A Dangerous Fortune (41 page)

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.

3

IN THE AFTERNOONS
, wealthy ladies and idle gentlemen called on one another. It was a tiresome practice and four days of the week Maisie told her servants to say she was not at home. On Fridays she received people, and there might be twenty or thirty during the course of an afternoon. It was always more or less the same crowd: the Marlborough Set, the Jewish set, women with “advanced” ideas such as Rachel Bodwin, and a few wives of Solly’s more important business acquaintances.

Emily Pilaster was in the last category. Her husband Edward was involved in a deal with Solly about a railway in Cordova, and Maisie assumed it was on the strength of that that Emily called. But she stayed all afternoon and at half-past five, when everyone else had gone, she was still there.

A pretty girl with big blue eyes, she was only about twenty years old and anyone could tell she was miserable, so Maisie was not surprised when she said: “Please can I talk to you about something personal?”

“Of course, what is it?”

“I do hope you won’t be offended but there’s no one I can discuss it with.”

This sounded like a sexual problem. It would not be the first time that a well-bred girl had come to Maisie for advice on a subject she could not discuss with her mother. Perhaps they had heard rumors about her racy past, or perhaps they just found her approachable. “It’s hard to offend me,” Maisie said. “What do you want to discuss?”

“My husband hates me,” she said, and she burst into tears.

Maisie felt sorry for her. She had known Edward in the old Argyll Rooms days and he had been a pig then. No doubt he had got worse since. She could sympathize with anyone unfortunate enough to have married him.

“You see,” Emily said between sobs, “his parents wanted him to marry, but he didn’t want to, so they offered him a huge settlement, and a partnership in the bank, and that persuaded him. And I agreed because my parents wanted me to and he seemed as good as anyone and I wanted to have babies. But he never liked me and now that he’s got his money and his partnership he can’t stand the sight of me.”

Maisie sighed. “This may sound hard, but you’re in the same position as thousands of women.”

Emily wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and made an effort to stop crying. “I know, and I don’t want you to think I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’ve got to make the best of it. And I know I could cope with the situation if only I could have a baby. That’s all I ever really wanted.”

Children were the consolation of most unhappy wives, Maisie reflected. “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t have babies?”

Emily was shifting restlessly on the couch, almost writhing with embarrassment, but her childlike face was set in lines of determination. “I’ve been married for two months and
nothing’s happened
.”

“Early days yet—”

“No, I don’t mean I expected to be pregnant by now.”

Maisie knew it was difficult for such girls to be specific, so she led her with questions. “Does he come to your bed?”

“He did at first, but not anymore.”

“When he did, what went wrong?”

“The trouble is, I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen.”

Maisie sighed. How could mothers allow their daughters to walk up the aisle in such ignorance? She recalled that Emily’s father was a Methodist minister. That did not help. “What’s supposed to happen is this,” she began. “Your husband kisses and touches you, his doodle gets long and stiff, and he puts it into your cunny. Most girls like it.”

Emily blushed scarlet. “He did the kissing and touching, but nothing else.”

“Did his doodle get stiff?”

“It was dark.”

“Didn’t you feel it?”

“He made me rub it once.”

“And what was it like? Rigid, like a candle, or limp, like an earthworm? Or in between, like a sausage before it’s cooked?”

“Limp.”

“And when you rubbed it, did it stiffen?”

“No. It made him very angry and he slapped me and said I was no good.
Is
it my fault, Mrs. Greenbourne?”

“No, it’s not your fault, though men generally blame women. It’s a common problem and it’s called impotence.”

“What causes it?”

“Lots of different things.”

“Does it mean I can’t have a baby?”

“Not until you can make his doodle stiff.”

Emily looked as if she might cry. “I do so want a
baby. I’m so lonely and unhappy but if I had a baby I could put up with everything else.”

Maisie wondered what Edward’s problem was. He certainly had not been impotent in the old days. Was there anything she could do to help Emily? She could probably find out whether Edward was impotent all the time or just with his wife. April Tilsley would know. Edward had still been a regular customer at Nellie’s brothel last time Maisie spoke to April—although that had been years ago: it was difficult for a society lady to remain close friends with London’s leading madam. “I know someone close to Edward,” she said cautiously. “She might be able to shed some light on the problem.”

Emily swallowed. “Do you mean that he has a mistress? Please tell me—I must face the facts.”

She was a determined girl, Maisie thought. She may be ignorant and naive but she’s going to get what she wants. “This woman isn’t his mistress. But if he has one she might know.”

Emily nodded. “I’d like to meet your friend.”

“I don’t know that you personally should—”

“I want to. He’s my husband, and if there’s something bad to be told I want to hear it.” Her face took on that set, stubborn look again, and she said: “I’ll do anything, you must believe me—anything. My whole life is going to be a wasteland unless I save myself.”

Maisie decided to test her resolve. “My friend’s name is April. She owns a brothel near Leicester Square. It’s two minutes from here. Are you prepared to go there with me now?”

“What’s a brothel?” said Emily.

The hansom pulled up outside Nellie’s. Maisie peeked out, scanning the street. She did not want to be seen going into a brothel by anyone she knew. However, this was the hour when most people of her class were dressing for dinner, and there were only a few poor people on the
street. She and Emily got out of the cab. She had paid the driver in advance. The door to the brothel was not locked. They went inside.

Daylight was not kind to Nellie’s. At night it might have a certain seedy glamor, Maisie thought, but at the moment it looked threadbare and grubby. The velvet upholstery was faded, the tables were scarred by cigar burns and glass rings, the silk wallpaper was peeling and the erotic paintings just looked vulgar. An old woman with a pipe in her mouth was sweeping the floor. She did not appear surprised to see two society ladies in expensive dresses. When Maisie asked for April, the old woman jerked a thumb at the staircase.

They found April in an upstairs kitchen, drinking tea at the table with several other women, all in dressing gowns or housecoats: obviously it was some hours before business would begin. At first April did not recognize Maisie and they stared at each other for a long moment. Maisie found her old friend little changed: still thin, hard-faced and sharp-eyed; a little weary-looking, perhaps, from too many late nights and too much cheap champagne; but with the confident, assertive air of a successful business woman. “What can we do for you?” she said.