King Rat

The King whistled. A corporal yet! He had never done business with him. Too dangerous. Got to be someone I know. “Shagata-san?”

Cheng San nodded in agreement. This was the man he wanted, but he did not want to suggest it. He wanted to see who the King wanted—a last check on the King’s honesty.

Yes, Shagata was a good choice. Not too bright, but bright enough. He had dealt with him before. Good.

“Now, about the price,” said Cheng San. “I suggest we discuss this. Per carat four thousand counterfeit dollars. Total sixteen thousand. Four thousand in Malay dollars at the rate of fifteen to one.”

The King shook his head blandly, then said to Peter Marlowe, “Tell him I’m not going to crap around bargaining. The price is thirty thousand, five in Straits dollars at eight to one, all in small notes. My final price.”

“You’ll have to bargain a bit more,” said Peter Marlowe. “How about saying thirty-three, then—”

The King shook his head. “No. And when you translate use a word like ‘crap’!”

Reluctantly Peter Marlowe turned back to Cheng San. “My friend says thus: He is not going to mess around with the niceties of bargaining. His final price is thirty thousand—five thousand in Straits dollars at a rate of eight to one. All in small denomination notes.”

To his astonishment Cheng San said immediately, “I agree!” for he too didn’t want to fool with bargaining. The price was fair and he had sensed that the King was adamant. There comes a time in all deals when a man must decide, yea or nay. The Rajah was a good trader.

They shook hands. Sutra smiled and brought forth a bottle of sake. They drank each other’s health until the bottle was gone. Then they fixed the details.

In ten days Shagata would come to the American hut at the time of the night guard change. He would have the money and would see the ring before he handed over the money. Three days after, the King and Peter Marlowe would meet Cheng San at the village. If for some reason Shagata could not make the date, he would arrive the next day, or the next. Similarly, if the King couldn’t make their appointment at the village, they were to come the next day.

After paying and receiving the usual compliments, Cheng San said that he had to catch the tide. He bowed courteously and Sutra went out with him, escorting him to the shore. Beside the boat they began their polite quarrel about the fish business.

The King was triumphant. “Great, Peter. We’re in!”

“You’re terrific! When you said to give it to him in the teeth like that, well, old man, I thought you’d lost him. They just don’t do those things.”

“Had a hunch,” was all the King said. Then he added, chewing on a piece of meat, “You’re in for ten percent—of the profit, of course. But you’ll have to work for it, you son of a bitch.”

“Like a horse! God! Just think of all that money. Thirty thousand dollars would be a stack of notes perhaps a foot high.”

“More,” the King said, infected by the excitement.

“My God, you’ve got nerve. How on earth did you arrive at the price? He agreed, boom, just like that. One moment’s talk, then boom, you’re rich!”

“Got a lot of worrying to do before it is a deal. Lot of things could go wrong. It ain’t a deal till the cash is delivered and in the bank.”

“Oh, I never thought of that.”

“Business axiom. You can’t bank talk. Only greenbacks!”

“I still can’t get over it. We’re outside the camp, we’ve more food inside us than we’ve had in weeks. And prospects look great. You’re a bloody genius.”

“We’ll wait and see, Peter.”

The King stood up. “You wait here. I’ll be back in an hour or so. Got another bit of business to attend to. So long as we’re out of here in a couple of hours, we’ll be okay. Then we’ll hit the camp just before dawn. Best time. That’s when the guards’ll be at their lowest mark. See you,” and he disappeared down the steps.

In spite of himself, Peter Marlowe felt alone, and quite a little afraid.

Christ, what’s he up to? Where’s he going? What if he’s late? What if he doesn’t come back? What if a Jap comes into the village? What if I’m left on my own? Shall I go looking for him? If we don’t make it back by dawn, Christ, we’ll be reported missing and we’ll have to run. Where? Maybe Cheng San’ll help? Too dangerous! Where does he live? Could we make the docks and get a boat? Maybe contact the guerrillas who’re supposed to be operating?

Get hold of yourself, Marlowe, you damn coward! You’re acting like a three-year-old!

Curbing his anxiety, he settled down to wait. Then suddenly he remembered the coupling condenser—three hundred microfarads.

“Tabe, Tuan,” Kasseh smiled as the King entered her hut. “Tabe, Kasseh!”

“You like food, yes?”

He shook his head and held her close, his hands moving over her body. She stood on tiptoe to put her arms around his neck, her hair a plume of black gold falling to her waist.

“Long time,” she said, warmed by his touch.

“Long time,” he replied. “You miss me?”

“Uh-uh,” she laughed, aping his accent.

“He arrived yet?”

She shook her head. “No like this thing, tuan. Has danger.”