“I killed him,” he said. “That’s two I killed, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” Rex laughed. “Al Capone won’t have anything on you when you come to see me in the States next fall!”
“We must get him up to the loft — can you manage, Rex?” De Richleau asked. “I’m almost useless with this shoulder of mine. It has begun to bleed again already.”
“I’ll make it — don’t worry,” Rex assured him. “I’ll go up backwards. You steady his game leg.” Very gently he took Simon under the armpits, and lifted him off the ground. He held him dangling in front of him as though he were a little child.
To negotiate the ladder of shelves was no easy task, but it was accomplished, and above Marie Lou had prepared a bed of rugs and skins. De Richleau delved into his knapsack again and produced a bottle of morphine tablets.
“It is fortunate,” he said, “that this is not my first campaign — I never travel without iodine and morphia.”
Simon was made as comfortable as possible, and given a couple of the tablets. The others went below to clear up the mess.
“How long do you figure it’ll be before he can be moved?” Rex asked.
“If he were in London I should say a fortnight at least,” the Duke replied. “Although it is only a flesh wound; here we must move when and how we can. After tonight’s affair the chances are, I suppose, about a thousand to one against our getting away from here alive.”
“I wish to God I’d never met old Shulimoff,” sighed Rex.