sovereigns.
Dog gave him the key. Tied to it with a small piece of thread was a slip of card with the number 11 scrawled on it. It was all Micky needed.
He turned to leave the alley—and saw that they were being watched. A man stood in the street staring at them. Micky’s heart raced.
Dog saw him a moment later. He grunted an oath and raised his iron bar as if to strike the man down. Suddenly Micky realized something and grabbed Dog’s arm. “No,” he said. “That won’t be necessary. Look at him.”
The watching man had a slack mouth and a empty look in his eyes: he was an idiot.
Dog lowered his weapon. “He’ll do us no harm,” he said. “He’s two sticks short of a bundle.”
Micky pushed past him into the street. Looking back, he saw Dog and his companion taking off Tonio’s boots.
Micky walked away, hoping he would never see them again.
He turned into the Hotel Russe. To his relief the desk in the little lobby was still unoccupied. He went up the stairs.
The hotel consisted of three houses knocked together, and it took Micky a while to find his way around, but two or three minutes later he let himself into room number 11.
It was a cramped, grimy room stuffed with furniture that had once been pretentious but was now merely shabby. Micky put his hat and cane on a chair and began to search quickly and methodically. In the writing desk he found a copy of the article for The Times, which he took. However, it was not worth much. Tonio either had copies or could rewrite it from memory. But in order to get the article published he would have to produce some kind of evidence, and it was the evidence that Micky was looking for.
In the chest of drawers he found a novel called The Duchess of Sodom which he was tempted to steal, but he decided it was an unnecessary risk. He tipped Tonio’s shirts and underwear out of the drawers onto the floor. There was nothing hidden there.
He had not really expected to find it in an obvious place.
He looked behind and underneath the chest, the bed and the wardrobe. He climbed on the table so that he could look on top of the wardrobe: there was nothing there but thick dust.
He pulled the sheets off the bed, probed the pillows for something hard, and examined the mattress. He finally found what he wanted underneath the mattress.
Inside a large envelope was a wad of papers tied together with lawyers’ ribbons.
Before he could examine the documents he heard footsteps in the hall.
He dropped the bundle and stood behind the door.
The footsteps went past and faded.
He untied the ribbons and scanned the documents. They were in Spanish, and bore the stamp of a lawyer in Palma. They were the sworn affidavits of witnesses who had seen floggings and executions at Micky’s family’s nitrate mines.
Micky lifted the sheaf of papers to his lips and kissed them. They were the answer to his prayers.
He stuffed them into the bosom of his coat. Before destroying them he had to make a note of the names and addresses of the witnesses. The lawyers would have copies of the affidavits, but the copies were no use without the witnesses. And now that Micky knew who the witnesses were, their days were numbered. He would send their addresses to Papa, and Papa would silence them.
Was there anything else? He looked around the room. It was a mess. There was nothing more for him here. He had what he needed. Without proof, Tonio’s article was worthless.
He left the room and went down the stairs.
To his surprise there was a clerk at the desk in the lobby. The man looked up and said challengingly: “May I ask your business?”
Micky made an instant decision. If he ignored the clerk, the man would probably just think he was rude. To stop and give an account of himself would allow the clerk to study his face. He said nothing and went out. The clerk did not follow.
As he passed the alley he heard a feeble cry for help. Tonio was crawling toward the street; leaving a trail of blood. The sight made Micky want to throw up. Disgusted, he grimaced, looked away and walked on.