The Main Death and This King Business (10 page)

“Vasilije,” she told me, sipping wine between phrases, “is a peculiar man, an original. He is interested in nothing except his comfort. Comfort to him means enormous amounts of food and drink and at least sixteen hours of sleep each day, and not having to move around much during his eight waking hours. Outside of that he cares for nothing. To guard his comfort he has made the police department a model one. They've got to do their work smoothly and neatly. If they don't, crimes will go unpunished, people will complain, and those complaints might disturb His Excellency. He might even have to shorten his afternoon nap to attend a conference or meeting. That wouldn't do. So he insists on an organization that will keep crime down to a minimum, and catch the perpetrators of that minimum. And he gets it.”

“Catch Radnjak's assassin?”

“Killed resisting arrest ten minutes after the murder.”

“One of Mahmoud's men?”

The girl emptied her glass, frowning at me, her lifted lower lids putting a twinkle in the frown.

“You're not so bad,” she said slowly, “but now it's my turn to ask: Why did you say Einarson killed Mahmoud?”

“Einarson knew Mahmoud had tried to have him and Grantham shot earlier in the evening.”

“Really?”

“I saw a soldier take money from Mahmoud, ambush Einarson and Grantham, and miss 'em with six shots.”

She clicked a finger-nail against her teeth.

“That's not like Mahmoud,” she objected, “to be seen paying for his murders.”

“Probably not,” I agreed. “But suppose his hired man decided he wanted more pay, or maybe he'd only been paid part of his wages. What better way to collect than to pop out and ask for it in the street a few minutes before he was scheduled to turn the trick?”

She nodded, and spoke as if thinking aloud:

“Then they've got all they expect to get from Grantham, and each was trying to hog it by removing the other.”

“Where you go wrong,” I told her, “is in thinking that the revolution is dead.”

“But Mahmoud wouldn't, for three million dollars, conspire to remove himself from power.”

“Right! Mahmoud thought he was putting on a show for the boy. When he learned it wasn't a show—learned Einarson was in earnest—he tried to have him knocked off.”

“Perhaps.” She shrugged her smooth bare shoulders. “But now you're guessing.”

“Yes? Einarson carries a picture of the Shah of Persia. It's worn, as if he handled it a lot. The Shah of Persia is a Russian soldier who went in there after the war, worked himself up until he had the army in his hands, became dictator, then Shah. Correct me if I'm wrong. Einarson is an Icelandic soldier who came in here after the war and has worked himself up until he's got the army in his hands. If he carries the Shah's picture and looks at it often enough to have it shabby from handling, does it mean he hopes to follow his example? Or doesn't it?”

Romaine Frankl got up and roamed around the room, moving a chair two inches here, adjusting an ornament there, shaking out the folds of a window-curtain, pretending a picture wasn't quite straight on the wall, moving from place to place with the appearance of being carried—a graceful small girl in pink satin.

She stopped in front of a mirror, moved a little to one side so she could see my reflection in it, and fluffed her curls while saying:

“Very well, Einarson wants a revolution. What will your boy do?”

“What I tell him.”

“What will you tell him?”

“Whatever pays best. I want to take him home with all his money.”

She left the mirror and came over to me, rumpled my hair, kissed my mouth, and sat on my knees, holding my face between small warm hands.

“Give me a revolution, nice man!” Her eyes were black with excitement, her voice throaty, her mouth laughing, her body trembling. “I detest Einarson. Use him and break him for me. But give me a revolution!”

I laughed, kissed her, and turned her around on my lap so her head would fit against my shoulder.

“We'll see,” I promised. “I'm to meet the folks at midnight. Maybe I'll know then.”

“You'll come back after the meeting?”

“Try to keep me away!”

X
EINARSON IN CONTROL

I got back to the hotel at eleven-thirty, loaded my hips with gun and blackjack, and went upstairs to Grantham's suite. He was alone, but said he expected Einarson. He seemed glad to see me.

“Tell me, did Mahmoud go to any of the meetings?” I asked.

