A Dangerous Fortune (47 page)

“What the devil are you talking about?” said Edward.

“Look around you,” Micky said. “This place is exactly like your home, or mine. Expensive furniture, servants everywhere, boring food and unlimited drink. We can eat all our meals here, get our mail, read the newspapers, take a nap, and if we get too drunk to fall into a cab we can even get a bed for the night. The only difference between an Englishman’s club and his home is that there are no women in his club.”

“Don’t you have clubs in Cordova, then?”

“Certainly not. No one would join. If a Cordovan man wants to get drunk, play cards, hear political gossip, talk about his whores, smoke and belch and fart in comfort
he does it in his own home; and if his wife is foolish enough to object he slaps her until she sees reason. But an English gentleman is so frightened of his wife that he has to leave the house to enjoy himself. That’s why there are clubs.”

“You don’t seem to be frightened of Rachel. You’ve got rid of her, haven’t you?”

“Sent her back to her mother,” Micky said airily. It had not happened quite that way but he was not going to tell Edward the truth.

“People must notice that she doesn’t appear at ministry functions anymore. Don’t they comment?”

“I tell them she’s in poor health.”

“But everyone knows she’s trying to start a hospital for unmarried women to have babies. It’s a public scandal.”

“It doesn’t matter. People sympathize with me for having a difficult wife.”

“Will you divorce her?”

“No. That would be a real scandal. A diplomat can’t be divorced. I’m stuck with her as long as I’m the Cordovan Minister, I’m afraid. Thank God she didn’t get pregnant before she left.” It was a miracle she hadn’t, he thought. Perhaps she was infertile. He waved at a waiter and ordered brandy. “Speaking of wives,” he said tentatively, “what about Emily?”

Edward looked embarrassed. “I see as little of her as you see of Rachel,” he said. “You know I bought a country house in Leicestershire a while ago—she spends all her time there.”

“So, we’re both bachelors again.”

Edward grinned. “We were never anything else, really, were we?”

Micky glanced across the empty room and saw the bulky form of Solly Greenbourne in the doorway. For some reason the sight of him made Micky feel nervous—which was odd, because Solly was the most harmless man
in London. “Here comes another friend to congratulate you,” Micky said to Edward as Solly approached.

When Solly was closer Micky realized he was not wearing his usual amiable smile. In fact he looked positively angry. That was rare. Micky felt intuitively that there was some problem with the Santamaria railroad deal. He told himself that he was worrying like an old woman. But Solly was never angry….

Anxiety made Micky fatuously amicable. “Hello, Solly, old boy—how’s the genius of the Square Mile?”

Solly was not interested in Micky, however. Without even acknowledging the greeting, he rudely turned his vast back on Micky and faced Edward. “Pilaster, you’re a damned cad,” he said.

Micky was astonished and horrified. Solly and Edward were on the point of signing the deal. This was very grave—Solly never quarreled with people. What on earth had brought it about?

Edward was equally mystified. “What the devil are you talking about, Greenbourne?”

Solly reddened and he could hardly speak. “I’ve discovered that you and that witch you call Mother are behind those filthy articles in
The Forum
.”

“Oh, no!” Micky said to himself in dismay. This was a catastrophe. He had suspected Augusta’s involvement, although he had no evidence—but how on earth had Solly found out?

The same question occurred to Edward. “Who’s been filling your fat head with such rot?”

“One of your mother’s cronies is a lady-in-waiting to the queen,” Solly replied. Micky guessed he was speaking of Harriet Morte: Augusta seemed to have some kind of hold over her. Solly went on: “She let the cat out of the bag—she told the Prince of Wales. I’ve just been with him.”

Solly must be practically insane with anger to speak so indiscreetly about a private conversation with royalty,
Micky thought. It was a case of a gentle soul being pushed too far. He could not see how a quarrel such as this could possibly be patched up—certainly not in time for the signing of the contract tomorrow.

He tried desperately to cool the temperature. “Solly, old man, you can’t be sure this story is true—”

Solly rounded on him. His eyes were bulging and he was perspiring. “Can’t I? When I read in today’s newspaper that Joseph Pilaster has got the peerage that was expected to go to Ben Greenbourne?”

