“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.
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 anyone 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?”
“Maybe. I’ve thought of a lot of things I’d like to be, and that might be one of ’em.”
“I met Mahmoud at an embassy ball in Constantinople,” he dashed into the story, dropping his words quickly as if glad to get rid of them. “He was President Semich’s secretary. We got quite friendly, though I wasn’t especially fond of him. He persuaded me to come here with him, and introduced me to Colonel Einarson. Then they—there’s really no doubt that the country is wretchedly governed. I wouldn’t have gone into it if that hadn’t been so.
“A revolution was being prepared. The man who was to lead it had just died. It was handicapped, too, by a lack of money. Believe this—it wasn’t all vanity that made me go into it. I believed—I still believe—that it would
