CHAPTER XIV
"You'll be a virgin victim!"
FEISUL was interested; he couldn't help be. And he was utterly convinced of Grim's sincerity. But he wasn't moved from his purpose, and not even Jeremy's account of the gold-mine, or my professional opinion of its value, had the least effect toward cancelling the plans he had in mind. He was deeply affected by the offer, but that was all.
"Good , man!" Grim exploded suddenly. "Surely you won't throw the whole world into war again! You know what it will mean if the French kill or imprison you. There isn't a Moslem of all the millions in Asia who won't swear vengeance against the West—you know that! A direct descendant of Mohammed, and the first outstanding, conquering Moslem since Saladin"
"The Allies should have thought of that before they broke promises," said Feisul.
"Never mind them. them!" answered Grim. "It's up to you! The future of civilization is in your lap this minute! Can't you see that if you lose you'll be a martyr, and Islam will rise to avenge you?"
"Inshallah," said Feisul, nodding.
"But that if you let pride go by the board, and seem to run away, there'll be a breathing spell? Asia would wonder for a few months, and do nothing, until it began to dawn on them that you had acted wisely and had a better plan in view."
"I am not proud, except of my nation," Feisul answered. "I would not let pride interfere with policy. But it is too late to talk of this."
"Which is better?" Grin demanded. "A martyr, the very mention of whose name means war, or a living power for peace under a temporary cloud?"
"I am afraid I am a poor host. Forgive me," Feisul answered. "Dinner has been waiting all this while, and you have a lady with you. This is disgraceful."
He rose and led the way into another room, closing the discussion. We ate an ordinary meal in an ordinary dining-room, Feisul presiding and talking trivialities with Mabel and Hadad. There was an occasional boisterous interlude by Jeremy, but even he with his tales of unknown Arabia couldn't lift the load of depression. Grim and I sat silent through the meal. I experienced the sensation that you get when an expedition proves a failure and you've got to go home again with nothing done—all dreary emptiness; but Grim was hatching something, as you could tell by the far-away expression and the glowering light in his eyes. He looked about ready for murder.
Narayan Singh's face all through the meal was a picture—delight and pride at dining with a king, amazement at his karma that had brought a sepoy of the line to hear such confidences first hand, chagrin over Grim's apparent failure and desire to be inconspicuous controlled his expression in turn. Once or twice he tried to make conversation with me, but I was in no mood for it, being a grouchy old bear on occasion without decent manners.
Feisul excused himself the minute the meal was over, saying he had a conference to attend, and we all went back into the sitting-room, where Grim took the chair he occupied before and marshalled us into a row on the seat in front of him. He was back again in form—electric—and self-controlled.
"Have you folk got the hang of this?" he asked. "Do you realize what it means if Feisul goes out and gets scuppered?"
We thought we did, even if we didn't. I don't suppose anyone except the few who, like Grim, have made a life-study of the problem of Islam in all its bearings could quite have grasped it. Mabel had a viewpoint that served Grim's purpose as well as any at the moment.
"That man's too good, and much too good-looking to be wasted!" she said emphatically. "D'you suppose that if Colonel Lawrence were really here—"
"Half a minute," said Grim, "and I'll come to that. How about you, Hadad? How far would you go to save Feisul from this Waterloo?"
"I would go a long way," he answered cautiously. "What do you intend?"
"To appear near the firing-line, for one thing, with somebody who looks like Colonel Lawrence, and somebody else who looks enough like Feisul in one of Feisul's cars, and give the French a run for it in one direction while Feisul escapes in the other."
"Wallahi! But what if Feisul won't go?"
"He'll get helped! Did you ever hear what they did to Napoleon at Waterloo? Seized his bridle and galloped away with him."
"You mean I'm to act Lawrence again?" asked Mabel, looking deathly white.
Grim nodded.
"Who's cast for Feisul?" Jeremy inquired.
"You are. You're the only trained stage-actor in the bunch. You're his height—not unlike his figure"
"I resemble him as much as a kangaroo looks like an ostrich!" laughed Jeremy. "You're talking wild, Jim. What have you had to drink?"
"How about you, Ramsden? Will you see this through?"
Jeremy shook his head at me. I believe he thought for the moment that Grim had gone mad. He hadn't the experience of Grim that I had, and consequently not the same confidence in Grim's ability to dream, catch the essence of the dream, pin it down and make a fact of it.
