Einarson in Control
I got back to the hotel at eleven-thirty, loaded my hips with gun and blackjack, and went upstairs to Grantham’s suite. He was alone, but said he expected Einarson. He seemed glad to see me.
“Tell me, did Mahmoud go to any of the meetings?” I asked.
“No. His part in the revolution was hidden even from most of those in it. There were reasons why he couldn’t appear.”
“There were. The chief one was that everybody knew he didn’t want any revolts, didn’t want anything but money.”
Grantham chewed his lower lip and said: “Oh, Lord, what a mess!”
Colonel Einarson arrived, in a dinner coat, but very much the soldier, the man of action. His handclasp was stronger than it needed to be. His little dark eyes were hard and bright.
“You are ready, gentlemen?” he addressed the boy and me as if we were a multitude. “Excellent! We shall go now. There will be difficulties tonight. Mahmoud is dead. There will be those of our friends who will ask: ‘Why now revolt?’ Ach!” He yanked a corner of his flowing dark mustache. “I will answer that. Good souls, our confrères, but given to timidity. There is no timidity under capable leadership. You shall see!” And he yanked his mustache again. This military gent seemed to be feeling Napoleonic this evening. But I didn’t write him off as a musical-comedy revolutionist—I remembered what he had done to the soldier.
We left the hotel, got into a machine, rode seven blocks, and went into a small hotel on a side street. The porter bowed to the belt when he