“It’s not him,” the sallow servant said. “It’s that black devil.”
Ringgo said:
“Sherry’s his name, Hugh Sherry. He was a captain in the British army when we knew him before—quartermasters department in Cairo. That was in 1917, all of twelve years ago. The commodore”—he nodded his head at his father-in-law—“was speculating in military supplies. Sherry should have been a line officer. He had no head for desk work. He wasn’t timid enough. Somebody decided the commodore wouldn’t have made so much money if Sherry hadn’t been so careless. They knew Sherry hadn’t made any money for himself. They cashiered Sherry at the same time they asked the commodore please to go away.”
Kavalov looked up from his plate to explain:
“Business is like that in wartime. They wouldn’t let me go away if I had done anything they could keep me there for.”
“And now, twelve years after you had him kicked out of the army in disgrace,” I said, “he comes here, threatens to kill you, so you believe, and sets out to spread panic among your people. Is that it?”
“That is not it,” Kavalov whined. “That is not it at all. I did not have him kicked out of any armies. I am a man of business. I take my profits where I find them. If somebody lets me take a profit that angers his employers, what is their anger to me? Second, I do not believe he means to kill me. I know that.”
“I’m trying to get it straight in my mind.”
“There is nothing to get straight. A man is going to murder me. I ask you not to let him do it. Is not that simple enough?”
“Simple enough,” I agreed, and stopped trying to talk to him.