King Rat

The King submitted calmly. Now that the money wasn’t on him there was nothing that Grey could do. Nothing.

“Nothing on him, sir,” the MP said.

“Search the ditch.” Then, to the King: “Where’s Marlowe?”

“Who?” asked the King blandly.

“Marlowe!” Grey shouted. No money on this swine and no Marlowe!

“Probably taking a walk. Sir.” The King was polite, and his mind was centered only on Grey and the present danger, for he could sense that the danger was not completely past and that beside the jail wall were a group of malevolent ghosts, watching him for an instant before they disappeared.

“Where did you put the money?” Grey was saying.

“What money?”

“The money from the sale of the diamond.”

“What diamond? Sir!”

Grey knew he was beaten for the moment. He was beaten unless he could find Marlowe with the money on him. All right, you bastard, Grey thought, beside himself with rage, all right, I’ll let you go, but I’ll watch you and you’ll lead me to Marlowe.

“That’s all for the moment,” Grey said. “You’ve beaten us this time. But there’ll be another.”

The King walked back to his hut, chuckling to himself. You think I’m going to lead you to Peter, don’t you, Grey? But you’re so goddam smart you’re naïve.

Inside the hut, he found Max and Tex. They too were sweating.

“What happened?” Max said.

“Nothing. Max, go find Timsen. Tell him to wait under the window. I’ll talk to him there. Tell him not to come into the hut. Grey’s still watching us.”

“Okay.”

The King put the coffee on. His mind was working now. How to make the exchange? Where to make it? What to do about Timsen? How to draw Grey off from Peter?

“You wanted me, mate?”

The King didn’t turn to the window. He simply looked down the hut. The Americans got the message and left him alone. He watched Dino leave and returned Dino’s twisted smile.

“Timsen?” he said, busying himself with the coffee.

“Yes, mate?”

“I ought to cut your goddam throat.”

“It wasn’t my fault, cobber. Something went wrong—”

“Yeah. You wanted the money and the diamond.”

“No harm in trying, cobber.” Timsen chuckled. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re goddamned right.” The King liked Timsen. Lot on the ball. And no harm in trying, not when the stakes are so high. And he needed Timsen. “We’ll make the transfer during the day. Then there won’t be any ‘slip-ups.’ I’ll send you word when.”

“Right, cobber. Where’s the Pommy?”

“What Pommy?”

Timsen laughed. “See yer tomorrow!”

The King drank his coffee and called Max to guard the fort. Then he jumped cautiously out of the window, darted into the shadows and made his way to the jail wall. He was careful not to be observed, but not too careful, and he laughed to himself as he felt Grey following. He pretended well, backtracking through the huts and dodging this way and that. Grey relentlessly dogged his footsteps, and the King led him up to the jail gate and through the gate and into the cellblocks. Finally the King headed for the cell on the fourth floor and pretended to increase his concern as he went into the cell and left the door half ajar. Every quarter hour or so he’d open the door and peer anxiously around, and this went on until Tex arrived.

“All clear,” Tex said.

“Good.”

Peter was back and safe and there was no need to keep up the pretense, so he returned to his hut and winked at Peter Marlowe. “Where you been?”

“Thought I’d see how you were getting on.”

“Like some Java?”

“Thanks.”

Grey stood in the doorway. He said nothing, just looked. Peter Marlowe was wearing only his sarong. No pockets in a sarong. His armband was on his shoulder.

Peter Marlowe lifted the cup to his lips and drank the coffee and his eyes were locked on Grey and then Grey disappeared into the night.

Peter Marlowe got up exhaustedly. “Think I’ll turn in now.”

“I’m proud of you, Peter.”

“You meant what you said, didn’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

That night the King was worrying about a new problem. How in the hell could he do what he had said he would do?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Larkin was deeply troubled as he strode up the path towards the Aussie hut. He was worried about Peter Marlowe—his arm seemed to be troubling him more than somewhat, hurting too much to be brushed off as just a flesh wound. He was worried too about old Mac. Last night Mac’d been talking and screaming in his sleep. And he was worried about Betty. Had bad dreams himself last few nights, all twisted up, Betty and him, with other men in bed with her, and him watching and her laughing at him.

Larkin entered the hut and went over to Townsend, who was lying in his bunk.

Townsend’s eyes were puffed and closed and his face was scratched and his arms and chest were bruised and scratched. When he opened his mouth to answer, Larkin saw the bloody gap where teeth should have been.

“Who did it, Townsend?”

“Don’t know,” Townsend whimpered. “I wuz bushwhacked.”

“Why?”

Tears welled and dirtied the bruises. “I’d—I’d a—nothing—nothing. I don’t—know.”

“We’re alone, Townsend. Who did it?”