King Rat

  The Colonel turned his head and looked at her and caught her hand. “I love you. Mem.”

  She looked deep into the mirror of his eyes, then raised herself and kissed his lips and her tresses screened them together, her to him. “I love you,” she whispered.

  And as they loved each other, she felt her warmth building, building. I’m so lucky, so lucky. I thank God, I’m so lucky.

  Mac opened his eyes. His blankets were soaked. His fever had passed. And he knew that he was alive once more.

  Peter Marlowe was still sitting beside the bed. Night somewhere behind him.

  “Hello, laddie.” The words were so faint that Peter Marlowe had to bend forward to catch them.

  “You all right, Mac?”

  “All right, laddie. It’s almost worth the fever, to feel so good. I’ll sleep now. Bring me some food tomorrow.”

  Mac closed his eyes and was asleep. Peter Marlowe pulled the blankets off him and dried the husk of the man.

  “Where can I get some dry blankets, Steven?” he asked, as he caught sight of the orderly hurrying through the ward.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Steven said. He had seen this young man many times. And liked him. Perhaps—but no, Lloyd would be terribly jealous. Another day. There’s plenty of time. “Perhaps I can help you, sir.”

  Steven went over to the fourth bed and took the blanket off the man, then deftly slid the bottom blanket off and came back. “Here,” he said. “Use these.”

  “What about him?”

  “Oh,” Steven said with a gentle smile. “He doesn’t need them any more. The detail’s due. Poor boy.”

  “Oh!” Peter Marlowe looked across to see who it was, but it was a face he didn’t know. “Thanks,” he said and began to fix the bed.

  “Here,” Steven said. “Let me. I can do it much better than you.” He was proud of the way he could make a bed without hurting the patient.

  “Now don’t you worry about your friend,” he said, “I’ll see that he’s all right.” He tucked Mac in like a child. “There.” He stroked Mac’s head for a moment, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the remains of the sweat off Mac’s forehead. “He’ll be fine in two days. If you have some extra food—” but he stopped and looked at Peter Marlowe and the tears gathered in his eyes. “How silly of me. But don’t you fret, Steven will find something for him. Now don’t you worry. There’s nothing more you can do tonight. You go off and have a good night’s rest. Go on, there’s a good boy.”

  Speechless, Peter Marlowe allowed himself to be led outside. Steven smiled good night and went back inside.

  From the darkness Peter Marlowe watched Steven smooth a fevered brow and hold an agued hand, and caress away the night-devils and soften the night-cries and adjust the covers and help a man to drink and help a man to vomit, and all the time a lullaby, delicate and sweet. When Steven came to Bed Four, he stopped and looked down on the corpse. He straightened the limbs and crossed the hands, then took off his smock and covered the body, his touch a benediction. Steven’s slim smooth torso and slim smooth legs glowed in the glittering half light.

  “You poor boy,” he whispered and looked around the tomb. “Poor boys. Oh, my poor boys,” and he wept for them all.

  Peter Marlowe turned away into the night, filled with pity, ashamed that Steven had once upon a time disgusted him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As Peter Marlowe neared the American hut he was full of misgivings. He was sorry that he had agreed so readily to interpret for the King, and at the same time upset that he was unhappy about doing it. You’re a fine friend, he told himself, after all he’s done for you.

  The sinking in his stomach increased. Just like before you go up for a mission, he thought. No, not like that. This feeling’s like when you’ve been sent for by the headmaster. The other’s just as painful, but at the same time mixed with pleasure. Like the village. That makes your heart take flight. To take such a chance, just for the excitement—or in truth for the food or the girl that might be there.

  He wondered for the thousandth time just why the King went and what he did there. But to ask would be impolite and he knew that he only had to have a little patience to find out. That was another reason he liked the King. The way that he volunteered nothing and kept most of his thoughts to himself. That’s the English way, Peter Marlowe told himself contentedly. Just let out a little at a time, when you’re in the mood. What you are or who you are is your own affair—until you wish to share with a friend. And a friend never asks. It has to be freely given or not at all.

  Like the village. My God, he thought, that shows how much he thinks of you, to open up like that. Just to come out and say do you want to come along, the next time I go.

  Peter Marlowe knew that it was an insane thing to do. To go to the village. But perhaps not so insane now. Now there was a real reason. An important reason. To try to get a part to fix the wireless—or to get a wireless, a whole one. Yes. This makes the risk worthwhile.

  But at the same time he knew that he would have gone just because he had been asked to go, and because of the might-be-food and might-be-girl.

  He saw the King deep in a shadow, beside a hut, talking to another shadow. Their heads were close together and their voices were inaudible. So intent were they that Peter Marlowe decided to pass the King by, and he began to mount the stairs into the American hut, crossing the shaft of light.

