The Main Death and This King Business

by Dashiell Hammett

  “Ach!”—he didn’t take me seriously—“and after that?”

  “I don’t know. Think it over carefully, Einarson. I’ve deliberately put myself in a position where I’ve got to go ahead if you don’t give in. I can kill you before you do anything. I’m going to do it if you don’t give Grantham his crown now. Understand? I’ve got to. Maybe—most likely—your boys would get me afterward, but you’d be dead. If I back down now, you’ll certainly have me shot. So I can’t back down. If neither of us backs down, we’ll both take the leap. I’ve gone too far to weaken now. You’ll have to give in. Think it over. I can’t possibly be bluffing.”

  He thought it over. Some of the color washed out of his face, and a little rippling movement appeared in the flesh of his chin. I crowded him along by moving the raincoat enough to show him the muzzle of the gun that actually was there in my left hand. I had the big heaver—he hadn’t nerve enough to take a chance on dying in his hour of victory. A little earlier, a little later, I might have had to gun him. Now I had him.

  He strode across the platform to the desk at which the red-head sat, drove the red-head away with a snarl and a gesture, leaned over the desk, and bellowed down into the chamber. I stood a little to one side of him, a little behind, close enough so no one could get between us.

  No Deputy made a sound for a long minute after the Colonel’s bellow had stopped. Then one of the anti-revolutionists jumped to his feet and yelped bitterly. Einarson pointed a long brown finger at him. Two soldiers left their places by the wall, took the Deputy roughly by neck and arms, and dragged him out. Another Deputy stood up, talked, and was removed. After the fifth drag-out everything was peaceful.

  Einarson put a question and got a unanimous answer.

  He turned to me, his gaze darting from my face to my raincoat and back, and said: “That is done.”

  “We’ll have the coronation now,” I commanded. “Any kind of ceremony, so it’s short.”

  I missed most of the ceremony. I was busy keeping my hold on the florid officer, but finally Lionel Grantham was officially installed as Lionel the First, King of Muravia. Einarson and I congratulated him, or whatever it was, together. Then I took the officer aside.

  “We’re going to take a walk,” I said. “No foolishness. Take me out a side door.”

  I had him now, almost without needing the gun. He would have to deal quietly with Grantham and me—kill us without any publicity—if he were to avoid being laughed at—this man who had let himself be stuck up and robbed of a throne in the middle of his army.

  We went roundabout from the Administration Building to the Hotel of the Republic without meeting any one who knew us. The population was all in the plaza. We found the hotel deserted. I made him run the elevator to my floor, and herded him down the corridor to my room.

  I tried the door, found it unlocked, let go the knob, and told him to go in. He pushed the door open and stopped.

  Romaine Frankl was sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, sewing a button on one of my union suits.

  XV

  BARGAIN HUNTERS

  I prodded Einarson into the room and closed the door. Romaine looked at him and at the automatic that was now uncovered in my hand. With burlesque disappointment she said:

  “Oh, you haven’t killed him yet!”

  Colonel Einarson stiffened. He had an audience now—one that saw his humiliation. He was likely to do something. I’d have to handle him with gloves, or—maybe the other way was better. I kicked him on the ankle and snarled:

  “Get over in the corner and sit down!”

  He spun around to me. I jabbed the muzzle of the pistol in his face, grinding his lip between it and his teeth. When his head jerked back I slammed him in the belly with my other fist. He grabbed for air with a wide mouth. I pushed him over to a chair in one corner of the room.

  Romaine laughed and shook a finger at me, saying:

  “You’re a rowdy!”

  “What else can I do?” I protested, chiefly for my prisoner’s benefit. “When somebody’s watching him he gets notions that he’s a hero. I stuck him up and made him crown the boy king. But this bird has still got the army, which is the government. I can’t let go of him, or both Lionel the Once and I will gather lead. It hurts me more than it does him to have to knock him around, but I can’t help myself. I’ve got to keep him sensible.”

