Ken Follett - A Dangerous Fortune

The evening passed quickly for Augusta as she sat on the bed brooding.

Passengers trickled back in twos and threes between midnight and two o’clock. After that the band stopped playing and the ship became quiet but for the sounds of the engines and the sea.

Augusta stared obsessively at the trunk in which she had locked Micky. It had been carried up here on the back of a muscular porter. Augusta could not lift it, but she thought she could drag it. It had brass handles on the sides and leather straps top and bottom. She took hold of the leather strap on its top and pulled, tilting the trunk sideways. It tipped over and fell on its face. It made a loud bang. Micky began to shout again, and she covered the trunk with blankets once more. She waited to see if anyone would come to investigate the bang, but no one did. Micky stopped yelling.

She seized the strap again and pulled. It was very heavy, but she was able to move it a few inches at a time. After each tug she rested.

It took her ten minutes to drag the trunk to the cabin door. Then she put on her stockings, boots and fur coat, and opened the door.

There was no one around. The passengers were asleep, and if a crew member patrolled the decks she did not see him. The ship was lit by dim electric bulbs, and there were no stars.

She dragged the trunk through the cabin door and rested again.

After that it was a little easier, for the deck was slippery with snow. Ten minutes later she had the trunk up against the rail.

The next part was more difficult. Taking hold of the strap, she lifted one end of the trunk and tried to bring it upright. On her first try she dropped it. The sound it made when it hit the deck seemed very loud, but once again no one came to investigate: there were intermittent noises all the time on the ship, as its funnels belched smoke and its hull cleaved the waves.

The second time she made a more determined effort. She got down on one knee, seized the strap with both hands, and slowly heaved up. When she had the trunk tilted at a forty-five-degree angle Micky moved inside, his weight shifting to the bottom end, and suddenly it became easy to push the whole thing upright.

She tilted it again so that it was leaning on the rail.

The last part was the hardest of all. She bent down and took hold of the lower strap. She took a deep breath and lifted.

She was not taking the whole weight of the trunk, for the other end was resting on the rail; but still it took all her strength to lift the thing an inch off the deck, and then her cold fingers slipped and she let it fall back.

She was not going to be able to manage it.

She rested, feeling drained and numb. But she could not give up. She had struggled so hard to bring the trunk this far. She had to try again.

She bent down and seized the strap again.

Micky spoke again. “Augusta, what are you doing?”

She answered in a low, clear voice. “Remember how Peter Middleton died,” she said.

She paused. There was no sound from inside the trunk.

“You’re going to die the same way,” she said.

“No, please, Augusta, my love,” he said.

“The water will be colder, and it will taste salty as it fills your lungs; but you’ll know the terror he knew as death closes its fist over your heart.”

He began to shout. “Help! Help! Someone, save me!”

Augusta grabbed the strap and lifted with all her strength. The bottom of the trunk came up off the deck. As Micky realized what was happening his muffled shouts became louder and more terrified, sounding above the engines and the sea. Soon someone would come. Augusta gave another heave. She lifted the foot of the trunk to chest level and stopped, exhausted, feeling she could do no more. Frantic scrabbling sounds came from inside as Micky tried hopelessly to get out. She closed her eyes, clenched her jaw, and pushed. As she strained with all her might, she felt something give way in her back, and she cried out with pain, but she kept lifting. The bottom of the trunk was now higher than the top, and it slid forward on the rail several inches; but it stopped. Augusta’s back was in agony. Any moment now a passenger would be roused from a half-drunk sleep by Micky’s cries. She knew she could only lift one more time. This had to be final. She gathered her strength, closed her eyes, gritted her teeth against the pain in her back, and heaved.

The trunk slid slowly forward on the rail, then fell into space.

Micky screamed a long scream that died into the wind.

Augusta slumped forward, leaning on the rail to ease the agony in her back, and watched the big trunk fall slowly, tumbling end over end through the air with the snowflakes. It hit the water with a mighty splash and went under.

A moment later it surfaced. It would float for some time, Augusta thought. The pain in her back was excruciating, and she longed to lie down, but she stayed at the rail, watching the trunk bobbing on the swell. Then it disappeared from sight.

She heard a male voice beside her. “I thought I heard someone crying for help,” it said worriedly.

Augusta composed herself rapidly and turned to see a polite young man in a silk dressing gown and a scarf. “It was me,” she told him, forcing a smile. “I had a nightmare and woke myself up shouting. I came out here to clear my head.”

“Ah. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Quite sure. You’re very kind.”

“Well. Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

He went back into his cabin.

Augusta looked down at the sea. In a moment she would stagger to her bed, but she wanted to look at the sea a little longer. The trunk would fill up slowly, she thought, as water squirted in through the narrow gaps. The level would rise up Micky’s body inch by inch as he fought to open the trunk. When it covered his nose and mouth he would hold his breath for as long as he could. But in the end he would give a great involuntary gasp, and the cold salty sea would pour into his mouth and down his throat, filling his lungs. He would squirm and fight for a little longer, racked by pain and terror; and then his movements would become feeble and stop, everything would slowly turn black, and he would die.

HUGH WAS DESPERATELY WEARY when at last his train pulled into Chingford station and he got off. Although he was looking forward to his bed, he stopped on the bridge over the line, at the spot where Micky had shot Tonio that morning. He took off his hat and stood there for a minute, bareheaded in the snow, remembering his friend as a boy and a man. Then he walked on.

He wondered how all this would affect the Foreign Office and their attitude to Cordova. Micky had so far evaded the police. But whether Micky was caught or not, Hugh could exploit the fact that he had witnessed the killing. Newspapers would love to publish his moment-by-moment account. The public would be outraged by a foreign diplomat committing murder in broad daylight, and members of Parliament would probably demand some kind of rebuke. The fact that Micky was the murderer might well spoil Papa Miranda’s chances of getting recognized by the British government. The Foreign Office might be persuaded to support the Silva family to punish the Mirandas — and to get compensation for British investors in the Santamaria Harbor Corporation.

The more he thought about it, the more optimistic he felt.

He hoped Nora would be asleep when he got home. He did not want to hear what a miserable day she had had, stuck in this remote village with no one to help her take care of three rowdy boys. He just wanted to slip between the sheets and close his eyes. Tomorrow he would think over the events of today and figure out where they left him and his bank.

He was disappointed to see a light on behind the curtains as he walked up the garden path. That meant she was still up. He let himself in with his key and went into the front room.