Micky was a desperate man, and it was a fearfully risky scheme--but it had almost worked. He had needed to kill Hugh as well as Tonio, but the smoke from the engine had spoiled his aim. If things had gone according to plan no one would have recognized him. Chingford had neither telegraph nor telephone, and there was no means of transport faster than the train, so he would have been back in London before the crime could be reported. No doubt one of his employees would have given him an alibi, too.
But he had failed to kill Hugh. And--Hugh suddenly realized--technically Micky was no longer the Cordovan Minister, so he had lost his diplomatic immunity.
He could hang for this.
Hugh stood up. "We must report the murder as soon as possible," he said.
"There's a police station in Walthamstow, a few stops down the line."
"When's the next train?"
The railwayman took a large watch from his waistcoat pocket. "Forty-seven minutes," he said.
"We should both get on it. You go to the police in Walthamstow and I'll go on to town and report it to Scotland Yard."
"There's no one to mind the station. I'm on my own, being Christmas Eve."
"I'm sure your employer would want you to do your public duty."
"Right you are." The man seemed grateful to be told what to do.
"We'd better put poor Silva somewhere. Is there a place in the station?"
"Only the waiting room."
"We'd better carry him there and lock it up." Hugh bent and took hold of the body under the arms. "You take his legs." They lifted Tonio and carried him into the station.
They laid him on a bench in the waiting room. Then they were not sure what to do. Hugh felt restive. He could not grieve--it was too soon. He wanted to catch the murderer, not mourn. He paced up and down, consulting his watch every few minutes, and rubbing the sore place on his head where Micky's cane had struck him. The railwayman sat on the opposite bench, staring at the body with fearful fascination. After a while Hugh sat beside him. They stayed like that, silent and watchful, sharing the cold room with the dead man, until the train came in.
Section 2
MICKY MIRANDA was fleeing for his life.
His luck was running out. He had committed four murders in the last twenty-four years, and he had got away with the first three, but this time he had stumbled. Hugh Pilaster had seen him shoot Tonio Silva in broad daylight, and there was no way to escape the hangman but by leaving England.