“All the same—”

“Can you imagine what this means to my father?”

Micky began to understand how the armor of Solly’s amiability had been breached. It was not for himself that he was angry, but for his father. Ben Greenbourne’s grandfather had arrived in London with a bale of Russian furs, a five-pound note and a hole in his boot. For Ben to take a seat in the House of Lords would be the ultimate badge of acceptance into English society. No doubt Joseph too would like to crown his career with a peerage—his family had also risen by their own efforts—but it would be much more of an achievement for a Jew. Greenbourne’s peerage would have been a triumph not just for himself and his family but for the entire Jewish community in Britain.

Edward said: “I can’t help it if you’re a Jew.”

Micky butted in quickly. “You two shouldn’t let your parents come between you. After all, you’re partners in a major business enterprise—”

“Don’t be a damn fool, Miranda,” Solly said with a savagery that made Micky flinch. “You can forget about the Santamaria railroad, or any other joint venture with Greenbournes Bank. After our partners hear this story, they’ll never do business with the Pilasters again.”

Micky tasted bile in his throat as he watched Solly leave the room. It was easy to forget how very powerful these
bankers were—especially the unprepossessing Solly. Yet in a moment of fury he could wipe out all Micky’s hopes with one simple sentence.

“Damned insolence,” Edward said feebly. “Typical Jew.”

Micky almost told him to shut up. Edward would survive the collapse of this deal but Micky might not. Papa would be disappointed and angry and would look for someone to punish, and Micky would bear the brunt of his rage.

Was there really no hope? He tried to stop feeling destroyed and start thinking. Was there anything he could do to prevent Solly canceling the deal? If there were, it would have to he done quickly, for once Solly told the other Greenbournes what he had learned, they would all turn against the deal.

Could Solly be talked around?

Micky had to try.

He stood up abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Edward said.

Micky decided not to tell Edward what he had in mind. “To the card room,” he replied. “Don’t you want to play?”

“Yes, of course.” Edward heaved himself out of his chair and they walked out of the room.

At the foot of the stairs Micky turned aside toward the toilets, saying: “You go on up—I’ll catch you.”

Edward went upstairs. Micky stepped into the cloakroom, grabbed his hat and cane, and dashed out through the front door.

He looked up and down Pall Mall, terrified that Solly might already be out of sight. It was dusk, and the gaslights were being lit. Micky could not see Solly anywhere. Then, a hundred yards away, he spotted him, a big figure in evening dress and a top hat heading toward St. James’s at a brisk waddle.

Micky went after him.

He would explain to Solly how important the railroad was to him and to Cordova. He would say that Solly was punishing millions of impoverished peasants on account of something Augusta had done. Solly was softhearted: if only he would calm down he might yet be talked around.

He had said he had just been with the Prince of Wales. That meant he might not yet have had time to tell anyone else the secret he had learned from the prince—that Augusta had arranged the anti-Jewish propaganda in the press. No one had overheard the row in the club: the smoking room had been empty but for the three of them. In all probability Ben Greenbourne did not yet know who had cheated him out of his peerage.

Of course the truth might come out eventually. The Prince might tell someone else. But the contract was to be signed tomorrow. If the secret could be kept until then, all would be well. After that, the Greenbournes and the Pilasters could quarrel until kingdom come: Papa would have his railroad.

Pall Mall was crowded with prostitutes strolling along the pavements, men going in and out of the clubs, lamplighters doing their work, and carriages and hansom cabs bowling along the road. Micky had trouble catching up. Panic bubbled up inside him. Then Solly turned up a side street, heading toward his house in Piccadilly.

Micky followed. The side street was less busy. Micky broke into a run. “Greenbourne!” he called. “Wait!”

Solly stopped and turned, breathing hard. He recognized Micky and turned away again.

Micky grabbed his arm. “I must talk to you!”

Solly was so breathless he could hardly speak. “Take your damned hands off me,” he panted. He broke away from Micky and walked on.

Micky went after him and grabbed him again. Solly tried to pull his arm away but this time Micky held on. “Listen to me!”

