King Rat

Kennedy called another doctor and he confirmed the diagnosis and Peter Marlowe knew that the nightmare was not a dream. He did have gangrene. Oh my God! The fear washed his strength away. He listened, terrified. They explained that the gangrene was caused by bacilli multiplying deep down in his arm, breeding death, right now. His arm was a cancerous thing. It had to be cut off. Cut off to the elbow. It had to be cut off soon or the entire arm would have to be removed. But he wasn’t to worry. It wouldn’t hurt. They had plenty of ether now—not like in the old days.

And then Peter Marlowe was outside the hospital, his arm still on him—bacilli breeding—tied with a clean bandage, and he was groping his way down the hill, for he had told them, the doctors, that he would have to think this over … Think what over? What was there to think? He found himself outside the American hut and he saw that the King was alone in the hut and all was prepared for Shagata’s coming—if he came that night.

“Jesus, what’s with you, Peter?”

The King listened, his dismay growing as the story spilled out.

“Christ!” He stared at the arm, which rested on the table.

“I swear to God I’d rather die than live a cripple. I swear to God!” Peter Marlowe looked up at the King, pathetic, unguarded, and out of his eyes came a scream: Help, help, for the love of God, help!

And the King thought, Holy Cow, what would I do if I was Peter and that was my arm, and what about the diamond—got to have Peter to help there, got to …

“Hey,” whispered Max urgently from the doorway. “Shagata’s on his way.”

“All right, Max. What about Grey?”

“He’s down by the wall under cover. Timsen knows about him. His Aussies’re covering.”

“Good, beat it and get ready. Spread the word.”

“Okay.” Max hurried away.

“Come on, Peter, we got to get ready,” the King said.

But Peter Marlowe was in shock. Useless.

“Peter!” The King shook him roughly. “Get up and get with it!” he grated. “Come on. You’ve got to help. Get up!”

He jerked Peter Marlowe to his feet.

“Christ, what—”

“Shagata’s coming. We’ve got to finish the deal.”

“To hell with your deal!” Peter Marlowe screamed, brinked on insanity. “To hell with the diamond! They’re going to cut off my arm.”

“No they’re not!”

“You’re goddam right they’re not. I’m going to die first—”

The King backhanded him hard, then slapped him viciously.

The raving stopped abruptly and Peter Marlowe shook his head. “What the hell—”

“Shagata’s coming. We got to get ready.”

“He’s coming?” Peter Marlowe asked blankly, his face burning from the blows.

“Yes.” The King saw that Peter Marlowe’s eyes were once more guarded and he knew that the Englishman was back in the world. “Jesus,” he said, weak with relief. “I had to do something, Peter, you were shouting your head off.”

“Was I? Oh, sorry, what a fool.”

“You all right now? You got to keep your wits about you.”

“I’m all right now.”

Peter Marlowe slipped through the window after the King. And he was glad of the shaft of pain that soared up his arm as his feet hit the ground. You panicked, you fool, he told himself. You, Marlowe, you panicked like a child. Fool. So you have to lose your arm. You’re lucky it’s not a leg, then you’d really be crippled. What’s an arm? Nothing. You can get an artificial one. Sure. With a hook. Nothing wrong with a false arm. Nothing. Could be quite a good idea. Certainly.

“Tabe,” Shagata greeted them as he ducked under the flap of canvas which shielded the overhang.

“Tabe,” said the King and Peter Marlowe.

Shagata was very nervous. The more he had thought about this deal the less he liked it. Too much money, too much risk. And he sniffed the air like a dog pointing. “I smell danger,” he said.

“He says, ‘I can smell danger.’”

“Tell him not to worry, Peter. I know about the danger and it’s taken care of. But what about Cheng San?”

“I tell thee,” Shagata whispered hurriedly, “that the gods smile upon thee and me and our friend. He is a fox, that one, for the pestilential police let him out of their trap.” The sweat was running down his face and soaking him. “I have the money.”

The King’s stomach turned over. “Tell him we’d better dispense with the yak and get with it. I’ll be right back with the goods.”

The King found Timsen in the shadows.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” Timsen whistled a bird call in the dark. Almost at once it was answered. “Do it fast, mate. I can’t guarantee to hold you safe for long.”

“Okay.” The King waited and out of the darkness came a lean Aussie corporal.

“Hi, cobber. Name’s Townsend. Bill Townsend.”

“Come on.”

The King hurried back to the overhang while Timsen kept guard and his Aussies fanned out, ready for the escape route.

Down by the corner of the jail, Grey was waiting impatiently. Dino had just whispered in his ear that Shagata had arrived, but Grey knew that the preliminaries would take a while. A while, and then he could move.

Smedly-Taylor’s phalanx was ready too, waiting for the transfer to take place. Once Grey was in motion, they too would move.