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Authors: Richard Condon
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translators were right at their masters’ ears, keeping up with the conversation in English on the stage.
“Well—” It was a difficult question. Raymond disliked the rest of them in the same detached and distant way. “Well, I guess Ed Mavole, sir.”
“Why?”
“He is a funny fellow, sir. I mean very humorous. And he never seems to complain. Not while I’m around, anyway.”
“Very good, Raymond. Now. Take this scarf and strangle Ed Mavole to death.”
“Yes, sir.”
Raymond got up from the table and took the scarf from Yen. He walked to the end of the line of seated men at stage left, then moved along behind the row to a position directly behind Mavole, fifth man from the end. Mavole was chewing gum rapidly and trying to watch both Yen and Raymond at the same time. Raymond looped the scarf around Mavole’s throat.
“Hey, Sarge. Cut it out. What is this?” Mavole said irritably, only because it was Raymond.
“Quiet, please, Ed,” Yen said with affectionate sternness. “You just sit there quietly and cooperate.”
“Yes, sir,” Mavole said.
Yen nodded to Raymond, who pulled at either end of the white scarf with all of the considerable strength of his long arms and deep torso and strangled Ed Mavole to death among his friends and his enemies in the twenty-first year of his life, producing a terrible sight and terrible sounds. Berezovo dictated steadily to his recording assistant who made notes and watched Mavole at the same time, showing horror only far back behind the expression in her eyes. As she set down the last Berezovo observation she excused herself, turned aside, and vomited. Leaning over almost double, she walked rapidly from the room, pressing a handkerchief to her face and retching.
Gomel watched the strangling with his lips pursed studiously and primly. He belched. “Pardon me,” he said to no one at all.
Raymond let the body drop, then walked along the line of men to the end of the row, rounded it, and returned to his chair. There was a rustle of light applause which Yen Lo ignored, so it stopped almost instantly, as when inadvertent applause breaks out during an orchestral rest in the performance of a symphony.
“Very good, Raymond,” Yen said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Raymond, who is that little fellow sitting next to the captain?”
The sergeant looked to his right. “That’s Bobby Lembeck, sir. Our mascot, I guess you could call him.”
“He doesn’t look old enough to be in your Army.”
“Frankly, sir, he isn’t old enough but there he is.”
Yen opened the only drawer in the table in front of Raymond and took out an automatic pistol. “Shoot Bobby, Raymond,” he ordered. “Through the forehead.” He handed the pistol to Raymond who then walked along the front of the stage to his right.
“Hi, Ben,” he said to the captain.
“Hiya, kid.”
Apologizing for presenting his back to the audience, Raymond then shot Bobby Lembeck through the forehead at point-blank range. He returned to his place at the table, offering the pistol butt to Yen Lo who motioned that it should be put in the drawer. “That was very good, Raymond,” he said warmly and with evident appreciation. “Sit down.” Then Yen turned to face his audience and made a deep, mock-ceremonial bow, smiling with much self-satisfaction.
“Oh, marvelous!” the shorter Chinese, Wen Ch’ang, cried out in elation.
“You are to be congratulated on a most marvelous demonstration, Yen Lo,” said the other Chinese, Pa Cha, loudly and proudly, right on top of his colleague’s exclamation. The Russians broke out into sustained applause and were tasteful enough not to yell “Encore!” or “Bis!” in the bourgeois French manner. The young lieutenant who had been picking his nose shouted “Bravo!” then immediately felt very silly. Gomel, who was applauding as heavily and as rapidly as the others, yelled hoarsely, “Excellent! Really, Yen, really, really, excellent!” Yen Lo put one long forefinger
“Well—” It was a difficult question. Raymond disliked the rest of them in the same detached and distant way. “Well, I guess Ed Mavole, sir.”
“Why?”
“He is a funny fellow, sir. I mean very humorous. And he never seems to complain. Not while I’m around, anyway.”
“Very good, Raymond. Now. Take this scarf and strangle Ed Mavole to death.”
“Yes, sir.”
Raymond got up from the table and took the scarf from Yen. He walked to the end of the line of seated men at stage left, then moved along behind the row to a position directly behind Mavole, fifth man from the end. Mavole was chewing gum rapidly and trying to watch both Yen and Raymond at the same time. Raymond looped the scarf around Mavole’s throat.
“Hey, Sarge. Cut it out. What is this?” Mavole said irritably, only because it was Raymond.
“Quiet, please, Ed,” Yen said with affectionate sternness. “You just sit there quietly and cooperate.”
“Yes, sir,” Mavole said.
Yen nodded to Raymond, who pulled at either end of the white scarf with all of the considerable strength of his long arms and deep torso and strangled Ed Mavole to death among his friends and his enemies in the twenty-first year of his life, producing a terrible sight and terrible sounds. Berezovo dictated steadily to his recording assistant who made notes and watched Mavole at the same time, showing horror only far back behind the expression in her eyes. As she set down the last Berezovo observation she excused herself, turned aside, and vomited. Leaning over almost double, she walked rapidly from the room, pressing a handkerchief to her face and retching.
Gomel watched the strangling with his lips pursed studiously and primly. He belched. “Pardon me,” he said to no one at all.
Raymond let the body drop, then walked along the line of men to the end of the row, rounded it, and returned to his chair. There was a rustle of light applause which Yen Lo ignored, so it stopped almost instantly, as when inadvertent applause breaks out during an orchestral rest in the performance of a symphony.
“Very good, Raymond,” Yen said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Raymond, who is that little fellow sitting next to the captain?”
The sergeant looked to his right. “That’s Bobby Lembeck, sir. Our mascot, I guess you could call him.”
“He doesn’t look old enough to be in your Army.”
“Frankly, sir, he isn’t old enough but there he is.”
Yen opened the only drawer in the table in front of Raymond and took out an automatic pistol. “Shoot Bobby, Raymond,” he ordered. “Through the forehead.” He handed the pistol to Raymond who then walked along the front of the stage to his right.
“Hi, Ben,” he said to the captain.
“Hiya, kid.”
Apologizing for presenting his back to the audience, Raymond then shot Bobby Lembeck through the forehead at point-blank range. He returned to his place at the table, offering the pistol butt to Yen Lo who motioned that it should be put in the drawer. “That was very good, Raymond,” he said warmly and with evident appreciation. “Sit down.” Then Yen turned to face his audience and made a deep, mock-ceremonial bow, smiling with much self-satisfaction.
“Oh, marvelous!” the shorter Chinese, Wen Ch’ang, cried out in elation.
“You are to be congratulated on a most marvelous demonstration, Yen Lo,” said the other Chinese, Pa Cha, loudly and proudly, right on top of his colleague’s exclamation. The Russians broke out into sustained applause and were tasteful enough not to yell “Encore!” or “Bis!” in the bourgeois French manner. The young lieutenant who had been picking his nose shouted “Bravo!” then immediately felt very silly. Gomel, who was applauding as heavily and as rapidly as the others, yelled hoarsely, “Excellent! Really, Yen, really, really, excellent!” Yen Lo put one long forefinger
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