"I'll go the limit," said I.
"Well, I'll be !" laughed Jeremy. "All right; same here. I stake a gold-mine and Rammy raises me. Fetch your crown and sceptre and I'll play king to Jim's ace in a royal straight flush. Mabel's queen. Hadad's a knave. He looks it! Keep smiling, Hadad, old top, and I'll let you forgive me. Rammy's the ten-spot—tentative—tenacious—ten aces up his sleeve—and packs a ten-ton wallop when you get him going. What's Narayan Singh? The deuce?"
"The joker," answered Grim. "Are you in on this?"
"Sahib, there was no need to ask. What your honor finds good enough— your honor's order"
"Orders have nothing to do with it. We're not in British territory. This in unofficial. I've no right to give you orders," said Grim. "You're free to refuse. I'm likely to lose my job over this and so are you if you take part in it."
Narayan Singh grinned hugely.
"Hah! A sepoy's position is a smaller stake than a major's commission or a gold-mine, but I likewise have a life to lose, and I play too!"
Grim nodded curtly. It was no time for returning compliments.
"How about you, Mabel? We can manage this without you, and you've a husband to think of"
"If he were here he'd hate it, but he'd give permission."
"All right. Now, Hadad. What about it?"
"Am I to obey you absolutely, not knowing what the"
Grim interrupted him:
"The proposal's fair. Either you withdraw now and hold your tongue, or come in with us. If you're in I'll tell the details; if not, there's no need."
"Wallahi! What a sword-blade you are, Jimgrim! If I say 'yes,' I risk my future on your backgammon board; if I say 'no,' my life is worth a millieme, for you will tell that Sikh you call the 'joker' to attend to me!"
"Not so," Grim answered. "If you don't like the plan, I'll trust you to fall out and keep the secret."
"Oh, in that case," answered Hadad, hesitating. "Since you put it that way— well, it is lose all or perhaps win something—half-measures are no good—the alternative is ruin of the Arab cause—it is a forlorn hope—well, one throw of the dice, eh?—and all our fortunes on the table!—one little mistake and Hélas—finish! Never mind. Yes, I will play too. I will play this to the end with you."
"So we're all set," remarked Grim with a sigh of relief.
Instantly he threw his shoulders back and began to set his pieces for the game. And you know, there's a world of difference between the captain of a side who doesn't worry until the game begins and Grim's sort, who do their worrying beforehand and then play, and make the whole side play for every ounce that's in them.
"Mabel, you're Lawrence. Keep silent, be shy, avoid encounters—act like a man who's not supposed to be here, but who came to help Feisul contrary to express commands laid on him by the Foreign Office. Get that? Lawrence is a shy man, anyway—hates publicity, rank, anything that calls attention to himself. The more shy you are, the easier you'll get away with it. Feisul must help pretend you're Lawrence. The presence of Lawrence would add to his prestige incalculably, and I think he'll see that, but if not, never mind, we'll manage. Any questions? Quick!"
You can't ask questions when you're given that sort of opportunity. The right ones don't occur to you and the others seem absurd. Grim knew that, of course, but when you're dealing with a woman there's just one chance in a hundred that she may think of something vital that hasn't occurred to anybody else. Most women aren't practical; but it's the impractical things that happen.
"Suppose we're captured by the French?" she suggested.
"That's what's going to happen," he answered. "When they've got you, then you're Mrs. Mabel Ticknor, who never saw Lawrence and wouldn't recognize him if you did."
"They'll ask why I'm wearing man's clothes, and masquerading as an Arab."
"Well, you're a woman, aren't you? You answer with another question—ask them just how safe a woman would be! They may claim that their Algerians are baby-lambs, but they can't blame you for not believing it! Anything else?"
She shook her head, and he turned on Hadad.
"Hadad, lose no opportunity of whispering that Lawrence is with Feisul. Add that Lawrence doesn't want his presence known. Hunt out two or three loyal Arabs on the staff and tell them the plan is to kidnap Feisul and carry him to safety across the border; but don't do it too soon; wait until the debacle begins, and then persuade a few of them—old Ali, for instance, and Osman—choose the old guard—you and they bolt with him to Haifa. The Syrians have been thoroughly undermined by propaganda; gas will do the rest, and as soon as the Arabs see the Syrians run they'll listen to reason. They know you, and know you're on the level. Do you understand? Will you do that?"
