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.