  “You’re doing wrong by him,” she replied. “You’ve got no right to mistreat him. The only polite thing for you to do is to cut his throat in a gentlemanly manner.”

  “Ach!” Einarson’s lungs were working again.

  “Shut up,” I yelled at him, “or I’ll come over there and knock you double-jointed.”

  He glared at me, and I asked the girl: “What’ll we do with him? I’d be glad to cut his throat, but the trouble is, his army might avenge him, and I’m not a fellow who likes to have anybody’s army avenging on him.”

  “We’ll give him to Vasilije,” she said, swinging her feet over the side of the bed and standing up. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs in Grantham’s suite, finishing his morning nap, I suppose.”

  Then she said lightly, casually, as if she hadn’t been thinking seriously about it: “So you had the boy crowned?”

  “I did. You want it for your Vasilije? Good! We want five million American dollars for our abdication. Grantham put in three to finance the doings, and he deserves a profit. He’s been regularly elected by the Deputies. He’s got no real backing here, but he can get support from the neighbors. Don’t overlook that. There are a couple of countries not a million miles away that would gladly send in an army to support a legitimate king in exchange for whatever concessions they liked. But Lionel the First isn’t unreasonable. He thinks it would be better for you to have a native ruler. All he asks is a decent provision from the government. Five million is low enough, and he’ll abdicate to-morrow. Tell that to your Vasilije.”

  She went around me to avoid passing between my gun and its target, stood on tiptoe to kiss my ear, and said:

  “You and your king are a couple of brigands. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She went out.

  “Ten millions,” Colonel Einarson said.

  “I can’t trust you now,” I said. “You’d pay us off in front of a firing squad.”

  “You can trust this pig Djudakovich?”

  “He’s got no reason to hate us.”

  “He will when he’s told of you and his Romaine.”

  I laughed.

  “Besides, how can he be king? Ach! What is his promise to pay if he cannot become in a position to pay? Suppose even I am dead. What will he do with my army? Ach! You have seen the pig! What kind of king is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I’m told he was a good Minister of Police because inefficiency would spoil his comfort. Maybe he’d be a good dictator or king for the same reason. I’ve seen him once. He’s a bloated mountain, but there’s nothing ridiculous about him. He weighs a ton, and moves without shaking the floor. I’d be afraid to try on him what I did to you.”

  This insult brought the soldier up on his feet, very tall and straight. His eyes burned at me while his mouth hardened in a thin line. He was going to make trouble for me before I was rid of him. I scowled at him and wondered what I should do next.

  The door opened and Vasilije Djudakovich came in, followed by the girl. I grinned at the fat Minister. He nodded without smiling. His little dark eyes moved coldly from me to Einarson.

  The girl said:

  “The government will give Lionel the First a draft for four million dollars, American, on either a Vienna or Athens bank, in exchange for his abdication.” She dropped her official tone and added: “That’s every nickel I could get out of him.”

  “You and your Vasilije ar
e a couple of rotten bargain hunters,” I complained. “But we’ll take it. We’ve got to have a special train to Saloniki—one that will put us across the border before the abdication goes into effect.”

  “That will be arranged,” she promised.

  “Good! Now to do all this your Vasilije has got to take the army away from Einarson. Can he do it?”

  “Ach!” Colonel Einarson reared up his head, swelled his thick chest. “That is precisely what he has got to do!”

  The fat man grumbled sleepily through his yellow beard. Romaine came over and put a hand on my arm.

  “Vasilije wants a private talk with Einarson. Leave it to him. We’ll go upstairs.”

  I agreed and offered Djudakovich my automatic. He paid no attention to the gun or to me. He was looking with a clammy sort of patience at the officer. I went out with the girl and closed the door. At the foot of the stairs I took her by the shoulders and turned her around.

  “Can I trust your Vasilije?” I asked.

  “Oh my dear, he could handle half a dozen Einarsons.”

