Poliakov shrugged his shoulders one at a time like a boxer loosening his muscles and moved forward a step to confront Lee directly.
'I think you had better leave, Scoresby,' he said.
'Just on my way, Senator. Happy to leave.'
'Don't call me by that title!'
'Oh, I beg your pardon. When I see a swaggering blowhard, I naturally assume he's a Senator. Easy mistake to make. Good evening, miss.'
Olga had by now realized that the atmosphere had changed, and her lovely dim face looked from Lee to her father and then to Morton and back to Lee. No one took any notice except Lee, who smiled with a pang of regret and turned away. But hers wasn't the last face he saw in the room, and neither was Morton's. Standing at the edge of the crowd was Oskar Sigurdsson, poet and journalist, and his expression was vivid with excitement and expectation.
'So we've decided what side we're on?' Hester said, back in the chilly little bedroom at the boardinghouse.
'Hell, Hester,' Lee said, flinging his hat into the corner of the room, 'why can't I keep my damn mouth shut?'
'No choice. That bastard knew exactly where we'd seen him before.'
'You reckon?'
'No doubt about it.'
Lee pulled off his boots and took the revolver out of the holster at his belt. He flicked the cylinder, found it too stiff to move, and shook his head in irritation: no oil. Since that soaking they'd had in the rainstorm he hadn't had occasion to use the weapon, except as a hammer, and the damn thing had seized tight. And here he was on an island that stank of every conceivable kind of oil, and he didn't have a drop to loosen it with.
He put the gun beside the bed and lay down to sleep, with Hester crouching restless on the pillow.
Pierre McConville was a hired killer with at least twenty murders to his name. Lee had come across him in the Dakota country. In the summer before he won his balloon in the poker game, Lee was working for a rancher called Lloyd, and there was a boundary dispute that erupted into a minor war, with half a dozen men killed before it was settled. In the course of it Mr. Lloyd's enemy hired McConville to pick off Lloyd's men one by one. He had killed three men by the time the Rapid City gendarmes caught up with him. He shot two of the ranch hands from a distance, undetected, and then he made a mistake: he provoked a quarrel with young Jimmy Partlett, Lloyd's nephew, over cards and drink, and shot him dead in front of witnesses who could be relied on to testify that the dead man had started it. The mistake was that one of the witnesses changed his testimony, and told the truth.
McConville allowed himself to be arrested with the air of someone fulfilling a minor bureaucratic formality. He was tried for murder in front of a corrupted and terrified jury, and acquitted; following which he promptly shot the truthful witness dead in the street, with no attempt to hide what he was doing, as the gendarmes were riding out of town pleading urgent business in Rapid City. But that was another mistake. With the utmost reluctance the gendarmes turned round and arrested him again, after a brief exchange of lead projectiles, and this time set out to take him to the capital of the province. They never got there. In fact they were never seen again. It was assumed that McConville had somehow killed the officers and made off, and soon afterwards Mr. Lloyd, sickened by the whole business, sold his ranch cheaply to the disputatious neighbor and retired to Chicagoa.
Lee had appeared in the witness box during the trial, because he had been present when one of the ranch hands was killed, and he was asked to testify to the character of young Jimmy Partlett too. McConville's bony face and lean frame, his deep-set black eyes and giant hands, were unmistakable, and the way he stared across the court at the witnesses for the prosecution— with a measuring sort of look, a look of cold, slow, brutal calculation with nothing human in it at all—was unforgettable.
And now here he was on Novy Odense, guarding a politician, and Lee had been damn fool enough to provoke him.
In the middle of the night, Lee got up to visit the bathroom. As he felt his way down the corridor in the dark, wrapped in his long coat against the cold, Hester whispered, 'Lee—listen . . .'
He stood still. From behind the door on his left there came the sound of muffled, passionate sobbing.
'Miss Lund?' Lee whispered.
'That's her,' Hester said.
Lee didn't like to leave anyone in distress, but he considered it might distress her even more to know that her trouble had been overheard. He continued on his way, shivering, and then tiptoed back, hoping the floor wouldn't creak and disturb her.
But when he reached his door he heard the sound of a handle turning behind him, and a narrow beam of candlelight shone into the corridor as a door opened.
He turned to see Miss Lund in a nightgown, her hair unpinned, her eyes red, and her cheeks wet. Her expression was inscrutable.
'Apologies if I disturbed you, Miss Lund,' he said quietly. He looked down so as not to embarrass her.
'Mr. Scoresby . . . Mr. Scoresby, I hoped it was you. Forgive me, but may I ask for your advice?' she said, and then, awkwardly, 'There is no one else I can . . . I think you are a gentleman.'
Her voice was low—he'd forgotten that; and it was steady and sweet.
'Why, of course you may,' Lee said.
She bit her lip and looked up and down the empty corridor.
'Not here,' she said. 'Please could you . . . ?'
She stood aside, opening her door further.
They were both speaking very quietly. Lee picked up Hester and entered the narrow bedroom. It was as cold as his, but it smelt of lavender rather than smokeleaf, and her clothes were neatly folded and hung instead of being strewn across the floor.
