The Main Death and This King Business (8 page)

“This pig!” he said again.

Lionel Grantham stirred uneasily on his chair. His face was white, his eyes dark.

V
A FLOGGING

Leaning his left elbow on the chest of drawers again, playing with his mustache-end with his left hand, standing indolently cross-legged, Einarson began to flog the soldier. His right arm raised the whip, brought the lash whistling down to the soldier's back, raised it again, brought it down again. It was especially nasty because he was not hurrying himself, not exerting himself. He meant to flog the man until he got what he wanted, and he was saving his strength so that he could keep it up as long as necessary.

With the first blow the terror went out of the soldier's eyes. They dulled sullenly and his lips stopped twitching. He stood woodenly under the beating, staring over Grantham's head. The officer's face had also become expressionless. Anger was gone. He showed no pleasure in his work, not even that of relieving his feelings. His air was the air of a stoker shoveling coal, of a carpenter sawing a board, of a stenographer typing a letter. Here was a job to be done in a workmanlike manner, without haste or excitement or wasted effort, without either enthusiasm or repulsion. It was nasty, but it taught me respect for this Colonel Einarson.

Lionel Grantham sat on the edge of his folding chair, staring at the soldier with white-ringed eyes. I offered the boy a cigarette, making an unnecessarily complicated operation out of lighting it and my own—to break up his score-keeping. He had been counting the strokes, and that wasn't good for him.

The whip curved up, swished down, cracked on the naked back—up, down, up, down. Einarson's florid face took on the damp glow of moderate exercise. The soldier's gray face was a lump of putty. He was facing Grantham and me. We couldn't see the marks of the whip.

Grantham said something to himself in a whisper. Then he gasped:

“I can't stand this!”

Einarson didn't look around from his work.

“Don't stop it now,” I muttered. “We've gone this far.”

The boy got up unsteadily and went to the window, opened it and stood looking out into the rainy night. Einarson paid no attention to him. He was putting more weight into the whipping now, standing with his feet far apart, leaning forward a little, his left hand on his hip, his right carrying the whip up and down with increasing swiftness.

The soldier swayed and a sob shook his hairy chest. The whip cut—cut—cut. I looked at my watch. Einarson had been at it for forty minutes, and looked good for the rest of the night.

The soldier moaned and turned toward the officer. Einarson did not break the rhythm of his stroke. The lash cut the man's shoulder. I caught a glimpse of his back—raw meat. Einarson spoke sharply. The soldier jerked himself to attention again, his left side to the officer. The whip went on with its work—up, down, up, down, up, down.

The soldier flung himself on hands and knees at Einarson's feet and began to pour out sob-broken words. Einarson looked down at him, listening carefully, holding the lash of the whip in his left hand, the butt still in his right. When the man had finished, Einarson asked questions, got answers, nodded, and the soldier stood up. Einarson put a friendly hand on the man's shoulder, turned him around, looked at his mangled red back, and said something in a sympathetic tone. Then he called the orderly in and gave him some orders. The soldier, moaning as he bent, picked up his discarded clothes and followed the orderly out of the bedroom.

Einarson tossed the whip up on top of the chest of drawers and crossed to the bed to pick up his tunic. A leather pocketbook slid from an inside pocket to the floor. When he recovered it, a soiled newspaper clipping slipped out and floated across to my feet. I picked it up and gave it back to him—a photograph of a man, the Shah of Persia, according to the French caption under it.

“That pig!” he said—meaning the soldier, not the Shah—as he put on his tunic and buttoned it. “He has a son, also until last week of my troops. This son drinks too much of wine. I reprimand him. He is insolent. What kind of army is it without discipline? Pigs! I knock this pig down, and he produces a knife. Ach! What kind of army is it where a soldier may attack his officers with knives? After I—personally, you comprehend—have finished with this swine, I have him court-martialed and sentenced to twenty years in the prison. This elder pig, his father, does not like that. So he will shoot me to-night. Ach! What kind of army is that?”