  “I don’t mean that. He won’t try to gyp me?”

  She frowned at me, asking: “Why should you start worrying about that now?”

  “He doesn’t seem to be exactly all broken out with friendliness.”

  She laughed, and twisted her face around to bite at one of my hands on her shoulders.

  “He’s got ideals,” she explained. “He despises you and your king for a pair of adventurers who are making a profit out of his country’s troubles. That’s why he’s so sniffy. But he’ll keep his word.”

  Maybe he would, I thought, but he hadn’t given me his word—the girl had.

  “I’m going over to see His Majesty,” I said. “I won’t be long—then I’ll join you up in his suite. What was the idea of the sewing act? I had no buttons off.”

  “You did,” she contradicted me, rummaging in my pocket for cigarettes. “I pulled one off when one of our men told me you and Einarson were headed this way. I thought it would look domestic.”

  XVI

  LIONEL REX

  I found my king in a wine and gold drawing-room in the Executive Residence, surrounded by Muravia’s socially and politically ambitious. Uniforms were still in the majority, but a sprinkling of civilians had finally got to him, along with their wives and daughters. He was too occupied to see me for a few minutes, so I stood around, looking the folks over. Particularly one—a tall girl in black, who stood apart from the others, at a window.

  I noticed her first because she was beautiful in face and body, and then I studied her more closely because of the expression in the brown eyes with which she watched the new king. If ever anybody looked proud of anybody else, this girl did of Grantham. The way she stood there, alone, by the window, and looked at him—he would have had to be at least a combination of Apollo, Socrates, and Alexander to deserve half of it. Valeska Radnjak, I supposed.

  I looked at the boy. His face was proud and flushed, and every two seconds turned toward the girl at the window while he listened to the jabbering of the worshipful group around him. I knew he wasn’t any Apollo-Socrates-Alexander, but he managed to look the part. He had found a spot in the world that he liked. I was half sorry he couldn’t hang on to it, but my regrets didn’t keep me from deciding that I had wasted enough time.

  I pushed through the crowd toward him. He recognized me with the eyes of a park sleeper being awakened from sweet dreams by a night-stick on his shoe-soles. He excused himself to the others and took me down a corridor to a room with stained glass windows and richly carved office furniture.

  “This was Doctor Semich’s office,” he told me. “I shall—” He broke off and looked away from me.

  “You’ll be in Greece by to-morrow,” I said bluntly.

  He frowned at his feet, a stubborn frown.

  “You ought to know you can’t hold on,” I argued. “You may think everything is going smoothly. If you do, you’re deaf, dumb, and blind. I put you in with the muzzle of a gun against Einarson’s liver. I’ve kept you in this long by kidnaping him. I’ve made a deal with Djudakovich—the only strong man I’ve seen here. It’s up to him to handle Einarson. I can’t hold him any longer. Djudakovich will make a good dictator, and a good king later, if he wants it. He promises you four million dollars and a special train and safe-conduct to Saloniki. You go out with your head up. You’ve been a king. You’ve taken a country out of bad hands and put it into good—this fat guy is real. And you’ve made yourself a million profit.”

  Grantham looked at me and said:

  “No. You go. I shall see it through. These people have trusted me, and I shall—”

  “My God, that’s old Doc Semich’s line! These people haven’t trusted you—not a bit of it. I’m the people who trusted you. I made you king, understand? I made you king so you could go home with your chin up—not so you could stay here and make an ass of yourself! I bought help with promises. One of them was that you’d get out within twenty-four hours. You’ve got to keep the promises I made in your name. The people trusted you, huh? You were crammed down their throats, my son! And I did the cramming! Now I’m going to uncram you. If it happens to be tough on your romance—if your Valeska won’t take any price less than this lousy country’s throne—that’s—”

  “That’s enough.” His voice came from some point at least fifty feet above me. “You shall have your abdication. I don’t want the money. You will send word to me when the train is ready.”

