“No.” I reached for her. “But I hate mobs, lynchings—they sicken me. No matter how wrong the man is, if a mob’s against him, I’m for him. The only thing I ever pray to God for is a chance some day to squat down behind a machine gun with a lynching party in front of me. I had no use for Einarson, but I wouldn’t have given him that! Well, what’s done is done. What was the document?”
“A letter from Mahmoud. He had left it with a friend to be given to Vasilije if anything ever happened to him. He knew Einarson, it seems, and prepared his revenge. The letter confessed his—Mahmoud’s—part in the assassination of General Radnjak, and said that Einarson was also implicated. The army worshiped Radnjak, and Einarson wanted the army.”
“Your Vasilije could have used that to chase Einarson out—without feeding him to those wolves,” I complained.
She shook her head and said:
“Vasilije was right. Bad as it was, that was the way to do it. It’s over and settled forever, with Vasilije in power. An Einarson alive, an army not knowing he had killed their idol—too risky. Up to the end Einarson thought he had power enough to hold his troops, no matter what they knew. He—”
“All right—it’s done. And I’m glad to be through with this king business. Kiss me.”
She did, and whispered:
“When Vasilije dies—and he can’t live long, the way he eats—I’m coming to San Francisco.”
“You’re a cold-blooded hussy,” I said.