“So we meet once more, and for the last time, Kommissar Leshkin,” the Duke said softly.
Leshkin backed quickly towards the bedside.
“Stay where you are,” De Richleau spoke sharply now; “put your hands above your head.”
For a moment it seemed as if the Kommissar was going to charge him; his great head was lowered and his bull neck swelled above the collar of his shirt — but he thought better of it and slowly raised his hands above his head.
De Richleau nodded. “That is better,” he said, evenly. “Now we will talk a little; but first I will relieve you of the temptation to secure the weapon by your bed.”
He put his cigar in the ashtray on the table and moved swiftly to the bedside, keeping his eyes fixed on the Kommissar’s face.
Having secured Leshkin’s weapon, he slipped his own pistol in his pocket and again picked up his cigar.
“I understand,” he addressed Leshkin evenly, “that your presence in Vienna is due to an application for the extradition of myself and my friends?”
Leshkin’s uneven teeth showed in an ugly grin. “That is so, Mr. Richwater, and if you think to steal my papers, it will do you little good. Duplicates can be forwarded from Moscow, and I shall follow you to England, if necessary.”
“I fear you misunderstand the purpose of my visit. I do not come to steal anything. I come to place it beyond your power to enforce the extradition once and for all.”