I was next introduced to Emory Scales, ex-tutor and now grand royal adviser to the Kingdom of Llaquah. He also shook hands with me and I felt that it was for the first and last time, but that’s the way a lot of Englishmen shake hands and I no longer think much about it.
Scales was an elbow man, nearly always at Kassim’s right one, almost nudging it, but not quite as he bent slightly forward, his long, skinny face constantly turning this way and that, depending on who was doing the talking, the king or someone else. Scales moved his lips a little when the king spoke, much like a ventriloquist and his dummy. I decided that he was a royal adviser who took his duties seriously.
They were an incongruous pair. The king himself was short, plump and totally bald at twenty-one. Either that or the monastery where he’d spent the last five years had a thing about shaved heads. His eyes jumped around almost constantly, as if seeking something comfortable and reassuring to look at and seldom finding it in other people’s faces. He smiled a lot, too, but I put that down to nervousness since his teeth were bad and not very rewarding to look at. Now that he was almost rich I thought that he might afford an inexpensive cap job or at least a toothbrush.
Scales, even with his hovering posture, loomed over Kassim. If he had straightened up he would have been as tall as I and a lot slimmer. I judged him to be somewhere near fifty, a little seedy, a little worn, even a little sad. It may have been his first and last chance at the big time and he was afraid that he would muff it. But then I always read too much into things.
After we had shaken hands, Scales turned toward Padillo and said, “I thought that you said a Mr. Plomondon would be joining you.”
“He couldn’t make it so I persuaded Mr. McCorkle to accept the assignment.” There was always that about Padillo—he lied beautifully.
“You are a very big man,” Kassim said to me and let me have another look at his awful teeth.
I didn’t see any reason to apologize for my size, only ten pounds of which could be blamed on self-indulgence, so I contented myself with an answering smile and a nod.
“The bigger they are,” the king said carefully, “the harder they fall.” He beamed when he got it all out and then turned to Scales and said, “Is that not correct, Mr. Scales?”
“It is the correct idiomatic expression, your Majesty, but scarcely appropriate for the occasion.”
Kassim nodded his understanding and turned back to me. “I did not mean to offend, Mr. McCorkle. It is only that I have not spoken English in many years and I am trying to recall it. Have you had much experience in guardingbody?”
“Bodyguarding,” Scales said, almost automatically, as if he’d been correcting Kassim for days.
The king didn’t seem to mind. “Yes, bodyguarding,” he said.
“Some,” I said, “but not nearly as much as Mr. Padillo, of course.”
“We may have to move from here ahead of schedule,” Padillo said. “McCorkle ran into some trouble on his way up from Washington. It looks as if they know that we’re here.”
“Was it Kragstein and Gitner?” Scales asked me.
“No. I’d never seen this pair before. I thought I’d lost them uptown, but they seemed to know where I was heading.”
“That means that they have added to their strength,” Scales said.
“Maybe not,” I said. “Those two won’t trouble anyone for a while. They may even be in jail right now.”
“Are you responsible for their—uh—misfortune, Mr. McCorkle?” Kassim said, putting a trace of real humor into his nervous smile.
“Partly, at least.”
“Do you have an alternate place in mind, Mr. Padillo?” Scales said.
“Here in New York?”
“Yes.”
“I can locate one if we need it. What we need more than another hideout is that call from Wanda Gothar.”
Scales fished an old-fashioned gold pocket watch from his vest and snapped it open. “It’s nearly seven thirty,” he said. “She should be calling any minute.”
No one said anything for a while as though we all expected the phone to ring right on cue. When it didn’t, Padillo said to me, “Wanda’s been making the arrangements with the oil companies for Mr. Kassim to sign certain papers.”
“Why don’t they just send them over here by messenger?” I said. “We could probably find a notary down at the corner.”
“I’m afraid that the magnitude of the transaction prevents that, Mr. McCorkle,” Scales said. “Although the preliminary negotiations were conducted by his Majesty’s late brother, there must—for a number of reasons, some political, some not—there must be a certain amount of formality and protocol, even grandeur, if you will, incorporated into the actual signing of the documents.”
“You’re not going to do it publicly, are you?” I said.
“No, but nevertheless there will be appropriate ceremony and this is to be recorded on film. The films will be shown throughout Llaquah as part of an educational program that will acquaint the people with the significance of the transaction.”
“Will it be just Mr. Kassim by himself,” I said, “or will other representatives of Llaquah attend?”
The king smiled nervously again and ran his right hand over his smooth head as if testing to see whether it needed another shave. “I’m afraid, Mr. McCorkle, that the representatives of Llaquah who are in this country are also the employers of Messrs. Gitner and Kragstein. My fellow countrymen are not at all anxious for my Patrick Henry to appear on the documents. They would prefer their own signatures.”
“John Henry, I believe,” Scales murmured, looking at Padillo for confirmation.
“John Henry,” Padillo said. “But whoever signs the documents gets the bonus which is four million dollars.”
“Five million,” Scales said. He said it almost dreamily, as if there really weren’t that much money in the world. He was silent for a moment and he may have been counting his share of the prize again. “I suppose it must sound like a rather bizarre situation, but we live in unusual times and in this particular case, extremely high stakes are involved. For some, it is a matter of personal gain. For his Majesty, it is the opportunity to transform his country from a povertv-stricken desert waste into one of the economic wonders of the world in which all of the people—”
Scales might have gone on for another fifteen minutes if the phone hadn’t rung. Padillo answered it with a curt hello and then began listening. I watched the knuckles of his right hand blanch as his grip tightened. He didn’t say good-bye before he hung up and if he didn’t slam the instrument down, neither did he use any gentleness when he recradled it. He turned toward us and his mouth was stretched into that thin, hard line that made his lips seem bloodless.
“Miss Gothar?” Scales asked.
Padillo shook his head. “No,” he said. “Franz Kragstein.”
“Dear me,” Scales said, which must have meant that he was distressed. “What did he say?”
“He’s giving us an hour.”
“To do what?” Scales said.
“To get out of here.”
“And if we don’t?”
“He’ll come in after us.”
Kassim produced one of his nervous smiles. “But how could he possibly do that? Is not our door impregnated?”
“Impregnable,” Scales said.
Padillo turned to give the door a look. “It’s neither to Kragstein,” he said.
“What is it then?” Scales said.
“To him it’s just another door.”
I didn’t like the sound of it so I decided to say so. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What?” Padillo said.
“Why should he call you? Why not just make his try?”
“Where would you rather try it, here or out on the street?”