“No. His part in the revolution was hidden even from most of those in it. There were reasons why he couldn't appear.”

“There were. The chief one was that everybody knew he didn't want any revolts, didn't want anything but money.”

Grantham chewed his lower lip and said: “Oh, Lord, what a mess!”

Colonel Einarson arrived, in a dinner coat, but very much the soldier, the man of action. His hand-clasp was stronger than it needed to be. His little dark eyes were hard and bright.

“You are ready, gentlemen?” he addressed the boy and me as if we were a multitude. “Excellent! We shall go now. There will be difficulties to-night. Mahmoud is dead. There will be those of our friends who will ask: ‘Why now revolt?' Ach!” He yanked a corner of his flowing dark mustache. “I will answer that. Good souls, our confrères, but given to timidity. There is no timidity under capable leadership. You shall see!” And he yanked his mustache again. This military gent seemed to be feeling Napoleonic this evening. But I didn't write him off as a musical-comedy revolutionist—I remembered what he had done to the soldier.

We left the hotel, got into a machine, rode seven blocks, and went into a small hotel on a side street. The porter bowed to the belt when he opened the door for Einarson. Grantham and I followed the officer up a flight of stairs, down a dim hall. A fat, greasy man in his fifties came bowing and clucking to meet us. Einarson introduced him to me—the proprietor of the hotel. He took us into a low-ceilinged room where thirty or forty men got up from chairs and looked at us through tobacco smoke.

Einarson made a short, very formal speech which I couldn't understand, introducing me to the gang. I ducked my head at them and found a seat beside Grantham. Einarson sat on his other side. Everybody else sat down again, in no especial order.

Colonel Einarson smoothed his mustache and began to talk to this one and that, shouting over the clamor of other voices when necessary. In an undertone, Lionel Grantham pointed out the more important conspirators to me—a dozen or more members of the Chamber of Deputies, a banker, a brother of the Minister of Finance (supposed to represent that official), half a dozen officers (all in civilian clothes tonight), three professors from the university, the president of a labor union, a newspaper publisher and his editor, the secretary of a students' club, a politician from out in the country, and a handful of small business men.

The banker, a white-bearded fat man of sixty, stood up and began a speech, staring intently at Einarson. He spoke deliberately, softly, but with a faintly defiant air. The Colonel didn't let him get far.

“Ach!” Einarson barked and reared up on his feet. None of the words he said meant anything to me, but they took the pinkness out of the banker's cheeks and brought uneasiness into the eyes around us.

“They want to call it off,” Grantham whispered in my ear. “They won't go through with it now. I know they won't.”

The meeting became rough. A lot of people were yelping at once, but nobody talked down Einarson's bellow. Everybody was standing up, either very red or very white in the face. Fists, fingers, and heads were shaking. The Minister of Finance's brother—a slender, elegantly dressed man with a long, intelligent face—took off his nose glasses so savagely that they broke in half, screamed words at Einarson, spun on his heel, and walked to the door.

He pulled it open and stopped.

The hall was full of green uniforms. Soldiers leaned against the wall, sat on their heels, stood in little groups. They hadn't guns—only bayonets in scabbards at their sides. The Minister of Finance's brother stood very still at the door, looking at the soldiers.

A brown-whiskered, dark-skinned, big man, in coarse clothes and heavy boots, glared with red-rimmed eyes from the soldiers to Einarson, and took two heavy steps toward the Colonel. This was the country politician. Einarson blew out his lips and stepped forward to meet him. Those who were between them got out of the way.

Einarson roared and the countryman roared. Einarson made the most noise, but the countryman wouldn't stop on that account.

Colonel Einarson said: “Ach!” and spat in the countryman's face.

The countryman staggered back a step and one of his paws went under his brown coat. I stepped around Einarson and shoved the muzzle of my gun in the countryman's ribs.

Einarson laughed, called two soldiers into the room. They took the countryman by the arms and led him out. Somebody closed the door. Everybody sat down. Einarson made another speech. Nobody interrupted him. The white-whiskered banker made another speech. The Minister of Finance's brother rose to say half a dozen polite words, staring near-sightedly at Einarson, holding half of his broken glasses in each slender hand. Grantham, at a word from Einarson, got up and talked. Everybody listened very respectfully.