"I will try. I see many a chance of spilling before this cup comes to the drinking, Jimgrim!"
"Then carry it carefully!" Grim answered. "Ramsden, take that car you came in. Find that banker. He's the boy who has bought Feisul's staff, or I'm much mistaken. Bring him here."
"Suppose he won't come?"
"Bring him. Take Jeremy with you. Try diplomacy first. Tell him that a plot to kidnap Feisul has been discovered at the last minute, but give him to understand that no suspicion rests on him. Get him, if you can, to send a message to the French General Staff, warning them to watch for Feisul and two civilians and Lawrence in an auto. After that bring him if you have to put him in a sack."
"What's his name, and where does he live?"
"Adolphe René. Everybody knows his house. Jeremy, look as unlike Feisul as you can until the time comes, but study the part and be ready to jump into his clothes. Narayan Singh, stay with me. You and I will do the dirty work. Get busy, Ramsden."
CIRCUMSTANCES work clock-fashion, wheel fitting into wheel, when those tides that Shakespeare spoke of are at flood. Disregarding all the theory and argument about human will as opposed to cosmic law I say this, without any care at all who contradicts me:
That whoever is near the hub of happenings is the agent of Universal Law, and can no more help himself than can the watch that tells the hour. The men who believe that they make history should really make a thoughtful fellow laugh. "The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on;" the old tent-maker Omar knew the truth of it. You could almost hear the balance-wheel of Progress click as the door opened before Grim had finished speaking, and a staff officer appeared to invite him to be present at Feisul's conference.
Grim asked at once for the auto for me (I couldn't have had it otherwise), and a moment later Jeremy and I were scooting into darkness through narrow streets and driving rain, with the hubs of the wheels awash in places and "shipping it green" over the floor when we dipped and pitched over a cross-street gutter. The Arab driver knew the way, from which I take it he had a compass in his head as well as a charm against accidents and a spirit of recklessness that put faith in worn-out springs. There wasn't room for more than one set of wheels at a time in most of the streets we tore through, but a camel tried to share one fairway with us and had the worst of it; he cannoned off into an alley 'hime end first, and we could hear him bellowing with rage a block away.
And our manner of stopping was like our progress, prompt. The brake-bands went on with a shriek and Jeremy and I pitched forward as the car brought up against the curb in front of an enormous door, whose brass knocker shone like gold in the rays of our headlights. We told the Arab to wait for us and stepped knee-deep into a pool invisible, stumbled and nearly fell over a great stone set to bridge the flood between street and door, then proceeded to use the knocker importunately, thunderously, angrily, as men with wet feet and bruised toes likely will, whatever the custom of the country.
We went on knocking, taking turns, until the door opened at last and the banker's servant peered at us with a candle in his hand, demanding to know in the name of the thousand and one devils whom Solomon boiled in oil what impudent scavengers were making all that noise. But the banker himself was in the background, thinking perhaps that the French had come already, on the look-out over the servant's shoulder for a glimpse of a képi. So we put our shoulders to the door, thrust by the servant, and walked in.
"Take care! I have a pistol in my hand!" said the banker's voice.
"Three shots for a shilling at me then!" retorted Jeremy.
"Who are you?"
"Tell that shivering fool to bring the candle, and you'll see!"
"Oh, you, is it! I told you to come in the morning. I can't see you now."
"Can't see me, eh? Come in here and peel your eyes, cocky! Sit down and look at us. There, take a pew. Wonder where I learned such good English? Well, I used to shine the toe-nails of the Prince o' Wales, and you have to pass a Civil Service examination before they give you that good job. I talk any language except French and Jewish, but this master of mine turns out to be a Jew who talks French, and not a prize-fighter after all.
"What did I tell you this evening? Said he was a spy for the French, didn't I? I tell you, I'm a dependable man. What I say you can bet on till you've lost all your money. Here he is, spying to beat the promised landers—just had tea with Feisul and learned all the inside facts—offered me a pound to come and find you, but I charged him two and got the money in advance.
"You ought to pay me a commission, too, and then I'll get married if there's an honest woman left in Damascus. If either of you want my advice, you won't believe a word the other says, but I expect you're both too wilful to be guided. Anyhow, you'll have to talk in front of me, because my master is afraid of being murdered; he isn't afraid of ghosts or bad smells, but the sight of a long knife turns his heart to water and sets him to praying so loud that you can't get a word in edgewise. Go on, both of you—yalla! Talk!"
