The Main Death and This King Business

by Dashiell Hammett

  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?”

  “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 have been—will be—for the good of the country. The offer they made me was that if I would finance the revolution I could be—could be king.

  “Now wait! The Lord knows it’s bad enough, but don’t think it sillier than it is. The money I have would go a long way in this small, impoverished country. Then, with an American ruler, it would be easier—it ought to be—for the country to borrow in America or England. Then there’s the political angle. Muravia is surrounded by four countries, any one of which is strong enough to annex it if it wants. Even Albania, now that it is a protégé of Italy’s. Muravia has stayed independent so far only because of the jealousy among its stronger neighbors and because it hasn’t a seaport. But with the balance shifting—with Greece, Italy, and Albania allied against Jugoslavia for control of the Balkans—it’s only a matter of time before something will happen here, as it now stands.

  “But with an American ruler—and if loans in America and England were arranged, so we had their capital invested here—there would be a change in the situation. Muravia would be in a stronger position, would have at least some slight claim on the friendship of stronger powers. That would be enough to make the neighbors cautious.

  “Albania, shortly after the war, thought of the same thing, and offered its crown to one of the wealthy American Bonapartes. He didn’t want it. He was an older man and had already made his career. I did want my chance when it came. There were”—some of the embarrassment that had left him during his talking returned—“there were kings back in the Grantham lines. We trace our descent from James the Fourth, of Scotland. I wanted—it was nice to think of carrying the line back to a crown.

  “We weren’t planning a violent revolution. Einarson holds the army. We simply had to use the army to force the Deputies—those who were not already with us—to change the form of government and elect me king. My descent would make it easier than if the candidate were one who hadn’t royal blood in him. It would give me a certain standing in spite—in spite of my being young, and—and the people really want a king, especially the peasants. They don’t think they’re really entitled to call themselves a nation without one. A president means nothing to them—he’s simply an ordinary man like themselves. So, you see, I— It was— Go ahead, laugh! You’ve heard enough to know how silly it is!” His voice was high-pitched, screechy. “Laugh! Why don’t you laugh?”

  “What for?” I asked. “It’s crazy, God knows, but not silly. Your judgment was gummy, but your nerve’s all right. You’ve been talking as if this were all dead and buried. Has it flopped?”

  “No, it hasn’t,” he said slowly, frowning, “but I keep thinking it has. Mahmoud’s death shouldn’t change the situation, yet I’ve a feeling it’s all over.”

  “Much of your money sunk?”

  “I don’t mind that. But—well—suppose the American newspapers get hold of the story, and they probably will. You know how ridiculous they could make it. And then the others who’ll know about it—my mother and uncle and the trust company. I won’t pretend I’m not ashamed to face them. And then—” His face got red and shiny. “And then Valeska—Miss Radnjak—her father was to have led the revolution. He did lead it—until he was murdered. She is—I never could be good enough for her.” He said this in a peculiarly idiotic tone of awe. “But I’ve hoped that perhaps by carrying on her father’s work, and if I had something besides mere money to offer her—if I had done something—made a place for myself—perhaps she’d—you know.”

  I said: “Uh-huh.”

  “What shall I do?” he asked earnestly. “I can’t run away. I’ve got to see it through for her, and to keep my own self-respect. But I’ve got that feeling that it’s all over. You offered to help me. Help me. Tell me what I ought to do!”

  “You’ll do what I tell you—if I promise to bring you through with a clean face?” I asked, just as if steering millionaire descendants of Scotch kings through Balkan plots were an old story to me, merely part of the day’s work.

  “Yes!”

  “What’s the next thing on the revolutionary program?”

  “There’s a meeting to-night. I’m to bring you.”

  “What time?”

  “Midnight.”

  “I’ll meet you here at eleven-thirty. How much am I supposed to know?”

  “I was to tell you about the plot, and to offer you whatever inducements were necessary to bring you in. There was no definite arrangement as to how much or how little I was to tell you.”

  VIII

  AN ENLIGHTENING INTERVIEW

  At nine-thirty that night a cab set me down in front of the address the Minister of Police’s secretary had given in her note. It was a small two-story house in a badly paved street on the city’s eastern edge. A middle-aged woman in very clean, stiffly starched, ill-fitting clothes opened the door for me. Before I could speak, Romaine Frankl, in a sleeveless pink satin gown, floated into sight behind the woman, smiling, holding out a small hand to me.

  “I didn’t know you’d come,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked, with a great show of surprise at the notion that any man would ignore an invitation from her, while the servant closed the door and took my coat and hat.

  We were standing in a dull-rose-papered room, finished and carpeted with oriental richness. There was one discordant note in the room—an immense leather chair.

 
“We’ll go upstairs,” the girl said, and addressed the servant with words that meant nothing to me, except the name Marya. “Or would you”—she turned to me and English again—“prefer beer to wine?”

  I said I wouldn’t, and we went upstairs, the girl climbing ahead of me with her effortless appearance of being carried. She took me into a black, white, and gray room that was very daintily furnished with as few pieces as possible, its otherwise perfect feminine atmosphere spoiled by the presence of another of the big padded chairs.

  The girl sat on a gray divan, pushing away a stack of French and Austrian magazines to make a place for me beside her. Through an open door I could see the painted foot of a Spanish bed, a short stretch of purple counterpane, and half of a purple-curtained window.

  “His Excellency was very sorry,” the girl began, and stopped.

  I was looking—not staring—at the big leather chair. I knew she had stopped because I was looking at it, so I wouldn’t take my eyes away.

  “Vasilije,” she said, more distinctly than was really necessary, “was very sorry he had to postpone this afternoon’s appointment. The assassination of the President’s secretary—you heard of it?—made us put everything else aside for the moment.”

  “Oh, yes, that fellow Mahmoud—” slowly shifting my eyes from the leather chair to her. “Found out who killed him?”

  Her black-ringed, black-centered eyes seemed to study me from a distance while she shook her head, jiggling the nearly black curls.

  “Probably Einarson,” I said.

  “You haven’t been idle.” Her lower lids lifted when she smiled, giving her eyes a twinkling effect.

  The servant Marya came in with wine and fruit, put them on a small table beside the divan, and went away. The girl poured wine and offered me cigarettes in a silver box. I passed them up for one of my own. She smoked a king-size Egyptian cigarette—big as a cigar. It accentuated the smallness of her face and hand—which is probably why she favored that size.

  “What sort of revolution is this they’ve sold my boy?” I asked.

  “It was a very nice one until it died.”