“That is a lie, Mis-ter Bomar Winlock,” said Lei Chamoro. “Eleven times within her knowledge you have applied this word to my relative.”
Bomar and Oates Mulkley exchanged a glance, deriving a certain truculence from the other’s presence.
“I’m not used to being called a liar,” said Bomar.
“No? Well, are you used to being called a low cur, discourteous to female strangers in your land? Faugh! Your room stinks of stale cowards’ sweat.” He raised his voice slightly,“Fingarson!”
Even as the two young men took a step toward Mr. Lei Chamoro the door opened and a huge, slab-jawed chauffeur came in, drawing off his gloves. Bomar stopped in his tracks.
“What is this, anyhow? What—!”
“All right, Fingarson.”
Bomar took a step backward, then another step, then he literally flew backward as the Norwegian swung a huge fist against his jaw, slamming him against the piano where his shoulder played a crashing discord as he fell.
Oates, forewarned, tried to interpose a table between himself and the giant, then reached ineffectually for a vase of flowers but the onslaught was too sudden. He took a blow full in the mouth, went down, struggled to his knees and went down again, saying, “Hey, what the hell!” and spitting blood from his lip. Fingarson looked at Bomar but the latter had been seriously jarred and lay groggy where he had fallen.
Lei Chamoro addressed them calmly as if they were in full possession of their faculties.
“For the honor of my relative it is necessary that you be degraded and I had thought of a burn from the curling tong of Meese Lei Chamoro. But here’s something ready to hand. Fingarson, take those pictures on the table out of their frames. It will give me great pleasure to defile the likenesses of their female relatives.”
Bomar, his head still reeling, watched uncomprehendingly; Oates stirred and said with all the menace he could put in his voice:
“You lay off those photographs. They aren’t relatives.”
“The girls you love then,” said Lei Chamoro.“Fingarson, now I want you to spit carefully upon the face of this one with the lovely comb in her hair. Then with your finger I want you to rub the face, just the face—so—until it’s no longer there—you see.”
With a curse Oates staggered to his feet but this time Fingarson acted so quickly and efficaciously that during the rest of the proceedings he saw only blurred figures and heard voices that were dun and far away. Bomar, who was alive enough to see this second debacle, remained discreetly on the floor.
“But these are all young flappers,” caviled Lei Chamoro. “Look in the bedroom, Fingarson.” And when the chauffeur returned,“Now this is better—this woman of sixty or so. A pleasant, kindly face—it shouldn’t have to look at this dog.”
“That is my mother,” said Bomar hollowly,“and she’s dead. Please—”
Lei hesitated momentarily, then he spat and with his finger made a white rough smudge where the face had been.
“It’s better like this,” he said, regarding it.“And here is the father, too. Yes, certainly a resemblance—it will be a pleasure to defile it, though I had thought you were fathered by some stray peddler. And here—well, it is Jean Harlow, and in such company. We will spare her, for surely this is a picture you wrote for. Surely she’d never look at you.”
“Shall I hang them up, sir?” asked Fingarson when the mutilation was complete.
“Certainly,” said Lei Chamoro.“Shame should be a public thing. Their friends will say ’Here are two young men who are fond of speaking of young ladies as goons. And just look at all the goons they choose to have around their room’.”
He smiled at his joke, for the first time. Then the pin points of light in his eye grew large again as he addressed Bomar.
“I regret that the law doesn’t permit me to slit your throat. In future when you pass my relative, Meese Ella Lei Chamoro, I prefer you to cross the street lest she breathe the foul odor that I detect on you.”
He took a last look around.
“Toss the flowers from the window, Fingarson. They must be unhappy among those who torture women.”
The black limousine had been three minutes gone from, the gravel drive before there was any activity in the room. Bomar was the first to rise and walk dumbly around the sudden tomb.
“Say, that was awful,” he said, “awful!”
“Why didn’ you do something?” said Oates.“I couldn’t fight that big guy alone.”
“I was out. Anyhow I bet that Chink had a knife up his sleeve—did you hear what he said about cutting my throat?”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Go over and complain to the Dean, that’s what I’m going to do. You know that’s burglary—entering a man’s room and destroying his property like photographs. A lot of those photographs I can’t replace.”
He stared aghast at the wall, “God, they look awful. We’ve got to take them down.”
“Well, let’s get going,” said Oates. “And let me tell you, what I’m going to do to that Goon will be plenty.”
Bomar glanced uneasily at the window.
“He said he was coming back.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Next time we’ll be ready for him.”
“You bet.”
Bomar regarded himself in the mirror.
“Say, how am I going to explain this face to the twitches?”
“Oh, hell,” said Oates, getting to his feet with a groan. “Tell them you fell down stairs.”