Does it begin to be obvious why kings used to employ court jesters? The modern cabinets should have them—men like Jeremy (though they'd be hard to find) to break the crust of situations. Suspicion weakens in the presence of incongruity.
"This fellow seems less than half-witted," I said, "but he's shrewd, and I've found him useful. Unfortunately he has picked up a lot of information, so we'll have to keep an eye on him. My business is to communicate with the French General Staff and I'm told you know how to manage it."
"Huh-huh? Who told you that?"
"Those who gave me my instructions. If you don't know who they are without my telling you, you're the wrong man and I'll not waste time with you."
"Let us suppose that I know then. Proceed."
"Your name was given to me as that of a man who can be trusted to take necessary action in the interests of—er—you understand?"
"Uh-huh!"
"The plot for Feisul to be kidnapped by some Syrian members of his staff has been discovered at the last minute," I said, looking hard at him; and he winced palpably.
"Mon Dieu! You mean"
"That it is not too late to save the situation. You have not been accused of connection with it. I came here in pursuance of a different plan to kidnap him—a sort of reserve plan, to be employed in case other means should fail. All arrangements are in working order except the one item of communicating with the French General Staff. I require you to accompany me for that purpose, and to send off to them immediately a message at my dictation."
"Tschaa! Suppose you show me your authority?"
"Certainly!" I answered.
Realizing that he wasn't in immediate danger of life he had returned his own pistol to his pocket. So I showed him the muzzle of mine, and he divined without a sermon on the subject that it would go off and shoot accurately unless he showed discretion. He didn't offer to move when Jeremy's agile fingers found his pocket and flicked out the mother-of-pearl-handled, rim-fire thing with which he had previously kept his courage warm.
"I was told not to trust you too far," I explained. "I was warned in advance that you might question my credentials. You are said to be jealous of interference. As a precaution against miscarriage of this plan through jealousy on your part, I was ordered to oblige you to obey me."
"And if I refuse?"
"Your widow will then be the individual most concerned. Be good enough to take pen and paper, and write a letter to my dictation."
Jeremy went to the door, which was partly open, made sure that the servant was out of earshot, and slammed it tight. René the banker went to his escritoire, took paper, and shook his fountain pen.
"How shall I commence the letter?" he asked me with a dry, sly smile.
He thought he had me there. There are doubtless proper forms of address that serve to establish the genuineness of letters written by a spy.
"Commence half-way down the page," I answered. "We'll insert the address afterwards. Write in French:"
"I shall accompany the Emir Feisul and Colonel Lawrence to the front tonight, former plan having miscarried. When Syrian retreat begins look out for automobile containing Feisul and Lawrence, which may be recognized easily as it will also contain myself and another civilian in plain clothes. At the psychological moment a white flag will be shown from it, waved perhaps surreptitiously by one of the civilians. In the event of breakdown of the automobile a horsed vehicle will be used and the same signal will apply. For the sake of myself and the other civilian, please instruct all officers to keep a sharp lookout and protect the party from being fired on."
"There," I said, "sign that and address it."
He hesitated. He couldn't doubt that his own arrangements with traitors on the staff to kidnap Feisul had gone amiss, else how should I be aware of them at all—I, who had only arrived that evening in Damascus? But it puzzled him to know why I should make him write the letter, or—since his plan must have failed, why I should let him share in the kidnapping. He smelt the obvious rat. Why didn't I sign the letter myself, and get all the credit afterward, as any other spy would do?
"You sign it," he said, pushing the letter toward me; and I got one of those sudden inspirations that there is no explaining—the right idea for handling fox René the banker.
"So you're afraid to sign that, are you? All right; give it here, I'll sign it; pass me your pen. But you'll come along with me tonight, my lad, and make your explanations to the French in the morning!"
Looking back, I can see how the accusation worked, although it was an arrow shot at a venture. His greasy, sly, fox face with its touch of bold impudence betrayed him for a man who would habitually hedge his bets. Feisul's safe-conduct had protected him from official interference, but it had needed more than that to preserve him from unofficial murder, and beyond a doubt he had betrayed the French in minor ways whenever that course looked profitable.
