You don't want to die, do you? I thought not, since you
surrendered those papers. Well, then, you'll be wise not to say a word
or stir a muscle. And now we are in a hurry. Will you make your toilet,
please?"
It was the bizarre curtain scene of what I had called an extravaganza.
Blenheim's confederates, taking no special pains for gentleness,
stripped off the outer garments of the prostrate Schwartzmann, who
moaned and groaned throughout the process, though he never opened his
eyes. Blenheim urged haste upon us; he was getting more fidgety every
instant; he bit his lip, drummed with his fingers, kept an ear cocked,
as if expecting to hear pursuers at the door. Still, he neglected no
precautions. He demanded my revolver. I surrendered it amiably, and
then doffed my chauffeur's outfit and took, from a social standpoint, a
gratifying step upward, donning one by one the insignia of France.
The fit was not perfect by any means. Schwartzmann was a giant, a
mountain. My feet swished aloud groggily in his burnished putties; his
garments hung round me in ample, rather than graceful, folds.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269