“I told you to leave me alone!” Solly said fiercely.

“Just a minute, damn it!” Micky was getting angry now.

But Solly would not listen. He struggled furiously, jerked himself violently out of Micky’s grasp, and turned away.

Two steps later he came to a cross-street and was forced to stop at the curb as a carriage went by fast. Micky took the opportunity to speak to him again. “Solly, calm down!” he said. “I only want to reason with you!”

“Go to the devil!” Solly shouted.

The road cleared. To stop his moving away again Micky grabbed Solly’s lapels. Solly struggled to free himself but Micky held on. “Listen to me!” he yelled.

“Let me go!” Solly got one hand free and punched Micky on the nose.

The blow stung and Micky tasted blood. He lost his temper. “Damn you!” he cried. He let go of Solly’s coat and punched him back, hitting him on the cheek.

Solly turned and stepped into the road. At that moment they both saw a carriage coming toward them, being driven very fast. Solly jumped back to avoid being hit.

Micky saw a chance.

If Solly were dead, Micky’s troubles would be over.

There was no time to reckon the odds, no room for hesitation and forethought.

Micky gave Solly a mighty shove, pushing him into the road in front of the horses.

The coachman yelled and hauled on the reins. Solly stumbled, saw the horses almost on top of him, fell to the ground and screamed.

For a frozen moment Micky saw the charging horses, the heavy carriage wheels, the terrified coachman and the huge helpless form of Solly, flat on his back in the road.

Then the horses charged over Solly. Micky saw the fat body twist and writhe as the ironclad hooves pounded it. Then the front nearside wheel of the carriage struck
Solly’s head a mighty blow, and he slumped unconscious. A split second later the rear wheel ran over his face and crushed his skull like an eggshell.

Micky turned away. He thought he was going to vomit but he managed to control the urge. Then he began to shake. He felt weak and faint, and he had to lean on the wall.

He forced himself to look at the motionless body in the road. Solly’s head was smashed, his face unrecognizable, blood and something else smeared over the road beside him. He was dead.

And Micky was saved.

Now Ben Greenbourne need never know what Augusta had done to him; the deal could go ahead; the railroad would be built; and Micky would be a hero in Cordova.

He felt a warm trickle on his lip. His nose was bleeding. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at it.

He stared a moment longer at Solly. You only lost your temper once in your life, and it killed you, he thought.

He looked up and down the street in the gaslight. There was no one around. Only the coachman had seen what happened.

The carriage juddered to a halt thirty yards down the road. The coachman leaped down and a woman looked out of the window. Micky turned and walked quickly away, heading back toward Pall Mall.

A few seconds later he heard the coachman call after him: “Hey! You!”

He walked faster and turned the corner into Pall Mall without looking back. A moment later he was lost in the crowd.

By God, I did it, he thought. Now that he could no longer see the mangled body, the sense of disgust was passing, and he began to feel triumphant. Quick thinking
and bold action had enabled him to overcome yet another obstacle.

He hurried up the steps of the club. With luck nobody would have noticed his absence, he hoped; but as he passed through the front door he had the bad fortune to bump into Hugh Pilaster going out.

Hugh nodded to him and said: “Evening, Miranda.”

“Evening, Pilaster,” said Micky; and he went in, cursing Hugh under his breath.

He went to the cloakroom. His nose was red from Solly’s punch but otherwise he just appeared a little rumpled. He straightened his clothing and brushed his hair. As he did so he thought about Hugh Pilaster. If Hugh had not been right there on the doorstep at the wrong moment, nobody would have known Micky had even left the club—he had been gone for only a few minutes. But did it really matter? No one was going to suspect Micky of killing Solly, and if they did, the fact that he had left his club for a few minutes would not prove anything. Still, he no longer had a watertight alibi, and that worried him.

He washed his hands thoroughly and hurried up the stairs to the card room.

Edward was already playing baccarat and there was an empty seat at the table. Micky sat down. No one commented on the length of time he had been away.

He was dealt a hand. “You look a bit seasick,” said Edward.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “I think the fish soup may not have been perfectly fresh tonight.”

Edward waved at a waiter. “Bring this man a glass of brandy.”