Two Thirteen

To Neeland, the entire affair had seemed as though it were some rather
obvious screen-picture at which he was looking--some photo-play too
crudely staged, and in which he himself was no more concerned than any
casual spectator.

Until now, Neeland had not been scared; Ali Baba and his automatic
pistol were only part of this unreality; his appearance on the scene
had been fantastically classical; he entered when his cue was given by
Scheherazade--this oily, hawk-nosed Eurasian with his pale eyes set
too closely and his moustache hiding under his nose à la Enver
Pasha--a faultless make-up, an entry properly timed and prepared. And
then, always well-timed for dramatic effect, Golden Beard had
appeared. Everything was en règle, every unity nicely preserved.
Scheherazade had protested; and her protest sounded genuine. Also
entirely convincing was the binding and gagging of himself at the
point of an automatic pistol; and, as for the rest of the business, it
was practically all action and little dialogue--an achievement really
in these days of dissertation.

All, as he looked on at it over the bandage which closed his mouth,
had seemed unreal, impersonal, even when his forced attitude had
caused him inconvenience and finally pain.

But now, with the light extinguished and the closing of the door
behind Golden Beard and Ali Baba, he experienced a shock which began
to awaken him to the almost incredible and instant reality of things.

It actually began to look as though these story-book conspirators--these
hirelings of a foreign government who had not been convincing because
they were too obvious, too well done--actually intended to expose him to
serious injury.