The Main Death and This King Business by Dashiell Hammett Page A

his eight waking hours. Outside of that he cares for nothing. To guard his comfort he has made the police department a model one. They’ve got to do their work smoothly and neatly. If they don’t, crimes will go unpunished, people will complain, and those complaints might disturb His Excellency. He might even have to shorten his afternoon nap to attend a conference or meeting. That wouldn’t do. So he insists on an organization that will keep crime down to a minimum, and catch the perpetrators of that minimum. And he gets it.”
    â€œCatch Radnjak’s assassin?”
    â€œKilled resisting arrest ten minutes after the murder.”
    â€œOne of Mahmoud’s men?”
    The girl emptied her glass, frowning at me, her lifted lower lids putting a twinkle in the frown.
    â€œYou’re not so bad,” she said slowly, “but now it’s my turn to ask: Why did you say Einarson killed Mahmoud?”
    â€œEinarson knew Mahmoud had tried to have him and Grantham shot earlier in the evening.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œI saw a soldier take money from Mahmoud, ambush Einarson and Grantham, and miss ’em with six shots.”
    She clicked a finger-nail against her teeth.
    â€œThat’s not like Mahmoud,” she objected, “to be seen paying for his murders.”
    â€œProbably not,” I agreed. “But suppose his hired man decided he wanted more pay, or maybe he’d only been paid part of his wages. What better way to collect than to pop out and ask for it in the street a few minutes before he was scheduled to turn the trick?”
    She nodded, and spoke as if thinking aloud:
    â€œThen they’ve got all they expect to get from Grantham, and each was trying to hog it by removing the other.”
    â€œWhere you go wrong,” I told her, “is in thinking that the revolution is dead.”
    â€œBut Mahmoud wouldn’t, for three million dollars, conspire to remove himself from power.”
    â€œRight! Mahmoud thought he was putting on a show for the boy. When he learned it wasn’t a show—learned Einarson was in earnest—he tried to have him knocked off.”
    â€œPerhaps.” She shrugged her smooth bare shoulders. “But now you’re guessing.”
    â€œYes? Einarson carries a picture of the Shah of Persia. It’s worn, as if he handled it a lot. The Shah of Persia is a Russian soldier who went in there after the war, worked himself up until he had the army in his hands, became dictator, then Shah. Correct me if I’m wrong. Einarson is an Icelandic soldier who came in here after the war and has worked himself up until he’s got the army in his hands. If he carries the Shah’s picture and looks at it often enough to have it shabby from handling, does it mean he hopes to follow his example? Or doesn’t it?”
    Romaine Frankl got up and roamed around the room, moving a chair two inches here, adjusting an ornament there, shaking out the folds of a window-curtain, pretending a picture wasn’t quite straight on the wall, moving from place to place with the appearance of being carried—a graceful small girl in pink satin.
    She stopped in front of a mirror, moved a little to one side so she could see my reflection in it, and fluffed her curls while saying:
    â€œVery well, Einarson wants a revolution. What will your boy do?”
    â€œWhat I tell him.”
    â€œWhat will you tell him?”
    â€œWhatever pays best. I want to take him home with all his money.”
    She left the mirror and came over to me, rumpled my hair, kissed my mouth, and sat on my knees, holding my face between small warm hands.
    â€œGive me a revolution, nice man!” Her eyes were black with excitement, her voice throaty, her mouth laughing, her body trembling. “I detest Einarson. Use him and break him for me. But give me a revolution!”
    I laughed, kissed her, and turned her around on my lap so her head would fit