  “Write the get-out now,” I ordered.

  He went over to the desk, found a sheet of paper, and with a steady hand wrote that in leaving Muravia he renounced his throne and all rights to it. He signed the paper Lionel Rex and gave it to me. I pocketed it and began sympathetically:

  “I can understand your feelings, and I’m sorry that—”

  He put his back to me and walked out of the room. I returned to the hotel.

  At the fifth floor I left the elevator and walked softly to the door of my room. No sound came through. I tried the door, found it unlocked, and went in. Emptiness. Even my clothes and bags were gone. I went up to Grantham’s suite.

  Djudakovich, Romaine, Einarson, and half the police force were there.

  XVII

  MOB LAW

  Colonel Einarson sat very erect in an armchair in the middle of the room. Dark hair and mustache bristled. His chin was out, muscles bulged everywhere in his florid face, his eyes were hot—he was in one of his finest scrapping moods. That came of giving him an audience.

  I scowled at Djudakovich, who stood on wide-spread giant’s legs with his back to a window. Why hadn’t the fat fool known enough to keep Einarson off in a lonely corner, where he could be handled? Djudakovich looked sleepily at my scowl.

  Romaine floated around and past the policeman who stood or sat everywhere in the room, and came to where I stood, just inside the door.

  “Are your arrangements all made?” she asked.

  “Got the abdication in my pocket.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “First I’ve got to know that your Vasilije is as big as he looks. Einarson doesn’t look squelched to me. Your fat boy ought to have known he’d blossom out in front of an audience.”

  “There’s no telling what Vasilije is up to,” she said lightly, “except that it will be adequate.”

  I wasn’t as sure of that as she was. Djudakovich rumbled a question at her, and she gave him a quick answer. He rumbled some more—at the policemen. They began to go away from us, singly, in pairs, in groups. When the last one had gone the fat man pushed words out between his yellow whiskers at Einarson. Einarson stood up, chest out, shoulders back, grinning confidently under his flowing dark mustache.

  “What now?” I asked the girl.

  “Come along and you’ll see,” she said. Her breath came and
went quickly, and the gray of her eyes was almost as dark as the black.

  The four of us went downstairs and out the hotel’s front door. The rain had stopped. In the plaza was gathered most of Stefania’s population, thickest in front of the Administration Building and Executive Residence. Over their heads we could see the sheepskin caps of Einarson’s regiment, still around those buildings as he had left them.

  We—or at least Einarson—were recognized and cheered as we crossed the plaza. Einarson and Djudakovich went side by side in front, the soldier marching, the fat giant waddling. Romaine and I went close behind them. We headed straight for the Administration Building.

  “What is he up to?” I asked irritably.

  She patted my arm, smiled excitedly, and said:

  “Wait and see.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything else to do—except worry while I waited.

  We arrived at the foot of the Administration Building’s stone steps. Bayonets had an uncomfortably cold gleam in the early evening light as Einarson’s troops presented arms. We climbed the steps. On the broad top step Einarson and Djudakovich turned to face soldiers and citizens below. The girl and I moved around behind the pair. Her teeth were chattering, her fingers were digging into my arm, but her lips and eyes were smiling recklessly.

  The soldiers who were around the Executive Residence came to join those already before us, pushing back the citizens to make room. Another detachment came up. Einarson raised his hand, bawled a dozen words, growled at Djudakovich, and stepped back, giving the blond giant the center of the stage.

  Djudakovich spoke, a drowsy, effortless roar that could have been heard as far as the hotel. As he spoke, he took a paper out of his pocket and held it before him. There was nothing theatrical in his voice or manner. He might have been talking about anything not too important. But—looking at his audience, you’d have known it was important.

  The soldiers had broken ranks to crowd nearer, faces were reddening, a bayoneted gun was shaken aloft here and there. Behind them the citizens were looking at one another with frightened faces, jostling each other, some trying to get nearer, some trying to get away.