Suddenly he was on the run, a fugitive in the city that had been his home for most of his life. He hurried through Liverpool Street Railway Station, avoiding the eyes of policemen, his heart racing and his breath coming in shallow gasps, and dived into a hansom cab.
He went straight to the office of the Gold Coast and Mexico Steamship Company.
The place was crowded, mainly with Latins. Some would be trying to return to Cordova, others trying to get relatives out, and some might just be asking for news. It was noisy and disorganized. Micky could not afford to wait for the riffraff. He fought his way to the counter, using his cane indiscriminately on men and women to get through. His expensive clothes and upper-class arrogance got the attention of a clerk, and he said: "I want to book passage to Cordova."
"There's a war on in Cordova," said the clerk.
Micky suppressed a sarcastic retort. "You haven't suspended all sailings, I take it."
"We're selling tickets to Lima, Peru. The ship will go on to Palma if political conditions permit: the decision will be made when it reaches Lima."
That would do. Micky mainly needed to get out of England. "When is the next departure?"
"Four weeks from today."
His heart sank. "That's no good, I have to go sooner!"
"There's a ship leaving Southampton tonight, if you're in a hurry."
Thank God! His luck had not quite run out just yet. "Reserve me a stateroom--the best available."
"Very good, sir. May I have the name?"
"Miranda."
"Beg pardon, sir?"
The English were deaf when a foreign name was spoken. Micky was about to spell his name when he changed his mind. "Andrews," he said. "M. R. Andrews." It had occurred to him that the police might check passenger lists, looking for the name Miranda. Now they would not find it. He was grateful for the insane liberalism of Britain's laws, which permitted people to enter and leave the country without passports. It would not have been so easy in Cordova.
The clerk began to make out his ticket. Micky watched restlessly, rubbing the sore place on his face where Hugh Pilaster had butted him. He realized he had another problem. Scotland Yard could circulate his description to all port towns by cable. Damn the telegraph. Within an hour they would have local policemen checking all passengers. He needed some kind of disguise.
The clerk gave him his ticket and he paid with bank notes. He pushed impatiently through the crowd and went out into the snow, still worrying.
