The Captain stood aghast, pointing down at the glazing eyes of the man he had murdered. “They can't.”
“I say they can.”
The answer was delivered. The tapping ceased abruptly.
“Hang on to your nerves.” Hindwood crouched above the body, dragging it into a sitting posture. “We've exactly ten minutes to make it look like a man who hopes to become an emperor. The peace of the world may depend on it.” He turned to the Captain. “You who were his bodyguard, how would he have dressed if his ambition had been granted?”
Too pale for speech, the Captain moved towards a chest; with trembling hands he drew forth a purple robe, ermine-lined and gold-woven with mythical beasts of heraldry. Dipping deeper, he laid beside it a scepter and an iron crown of twisted laurels.
Hindwood smiled grimly. “So the scene had been rehearsed! How do these things go? You must help me put them on him.”
When the Prince had been arrayed, “Now the throne,” he ordered. “It'll take the three of us to move it.”
The gilded throne had been hauled from its alcove, so as to face the window. The dead man, in the tinsel of his dreams, had been seated on it. He was bound, to prevent him from lolling—bound with the cords with which he himself had secured Santa. His gold-encrusted robe was spread about him. Across his knees, with his right hand resting on it, was the scepter. On his head was the iron crown of laurels.
“The lamps! Place them at his feet. Switch on all the lights, then vanish.”
The curtains were flung back. A dazzling shaft pierced the outer darkness. There was a breathless silence as of worship; a superstitious rustling; a deafening acclamation, which echoed and roared about the Palace-yard.