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 widespread 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.