Now in a crisis he had small choice but to establish himself as loyal to the stronger side. He hurriedly wrote a number at the bottom of the letter, and another followed by three capitals and three more figures at the top.
"Seal it up and send it—quick!" I ordered him.
He obeyed and Jeremy called the servant.
"Summon François," said the banker, and the servant disappeared again.
François must remain a mystery. He was insoluble. Dressed in a pair of baggy Turkish pants, with a red sash round his middle, knotted loosely over a woollen jersey that had wide horizontal black and yellow strips, with a grey woollen jersey over the lot, and a new tarboosh a size or two too small for him perched at an angle on his head, he stood shifting from one bare foot to the other and moved a toothless gap in his lower face in what was presumably a smile.
He had no nose that you could recognize, although there were two blow-holes in place of nostrils with a hideous long scar above them. One ear was missing. He had no eyebrows. But the remaining ear was pointed at the top like a satyr's, and his little beady eyes were as black as a bird's and inhumanly bright.
The banker spoke to him in the voice you would use to a rather spoilt child when obedience was all-important, using Arabic with a few French words thrown in.
"Ah, here is François. Good François! François, mon brave, here is a letter, eh? You know where to take it—eh? Ha-ha! François knows, doesn't he! François doesn't talk; he tells nobody; he's wise, is François! He runs, eh? He runs through the rain and the night; and he hides so that nobody can see him; and he delivers the letter; and somebody gives François money and tobacco and a little rum; and François comes running back to the nice little, dark little hole where he sleeps. Plenty to eat, eh, François? Nice soft food that needs no chewing! Nothing to do but run with a letter now and then, eh? A brave fellow is François—a clever fellow—a trustworthy fellow—a dependable, willing fellow, always ready to please! Ready to go?
"Well, there's the letter; be careful with it, and run—run—run like a good boy! A whole bottle of rum when you come back—think of it! A whole bottle of nice brown rum to yourself in that nice little room where your bed is! There, good-by!"
The creature addressed as François vanished, with a snort and a sort of squeal that may have been meant for speech.
"That is the best messenger in Syria," said René. "He is priceless—incorruptible, silent, and as sure as Destiny! The French General Staff will have that letter before dawn. Now—what next?"
"You come with me," I answered.
He felt better now that the message was on its way; second thought convinced him of my connection with the French. There is no more profitless delusion than to suppose that a country's secret agents are always its own nationals. They are almost always not.
If the French used only Frenchmen, Germany used none but Germans, Great Britain only Englishmen, and so on, it might be prettier and easier for the police, but intelligence departments would starve. So there was nothing about an obvious American doing spy-work for the French that should stick in his craw; and that being so, the more cheerfully he aided me the better it would likely be for him.
So he called for the servant again, and proved himself a good campaigner by superintending the packing of a big basket with provisions—bread and butter, cold chicken, wine, olives, and hot coffee in a thermos bottle.
"The French will be in Damascus by noon tomorrow," he said. "Ha-ha! Those French and their hungry Algerians! We do well to take a good provision with us—enough for two days at least. We shall enter with them, I suppose, or at least behind them, and of course my house here will receive consideration; but—ha-ha!—how many chickens do you believe will be purchasable in Damascus one hour after the first Algerians get here? Eh? Put in another chicken, Hassan, mon brave. Eh bien, oui—pack the basket full; put in more of everything!"
At last he got into an overcoat lined with fox-pelt, for the night air was chilly and an overcoat is less trouble than blankets if you expect to spend a night on the move. We hove the huge basket into the waiting auto, slammed the front door of the house behind us, piled into the back seat and were off.
"I shall be glad when this business is over," said René, with a sigh of satisfaction. "I am a banker by profession. For me the ebb and flow of trade, with its certainties and its discretions. But what would you? Trade must be prepared for; doors that will not open must be forced; those who stand in the way must be thrust aside. This Feisul is an impossible fellow. He is a hypocrite, I tell you—one of those praters about righteousness who won't understand that the church and the mosque are the places for that sort of thing. Eh? You follow me? But tell me, what has been done to Daulch, Hattin and Aubek? Were they backed against a wall and shot? Who betrayed them? Too bad that such a plan should fail, for it was perfect."
"Far from perfect," I answered; for that one piece of strategy I have by heart—the way to make a man tell all he knows is to pretend to superior knowledge.