Lionel Grantham came away from his window. His young face was haggard. His young eyes were ashamed of the haggardness of his face.

Colonel Einarson made me a stiff bow and a formal speech of thanks for spoiling the soldier's aim—which I hadn't—and saving his life. Then the conversation turned to my presence in Muravia. I told them briefly that I had held a captain's commission in the military intelligence department during the war. That much was the truth, and that was all the truth I gave them. After the war—so my fairy tale went—I had decided to stay in Europe, had taken my discharge there and had drifted around, doing odd jobs at one place and another. I was vague, trying to give them the impression that those odd jobs had not always, or usually, been lady-like. I gave them more definite—though still highly imaginary—details of my recent employment with a French syndicate, admitting that I had come to this corner of the world because I thought it better not to be seen in Western Europe for a year or so.

“Nothing I could be jailed for,” I said, “but things could be made uncomfortable for me. So I roamed over into
Mitteleuropa
, learned that I might find a connection in Belgrade, got there to find it a false alarm, and came on down here. I may pick up something here. I've got a date with the Minister of Police to-morrow. I think I can show him where he can use me.”

“The gross Djudakovich!” Einarson said with frank contempt. “You find him to your liking?”

“No work, no eat,” I said.

“Einarson,” Grantham began quickly, hesitated, said: “Couldn't we—don't you think—” and didn't finish.

The Colonel frowned at him, saw I had noticed the frown, cleared his throat, and addressed me in a gruffly hearty tone:

“Perhaps it would be well if you did not too speedily engage yourself to this fat minister. It may be—there is a possibility that we know of another field where your talents might find employment more to your taste—and profit.”

I let the matter stand there, saying neither yes nor no.

VI
CARDS ON THE TABLE

We returned to the city in the officer's car. He and Grantham sat in the rear. I sat beside the soldier who drove. The boy and I got out at our hotel. Einarson said good night and was driven away as if he were in a hurry.

“It's early,” Grantham said as we went indoors. “Come up to my room.”

I stopped at my own room to wash off the mud I'd gathered around the lumber stack and to change my clothes, and then went up with him. He had three rooms on the top floor, overlooking the plaza.

He set out a bottle of whisky, a syphon, lemons, cigars and cigarettes, and we drank, smoked, and talked. Fifteen or twenty minutes of the talk came from no deeper than the mouth on either side—comments on the night's excitement, our opinions of Stefania, and so on. Each of us had something to say to the other. Each was weighing the other in before he said it.

I decided to put mine over first.

“Colonel Einarson was spoofing us to-night,” I said.

“Spoofing?” The boy sat up straight, blinking.

“His soldier shot for money, not revenge.”

“You mean—?” His mouth stayed open.

“I mean the little dark man you ate with gave the soldier money.”

“Mahmoud! Why, that's— You are sure?”

“I saw it.”

He looked at his feet, yanking his gaze away from mine as if he didn't want me to see that he thought I was lying.

“The soldier may have lied to Einarson,” he said presently, still trying to keep me from knowing he thought me the liar. “I can understand some of the language, as spoken by the educated Muravians, but not the country dialect the soldier talked, so I don't know what he said, but he may have lied, you know.”

“Not a chance,” I said. “I'd bet my pants he told the truth.”

He continued to stare at his outstretched feet, fighting to hold his face cool and calm. Part of what he was thinking slipped out in words:

“Of course, I owe you a tremendous debt for saving us from—”

“You don't. You owe that to the soldier's bad aim. I didn't jump him till his gun was empty.”

“But—” His young eyes were wide before mine, and if I had pulled a machine gun out of my cuff he wouldn't have been surprised. He suspected me of everything on the blotter. I cursed myself for overplaying my hand. There was nothing to do now but spread the cards.

“Listen, Grantham. Most of what I told you and Einarson about myself is the bunk. Your uncle, Senator Walbourn, sent me down here. You were supposed to be in Paris. A lot of your dough was being shipped to Belgrade. The Senator was leery of the racket, didn't know whether you were playing a game or somebody was putting over a fast one. I went to Belgrade, traced you here, and came here, to run into what I ran into. I've traced the money to you, have talked to you. That's all I was hired to do. My job's done—unless there's anything I can do for you now.”

