The Main Death and This King Business by Dashiell Hammett Page A

was not to be found in the house.
    The next morning Dick Foley told me the maid had joined Weel and Dahl and had left for Portland with them.

This King Business
    A Complete Novellette
    Mystery Stories , January 1928
    The desire to rule is inherent in the breasts of most of us, notwithstanding the number of thrones that have toppled in the past decade. Mr. Hammett tells us of the strange series of events which led an American youth to seek kingship in “the Powder Magazine of Europe”—the Balkans. The consequences were—to put it mildly—exciting.
    I
“YES”—AND “NO”
    The train from Belgrade set me down in Stefania, capital of Muravia, in early afternoon—a rotten afternoon. Cold wind blew cold rain in my face and down my neck as I left the square granite barn of a railroad station to climb into a taxicab.
    English meant nothing to the chauffeur, nor French. Good German might have failed. Mine wasn’t good. It was a hodgepodge of grunts and gargles. This chauffeur was the first person who had ever pretended to understand it. I suspected him of guessing, and I expected to be taken to some distant suburban point. Maybe he was a good guesser. Anyhow, he took me to the Hotel of the Republic.
    The hotel was a new six-story affair, very proud of its elevators, American plumbing, private baths, and other modern tricks. After I had washed and changed clothes I went down to the café for luncheon. Then, supplied with minute instructions in English, French, and sign-language by a highly uniformed head porter, I turned up my raincoat collar and crossed the muddy plaza to call on Roy Scanlan, United States chargé d’affaires in this youngest and smallest of the Balkan States.
    He was a pudgy man of thirty, with smooth hair already far along the gray route, a nervous, flabby face, plump white hands that twitched, and very nice clothes. He shook hands with me, patted me into a chair, barely glanced at my letter of introduction, and stared at my necktie while saying:
    â€œSo you’re a private detective from San Francisco?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œLionel Grantham.”
    â€œSurely not!”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut he’s—” The diplomat realized he was looking into my eyes, hurriedly switched his gaze to my hair, and forgot what he had started to say.
    â€œBut he’s what?” I prodded him.
    â€œOh!”—with a vague upward motion of head and eyebrows—“not that sort.”
    â€œHow long has he been here?” I asked.
    â€œTwo months. Possibly three or three and a half or more.”
    â€œYou know him well?”
    â€œOh, no! By sight, of course, and to talk to. He and I are the only Americans here, so we’re fairly well acquainted.”
    â€œKnow what he’s doing here?”
    â€œNo, I don’t. He just happened to stop here in his travels, I imagine, unless, of course, he’s here for some special reason. No doubt there’s a girl in it—she is General Radnjak’s daughter—though I don’t think so.”
    â€œHow does he spend his time?”
    â€œI really haven’t any idea. He lives at the Hotel of the Republic, is quite a favorite among our foreign colony, rides a bit, lives the usual life of a young man of family and wealth.”
    â€œMixed up with anybody who isn’t all he ought to be?”
    â€œNot that I know of, except that I’ve seen him with Mahmoud and Einarson. They are certainly scoundrels, though they may not be.”
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œNubar Mahmoud is private secretary to Doctor Semich, the President. Colonel Einarson is an Icelander, just now virtually the head of the army. I know nothing about either of them.”
    â€œExcept that they are scoundrels?”
    The chargé d’affaires wrinkled his round white forehead in pain and gave me a reproachful glance.
    â€œNot at all,” he said.