Einarson spoke again. Everybody got excited. Everybody talked at once. It went on for a long time. Grantham explained to me that the revolution would start early Thursday morning—it was now early Wednesday morning—and that the details were now being arranged for the last time. I doubted that anybody was going to know anything about the details, with all this hubbub going on. They kept it up until half-past three. The last couple of hours I spent dozing in a chair, tilted back against the wall in a corner.

Grantham and I walked back to our hotel after the meeting. He told me we were to gather in the plaza at four o'clock the next morning. It would be daylight by six, and by then the government buildings, the President, most of the officials and Deputies who were not on our side, would be in our hands. A meeting of the Chamber of Deputies would be held under the eyes of Einarson's troops, and everything would be done as swiftly and regularly as possible.

I was to accompany Grantham as a sort of bodyguard, which meant, I imagined, that both of us were to be kept out of the way as much as possible. That was all right with me.

I left Grantham at the fifth floor, went to my room, ran cold water over my face and hands, and then left the hotel again. There was no chance of getting a cab at this hour, so I set out afoot for Romaine Frankl's house.

I had a little excitement on the way.

A wind was blowing in my face as I walked. I stopped and put my back to it to light a cigarette. A shadow down the street slid over into a building's shadow. I was being tailed, and not very skillfully. I finished lighting my cigarette and went on my way until I came to a sufficiently dark side street. Turning into it, I stopped in a street-level dark doorway.

A man came puffing around the corner. My first crack at him went wrong—the blackjack took him too far forward, on the cheek. The second one got him fairly behind the ear. I left him sleeping there and went on to Romaine Frankl's house.

XI
A ROMANTIC INTERLUDE

The servant Marya, in a woolly gray bathrobe, opened the door and sent me up to the black, white, and gray room, where the Minister's secretary, still in the pink gown, was propped up among cushions on the divan. A tray full of cigarette butts showed how she'd been spending her time.

“Well?” she asked as I moved her over to make a seat for myself beside her.

“Thursday morning at four we revolute.”

“I knew you'd do it,” she said, patting my hand.

“It did itself, though there were a few minutes when I could have stopped it by simply knocking our Colonel behind the ear and letting the rest of them tear him apart. That reminds me—somebody's hired man tried to follow me here tonight.”

“What sort of a man?”

“Short, beefy, forty—just about my size and age.”

“But he didn't succeed?”

“I slapped him flat and left him sleeping there.”

She laughed and pulled my ear.

“That was Gopchek, our very best detective. He'll be furious.”

“Well, don't sic any more of 'em on me. You can tell him I'm sorry I had to hit him twice, but it was his own fault. He shouldn't have jerked his head back the first time.”

She laughed, then frowned, finally settling on an expression that held half of each.

“Tell me about the meeting,” she commanded.

I told her what I knew. When I had finished she pulled my head down to kiss me, and held it down to whisper:

“You do trust me, don't you, dear?”

“Yeah. Just as much as you trust me.”

“That's far from being enough,” she said, pushing my face away with a hand flat against my nose.

Marya came in with a tray of food. We pulled the table around in front of the divan and ate.

“I don't quite understand you,” Romaine said over a stalk of asparagus. “If you don't trust me why do you tell me things? As far as I know, you haven't done much lying to me. Why should you tell me the truth if you've no faith in me?”

“My susceptible nature,” I explained. “I'm so overwhelmed by your beauty and charm and one thing and another that I can't refuse you anything.”

“Don't!” she exclaimed, suddenly serious. “I've capitalized that beauty and charm in half the countries in the world. Don't say things like that to me ever again. It hurts, because—because—” She pushed her plate back, started to reach for a cigarette, stopped her hand in mid-air, and looked at me with disagreeable eyes. “I love you,” she said.

I took the hand that was hanging in the air, kissed the palm of it, and asked: