King Rat

The King was under the flap with Townsend nervously beside him.

“Show him the diamond,” the King ordered.

Townsend opened his ragged shirt and pulled out a cord and on the end of the cord was the diamond ring. Townsend was trembling as he showed it to Shagata, who focused his portable lamp on the stone. Shagata examined it carefully, a bead of ice-light on the end of a piece of string. Then he took it and scratched the glass surface of the lamp. It screeched and left its mark.

Shagata nodded, sweating. “Very well.” He turned to Peter Marlowe. “Truly it is a diamond,” he said and took out calipers and carefully measured the extent of the stone. Again he nodded. “Truly it is four carats.”

The King jerked his head. “All right. Peter, you wait with Townsend.”

Peter Marlowe got up and beckoned to Townsend and together they went outside the flap and waited in the darkness. And around them they could feel eyes. Hundreds of eyes.

“Bloody hell,” Townsend winced, “wish I’d never got the stone. The strain’s killing me, my bloody oath.” His palsied fingers played with the string and the jewel, making sure for the millionth time that it was around his neck. “Thank God this’s the last night.”

The King watched with increasing excitement as Shagata opened his ammunition pouch and planked down three inches of notes, and opened his shirt and brought out a two-inch bundle, and from his side pockets more bundles until there were two piles of notes, each six inches high. Rapidly the King started counting the notes, and Shagata made a quick nervous bow and left. He pushed past the flap, and when he was once more on the path he felt safer. He adjusted his rifle and began to walk the camp and almost knocked down Grey, who was coming up fast.

Grey cursed and hurried past, ignoring the torrent of abuse from Shagata. This time Shagata did not run after the bastard stinking POW as he should and beat some courtesy into him, for he was thankful to be away and anxious to get back to his post.

“Cops,” Max whispered urgently outside the flap.

The King scooped up the notes and tore out of the overhang, whispering to Townsend as he ran, “Get lost. Tell Timsen I’ve the money now and we’ll pay off tonight when the heat’s off.”

Townsend vanished.

“Come on, Peter.”

The King led the way under the hut as Grey rounded the corner.

“Stay where you are, you two!” Grey shouted.

“Yes, sir!” Max called grandly from the shadows and moved in the way, Tex beside him, covering the King and Peter Marlowe.

“Not you two.” Grey tried to push past.

“But you wanted us to stop—” began Max easily, moving back in Grey’s way.

Grey shoved past furiously and darted under the hut in pursuit.

The King and Peter Marlowe had already jumped into the slit trench and were up the other side. Another group ran interference as Grey ran after them.

Grey spotted them tearing down the jail wall and blew his whistle, alerting the MP’s already stationed. The MP’s moved out into the open and guarded the area from jail wall to jail wall, and from jail wall to barbed fence.

“This way,” the King said as he jumped through the window of Timsen’s hut. No one in the hut paid any attention to them, but many saw the bulge in the King’s shirt.

They raced through the hut and out the door. Another group of Aussies appeared and covered their retreat just as Grey panted up to the window and caught a fleeting glimpse of them. He rushed around the hut. The Aussies had covered their exit.

Grey called out abruptly, “Which way did they go? Come on! Which way?”

A chorus of “Who?”

“Who, sir?”

Grey pushed his way through them and hurried into the open.

“Everyone’s in position, sir,” an MP said, running up to him.

“Good. They can’t get far. And they won’t dare dump the money. We’ll start moving in on them. Tell the others.”

The King and Peter Marlowe ran towards the north end of the jail and stopped.

“Goddam it to hell!” the King said.

Where there should have been a phalanx of Aussies to run interference for them, now there were only MP’s. Five of them.

“What next?” Peter Marlowe said.

“We’ll have to backtrack. C’mon!”

Moving quickly, the King asked himself, What the hell’s gone wrong? Then suddenly he found it. Four men blocked their run. They had handkerchiefs over their faces and heavy sticks in their hands.

“Better hand over the money, mate, if you don’t want to get hurt.”

The King feinted, then charged, with Peter Marlowe at his side. The King plowed into one man and kicked another in the groin. Peter Marlowe blocked a blow, biting back a scream as it glanced off his arm, and tore the stick out of the man’s grasp. The other bushwhacker took to his heels and was swallowed by the darkness.

“Chrissake,” the King panted, “let’s get out of here.”

Again they were off. They could feel eyes following them and any moment they expected another attack. The King skidded to a stop.

“Look out! Grey!”