King Rat

He sized up the young man in front of him—standing erect. Good, he told himself, that’s at least in his favor. He remained silent for a while, as was his custom. Always unsettle the accused. At last he spoke.

“Well, Flight Lieutenant Marlowe? What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing, sir. I don’t know what I’m charged with.”

Colonel Smedly-Taylor glanced at Grey, surprised, then frowned back at Peter Marlowe. “Perhaps you break so many rules that you have difficulty remembering them. You went into the jail yesterday. That’s against orders. You were not wearing an armband. That’s against orders.”

Peter Marlowe was relieved. It was only the jail. But wait a minute—what about the food?

“Well,” the colonel said curtly, “did you, or didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew you were breaking two orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you go into the jail?”

“I was just visiting some men.”

“Oh?” The colonel waited, then said caustically, “‘Just visiting some men’?”

Peter Marlowe said nothing, only waited. Then it came.

“The American was also in the jail. Were you with him?”

“For part of the time. There is no law against that, sir. But I did break—the two orders.”

“What mischief were you two cooking up?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“So you admit that the two of you are connected with mischief from time to time?”

Peter Marlowe was furious with himself for not thinking before he answered, knowing that with this man, a fine man, he was out of his league. “No, sir.” His eyes focused on the colonel. But he said nothing. One rule. When you’re up before authority, you just say “No, sir,” “Yes, sir” and tell the truth. It was an inviolate rule that officers always told the truth, and here he was, against all his heritage, against everything he knew to be correct, telling lies and partial truths. That was quite wrong. Or was it?

Colonel Smedly-Taylor now began to play the game he had played so many times before. It was easy for him to toy with a man and then slaughter him, if he felt like it. “Look, Marlowe,” he said, his manner becoming fatherly, “it has been reported that you are involving yourself with undesirable elements. You would be wise to consider your position as an officer and a gentleman. Now this association—with this American. He is a blackmarketeer. He hasn’t been caught yet, but we know, and so you must know. I would advise you to cease this association. I can’t order it, of course, but I advise it.”

Peter Marlowe said nothing, bleeding inside. What the colonel said was true, and yet the King was his friend and his friend was feeding and helping both him and his unit. And he was a fine man, fine.

Peter Marlowe wanted to say, “You’re wrong, and I don’t care. I like him and he’s a good man and we’ve had fun together and laughed a lot,” and at the same time he wanted to admit the sales, and admit the village, and admit the diamond, and admit the sale today. But Peter Marlowe could see the King behind bars—robbed of his stature. So he steeled himself to keep from confessing.

Smedly-Taylor could easily detect the tumult in the youth in front of him. It would be so simple for him to say, “Wait outside, Grey,” and then, “Listen, my boy, I understand your problem. My God, I’ve had to father a regiment for almost as long as I can remember. I know the problem—you don’t want to rat on your friend. That’s commendable. But you’re a career officer, a hereditary officer—think of your family and the generations of officers who have served the country. Think of them. Your honor’s at stake. You have to tell the truth, that’s the law.” And then his little sigh, practiced over a generation, and “Let’s forget this nonsense of the infraction of rules by going into the jail. I’ve done it myself, several times. But if you want to confide in me…” and he’d let the words hang with just the right amount of gravity and out would come the secrets of the King and the King would be in the camp jail—but what purpose would that serve?

For the moment, the colonel had a greater worry—the weights. That could be a catastrophe of infinite proportions.

Colonel Smedly-Taylor knew that he could always get whatever information he wanted from this child at his whim—he knew the men so very well. He knew he was a clever commander—by God, he should be after all this time—and the first rule was keep the respect of your officers, treat them leniently until they really stepped out of line, then devour one of them ruthlessly as a lesson to the others. But you had to pick the right time, and the right crime, and the right officer.

“All right, Marlowe,” he said firmly. “I’ll fine you a month’s pay. I’ll keep it off your record and we’ll say no more about it. But don’t break any more rules.”

“Thank you, sir.” Peter Marlowe saluted and left, glad to be away from the interview. He had been on the threshold of telling everything. The colonel was a good and kind man, and his reputation for fairness was vast.

“Your conscience bothering you?” Grey asked outside the bungalow, noticing the sweat.