King Rat

Peter Marlowe’s tired mind adjusted to the new danger. It had to be something to do with the King. Grey meant trouble. Now, think, think, Peter. The village? The watch? The diamond? Oh my God—the pen? No, that’s being foolish. He can’t know about that yet. Shall I go to the King? Maybe he’d know what it’s about. Dangerous. Perhaps that’s why Grey told Ewart, to force me to make a mistake. He must have known I was on a work party.

No point in going like a lamb to the slaughter when you’re hot and dirty. A shower, then I’ll stroll up to the jail hut. Take my time.

So he went to the shower. Johnny Hawkins was under one of the spouts.

“Hello, Peter,” Hawkins said.

Sudden guilt flushed Peter Marlowe’s face. “Hello, Johnny.” Hawkins looked ill. “Say, Johnny, I—I was so sorry—”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Hawkins said. “I’d be glad if you never mentioned it.”

Does he know, Peter Marlowe asked himself, appalled, that I’m one of the ones who—ate?—Even now—was it only yesterday?—the sudden thought was revolting: cannibalism. He can’t, surely, for then he would have tried to kill me. I know if I were in his shoes, I would. Or would I?

My God, what a state we’ve come to. Everything that seems wrong is right, and vice versa. It’s too much to understand. Much too much. Stupid screwed-up world. And the sixty dollars and the pack of Kooas I’ve earned, and at the same time stolen—or made—which is it? Should I give them back? That would be quite wrong.

“Marlowe!”

He turned and saw Grey standing malevolently at the side of the shower.

“You were told to report to me when you got back!”

“I was told you wanted to see me. As soon as I’d showered I was going to—”

“I left orders that you were to report to me immediately.” There was a thin smile on Grey’s face. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re under hut arrest.”

There was a quiet in the showers and all the officers were watching and listening.

“What for?”

Grey rejoiced in the flash of concern he saw. “For disobeying orders.”

“What orders?”

“You know as well as I do.” That’s right, sweat! Your guilty conscience will trouble you a little—if you’ve got a conscience, which I doubt. “You’re to report to Colonel Smedly-Taylor after supper. And be dressed like an officer, not a bloody tart!”

Peter Marlowe snapped off the shower and slipped into his sarong and made the knot with a deft twist, conscious of the curious stares of the other officers. His mind was in a turmoil wondering what the trouble was, but he tried to hide his anxiety. Why give Grey the satisfaction?

“You’re really so ill-bred, Grey. Such a bore,” he said.

“I’ve learned a lot about breeding today, you bloody sod,” Grey said. “I’m glad I don’t belong to your stinking class, you rotten bugger. All shysters, cheats, thieves—”

“For the last time, Grey, button your mouth, or by God I’ll button it for you.”

Grey tried to control himself. He wanted to pit himself against this man, here and now. He could beat him, he knew he could. Any time. Dysentery or no. “If we ever get out of this mess alive, I’ll look for you. The first thing. The very first thing.”

“It would be a pleasure. But until that time, if you ever insult me again I’ll whip you.” Peter Marlowe turned to the other officers. “You all heard me. I’m giving him warning. I’m not going to be sworn at by this lower-class ape.” He whipped around on Grey. “Now stay away from me.”

“How can I when you’re a lawbreaker?”

“What law?”

“Be at Colonel Smedly-Taylor’s after supper. And one more thing—you’re under hut arrest until time to report.”

Grey walked away. Most of his exultation had been drained from him. It was stupid to call Marlowe names. Stupid, when there was no need.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When Peter Marlowe arrived outside Colonel Smedly-Taylor’s bungalow, Grey was already there.

“I’ll tell the colonel you arrived,” Grey said.

“You’re so kind.” Peter Marlowe felt uncomfortable. The peaked Air Force cap he had borrowed irritated. The ragged but clean shirt he wore irritated. Sarongs are so much more comfortable, he told himself, so much more sensible. And thinking of sarongs he thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow was the money exchange day. For the diamond. Tomorrow Shagata was to bring the money and then in three days the village once more. Maybe Sulina…

You’re a fool to think about her. Get your wits with you, you’re going to need them.

“All right, Marlowe. ’Tenshun,” Grey ordered.

Peter Marlowe came to attention and began to march, militarily correct, into the colonel’s room. As he passed Grey he whispered, “Up you, Jack,” and felt a little better, and then he was in front of the colonel. He saluted smartly and fixed his eyes through the colonel.

Seated behind a crude desk, cap on, swagger cane on the table, Smedly-Taylor looked at Peter Marlowe bleakly and returned the salute punctiliously. He prided himself on the way he handled camp discipline. Everything he did was Army. By the book.