“Not a thing,” he said very calmly. “Thanks, just the same.” He stood up, yawning. “Perhaps I'll see you again before you leave for the United States.”

“Yeah.” It was easy for me to make my voice match his in indifference: I hadn't a cargo of rage to hide. “Good night.”

I went down to my room, got into bed, and, not having anything to think about, went to sleep.

VII
LIONEL'S PLANS

I slept till late the next morning and then had breakfast in my room. I was in the middle of it when knuckles tapped my door. A stocky man in a wrinkled gray uniform, set off with a short, thick sword, came in, saluted, gave me a square white envelope, looked hungrily at the American cigarettes on my table, smiled and took one when I offered them, saluted again, and went out.

The square envelope had my name written on it in a small, very plain and round, but not childish, handwriting. Inside was a note from the same pen:

The Minister of Police regrets that departmental affairs prevent his receiving you this afternoon.

It was signed “Romaine Frankl,” and had a postscript:

If it's convenient for you to call on me after nine this evening, perhaps I can save you some time.

R. F.

Below this an address was written.

I put the note in my pocket and called: “Come in,” to another set of knocking knuckles.

Lionel Grantham entered.

His face was pale and set.

“Good morning,” I said, making it cheerfully casual, as if I attached no importance to last night's rumpus. “Had breakfast yet? Sit down, and—”

“Oh, yes, thanks. I've eaten.” His handsome red face was reddening. “About last night—I was—”

“Forget it! Nobody likes to have his business pried into.”

“That's good of you,” he said, twisting his hat in his hands. He cleared his throat. “You said you'd—ah—do—ah—help me if I wished.”

“Yeah. I will. Sit down.”

He sat down, coughed, ran his tongue over his lips.

“You haven't said anything to any one about last night's affair with the soldier?”

“No,” I said.

“Will you not say anything about it?”

“Why?”

He looked at the remains of my breakfast and didn't answer. I lit a cigarette to go with my coffee and waited. He stirred uneasily in his chair and, without looking up, asked:

“You know Mahmoud was killed last night?”

“The man in the restaurant with you and Einarson?”

“Yes. He was shot down in front of his house a little after midinght.”

“Einarson?”

The boy jumped.

“No!” he cried. “Why do you say that?”

“Einarson knew Mahmoud had paid the soldier to wipe him out, so he plugged Mahmoud, or had him plugged. Did you tell him what I told you last night?”

“No.” He blushed. “It's embarrassing to have one's family sending guardians after one.”

I made a guess:

“He told you to offer me the job he spoke of last night, and to caution me against talking about the soldier. Didn't he?”

“Y-e-s.”

“Well, go ahead and offer.”

“But he doesn't know you're—”

“What are you going to do, then?” I asked. “If you don't make me the offer, you'll have to tell him why.”

“Oh, Lord, what a mess!” he said wearily, putting elbows on knees, face between palms, looking at me with the harried eyes of a boy finding life too complicated.

He was ripe for talk. I grinned at him, finished my coffee, and waited.

“You know I'm not going to be led home by an ear,” he said with a sudden burst of rather childish defiance.

“You know I'm not going to try to take you,” I soothed him.

We had some more silence after that. I smoked while he held his head and worried. After a while he squirmed in his chair, sat stiffly upright, and his face turned perfectly crimson from hair to collar.

“I'm going to ask for your help,” he said, pretending he didn't know he was blushing. “I'm going to tell you the whole foolish thing. If you laugh, I'll— You won't laugh, will you?”

“If it's funny I probably will, but that needn't keep me from helping you.”

“Yes, do laugh! It's silly! You ought to laugh!” He took a deep breath. “Did you ever—did you ever think you'd like to be a—” he stopped, looked at me with a desperate sort of shyness, pulled himself together, and almost shouted the last word—“king?”