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

sparring partner. A big man in green and gold came into the light—the florid officer who had been one of Grantham’s companions in the restaurant. An automatic was in one of his hands.
    He strode over to us, stiff-legged in his high boots, ignored the soldier on the ground, and examined me carefully with sharp little dark eyes.
    â€œBritish?” he asked.
    â€œAmerican.”
    He bit a corner of his mustache and said meaninglessly:
    â€œYes, that is better.”
    His English was guttural, with a German accent.
    Lionel Grantham came from the car to us. His face wasn’t as pink as it had been.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked the officer, but he looked at me.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I took a stroll after dinner and got mixed up on my directions. Finding myself out here, I decided I was headed the wrong way. When I turned around to go back I saw this fellow duck behind the lumber pile. He had a gun in his hand. I took him for a stick-up, so I played Indian on him. Just as I got to him he jumped up and began spraying you people. I reached him in time to spoil his aim. Friend of yours?”
    â€œYou’re an American,” the boy said. “I’m Lionel Grantham. This is Colonel Einarson. We’re very grateful to you.” He screwed up his forehead and looked at Einarson. “What do you think of it?”
    The officer shrugged his shoulders, growled, “One of my children—we’ll see,” and kicked the ribs of the man on the ground.
    The kick brought the soldier to life. He sat up, rolled over on hands and knees, and began a broken, long-winded entreaty, plucking at the Colonel’s tunic with dirty hands.
    â€œAch!” Einarson knocked the hands down with a tap of pistol barrel across knuckles, looked with disgust at the muddy marks on his tunic, and growled an order.
    The soldier jumped to his feet, stood at attention, got another order, did an about-face, and marched to the automobile. Colonel Einarson strode stiff-legged behind him, holding his automatic to the man’s back. Grantham put a hand on my arm.
    â€œCome along,” he said. “We’ll thank you properly and get better acquainted after we’ve taken care of this fellow.”
    Colonel Einarson got into the driver’s seat, with the soldier beside him. Grantham waited while I found the soldier’s revolver. Then we got into the rear seat. The officer looked doubtfully at me out of his eye-corners, but said nothing. He drove the car back the way it had come. He liked speed, and we hadn’t far to go. By the time we were settled in our seats the car was whisking us through a gateway in a high stone wall, with a sentry on each side presenting arms. We did a sliding half-circle into a branching driveway and jerked to a stand-still in front of a square whitewashed building.
    Einarson prodded the soldier out ahead of him. Grantham and I got out. To the left, a row of long, low buildings showed pale gray in the rain—barracks. The door of the square, white building was opened by a bearded orderly in green. We went in. Einarson pushed his prisoner across the small reception hall and through the open door of a bedroom. Grantham and I followed them in. The orderly stopped in the doorway, traded some words with Einarson, and went away, closing the door.
    The room we were in looked like a cell, except that there were no bars over the one small window. It was a narrow room, with bare, whitewashed walls and ceiling. The wooden floor, scrubbed with lye until it was almost as white as the walls, was bare. For furniture there was a black iron cot, three folding chairs of wood and canvas, and an unpainted chest of drawers, with comb, brush, and a few papers on top. That was all.
    â€œBe seated, gentlemen,” Einarson said, indicating the camp chairs. “We’ll get at this thing now.”
    The boy and I sat down. The officer laid his pistol on the top of the chest