"Heh? How could you improve on it? Three members of the staff to order sauve-qui peut unexpectedly, seize Feisul, and deliver him dead or alive? What is better than that? But what has been done to the three?"
"Nothing," I answered.
"Just like him! just like him! I tell you, that man Feisul would rather be a martyr than succeed at his proper business."
We reached the palace just as Feisul was leaving it. Several members of his staff were hard on his heels in the porch and our party was behind them again, with Mabel last of all. There was a line of waiting autos nearly long enough to fill the drive, but an utter absence of military fuss, and no shouting or hurry. It looked in the dark more like a funeral than the departure of a king to join his army at the front.
I remained in the car with the banker and sent Jeremy to report our doings to Grim. Presently I could see him standing under the porch lamp with a hand on Grim's shoulder, and I leaned out over the auto door to watch; but René the banker leaned back, snuggled up in his overcoat, liking neither to be seen nor to get his skin wet. I expected to see the three staff officers Daulch, Hattin and Aubek arrested there and then; but nothing happened, except that Feisul suddenly drove away with Mabel and Grim in the same car with him.
There followed a rush for the other cars, and the whole line started forward, Jeremy jumping in as our car passed the porch.
"Daulch, Hattin and Aubek are at the front," he said, and began humming to himself.
"At the front?" demanded René, sitting upright suddenly. "At the front, you say? When did they leave for the front?"
"This evening," answered Jeremy.
You couldn't see his face in the dark, but I think he was chuckling.
"Strange!" said the banker. "Yet you say they have been betrayed—their plan is known—yet they left for the front this evening?"
It was pitch-dark inside the car, for the rain swished down in torrents and Jeremy fastened the flaps after he got in. René's change of expression was a thing that you could feel, not see. He kept perfect silence for about two minutes, while the car skidded and bumped at the rear of the procession. Then:
"You tell me that Feisul knows, and yet"
"Oh, I didn't tell you that," laughed Jeremy. "It was this other man who said so. I never deceived anyone; I'm an honest fellow, I am. Remember, I warned you against him when we talked in the hotel; you can't blame me. I told you he was up to mischief. I advised you to keep a careful eye on him and to look twice at his paper! Wallah! You must be a lamb in fox-skin. My master is a wolf in a woolly overcoat! Wait till you've seen him eat that chicken that you brought, and then you'll know what kind of a man he is!
"You see, you should have given me money when I asked you for it. I'm a fellow with a price, I am. Whoever pays my price gets his money's worth. If you'd had the sense to pay me more than this man does, I'd have helped you trick him instead of helping him trick you; but he gave me my wages before dinner and you gave me nothing, so here you are, and I wouldn't like to be keeping your pair of trousers warm! I tell you, this Ramsden effendi is an awful fellow, who will stick at nothing, and I'm worse because I'm honest and do what I'm paid to do!"
I took the precaution of putting my arm around René, for it was likely that he had another weapon hidden somewhere, and the obvious thing for him to do was to shoot the two of us and make a bolt for it. For a second I thought I felt his hand moving; but it was Jeremy's, searching all his pockets and feeling for hidden steel. So I pulled out a cigar and lit a match.
Of course, any one's face looks ghastly by that sort of sudden light; but René's was a picture of hate, rage, baffled cunning and fear, such as I had never seen; his eyes looked like an animal's at bay, and the way his lips parted from his teeth conveyed the impression that he was searching his mind wildly for a desperate remedy that would ruin all concerned except himself.
But it was only a stale old recourse that he had. In a man's extremity he turns by instinct to his own tin gods for help, and you may read his whole heart and religion then.
"Very well; very well," he said, as if he were on the rack, speaking hurriedly to get it over with. "I make the sacrifice. You will find my money in an inner vest pocket underneath my vest. It is a life's savings. Take it, and let me go. It is not much—only a little—I am not a rich man—I had hoped to be, but it would mean a fortune to you no doubt. Take it and be merciful; give me back the smaller packet of the two, keep the larger, and let me go."
Out of curiosity I reached inside his vest and pulled out both packets. Jeremy struck a match. The smaller packet contained a draft on Paris for a quarter of a million francs. The larger held nothing but correspondence. I returned them to him.
"Listen!" I said. "I've never yet murdered a man, so if you provide me with another excuse for murdering you, you'll be a virgin victim. Keep that in mind!"