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 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 Yugoslavia 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 tonight. 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.”