Lost trumpet

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THE LOST TRUMPET
I released the young Englishman. He righted
himself, philosophically.
“More disarmament, eh ? . . . I think I’m going
to be sick again. . . . Thanks awfully. . . . Right.”
He breathed heavily, resuming his place, his
young face with the rigidity and un-fleshlike
seeming of a death-mask. “Always affects me that
way, booze. No stomach for it. And no liking
either. Right. Where were we ? Oh, yes. Going
to help me carry out my part of the compact—so
that Aslaug may carry out hers ?”
“Help ?”
“Quite. Come and help me induce Huth Rizq to
make a trip to Abu Zabal.”
“And what will happen then ?”
“Eh ? I told you in the camp. Aslaug will put
Huth to the question and hand her over to the Gyppo
gendarmes if she’s guilty of Carl Simonssen’s murder
—which of course she isn’t. Huth a murderess !
Really a great joke—and she loves jokes.”
“Very well. I shall come with you when you go
to this woman.”
“Splendid. Exactly what I wanted.”
“And I’ll question her myself. If it is obvious she
had no connection with the murder, she stays where
she is.”
“And upset my opera-plot. The Rape of the Valkyr,
complete with Wagnerian music ? Really, sir, it
can’t be done. I’m going to have Aslaug Simonssen
whatever happens.”
I considered him with the troubled amazement