  “Hey, Peter,” the King called out.

  Peter Marlowe stopped.

  “Be right with you, Peter.” The King turned back to the other figure. “Think you’d better wait here, Major. Soon as he arrives I’ll give you the word.”

  “Thank you,” the small man said, his voice wet with embarrassment.

  “Have some tobacco,” the King said, and it was accepted avidly. Major Prouty backed deeper into the shadows but kept his eyes on the King as he walked the space to his own hut.

  “Missed you, buddy,” the King said to Peter Marlowe and punched him playfully. “How’s Mac?”

  “He’s all right, thanks.” Peter Marlowe wanted to get out of the shaft of light. Dammit, he thought. I’m embarrassed being seen with my friend. And that’s rotten. Very rotten.

  But he could not help feeling the major’s eyes watching—or stop the wince as the King said, “C’mon. Won’t be long, then we can go to work!”

  Grey went to the hiding place just in case there was a message for him in the can. And there was. Major Prouty’s watch. Tonight. Marlowe and him.

  Grey tossed the can back into the ditch as casually as he had picked it up. Then, stretching, he got up and walked back towards Hut Sixteen. But all the time his mind worked with computer speed.

  Marlowe and the King. They’ll be in the “shop” behind the American hut. Prouty. Which one? Major! Is he the one with the Artillery? Or the Aussie? Come on, Grey, he asked himself irritably, where’s the card index mind you’re so proud of? Got him! Hut Eleven! Little man! Pioneers! Aussie!

  Is he connected with Larkin? No. Not to my knowledge. An Aussie. Then why not through that Aussie black-marketeer Tiny Timsen? Why the King? Maybe it’s too big for Timsen to handle. Or maybe it’s stolen property—more likely, for then Prouty wouldn’t use regular Aussie channels. That’s more like it.

  Grey glanced at his watch. He did it instinctively, even though he had not had a watch for three years, even though he needed no watch to tell the time or gauge the hour of the night. Like all of them, he knew the time, as much of time as it was necessary to know.

  It’s too early yet, he thought. The guards don’t change yet awhile. And when they did, from his hut he would be able to see the old guard plod the camp, way up the road, past his hut toward the guardhouse. The man to watch’ll be the new guard. Who is it? Who cares? I’ll know soon enough. Safer to wait and watch until the time, then swoop. Carefully. Just interrupt them politely. See the guard with the King and Marlowe. Better to see them when the money changes hands or when the King hands over the money
to Prouty. Then a report to Colonel Smedly-Taylor: “Last night I witnessed an interchange of money,” or just as good: “I saw the American corporal and Flight Lieutenant Marlowe, DFC—Hut Sixteen—with a Korean guard. I have reason to believe that Major Prouty, Pioneers, was involved and provided the watch for sale.”

  That would do it. The regulations, he thought happily, were clear and defined: “No sales to guards!” Caught in the act. Then there would be a court-martial.

  A court-martial to begin with. Then my jail, my little jail. With no extras and no katchang idju-bully. No nothing. Only caged, caged like the rats you are. Then to be let go—angry and hating. And angry men make mistakes. And the next time, perhaps Yoshima would be waiting. Better let the Japs do their own work—to help them isn’t right. Perhaps in this case it would be all right. But no. Just a nudge, perhaps?

  I’ll pay you back, Peter Bloody Marlowe. Maybe sooner than I’d hoped. And my revenge on you and that crook will be ecstasy.

  The King glanced at his watch. Nine-four. Any second now. One thing about the Japs, you always knew to the instant what they were going to do, for once a timetable had been set, it was set.

  Then he heard the footsteps. Torusumi rounded the corner of the hut and came quickly under the lee of the curtain. The King rose to greet him. Peter Marlowe, also under the curtain, got up reluctantly, hating himself.

  Torusumi was a character among the guards. Quite well-known. Dangerous and unpredictable. He had a face where most of them were faceless. He had been with the camp for a year or more. He liked to work the POW’s hard and keep them in the sun and shout at them and kick them when the mood was on him.

  “Tabe,” said the King, grinning. “Like smoke?” He offered some raw Java tobacco.

  Torusumi showed his gold-proud teeth and handed Peter Marlowe his rifle and sat down. He pulled out a pack of Kooas and offered them to the King, who accepted one. Then the Korean looked at Peter Marlowe.

  “Ichi-bon friend,” said the King.

  Torusumi grunted, showed teeth, sucked his breath in and offered a cigarette.

  Peter Marlowe hesitated. “Take it, Peter,” the King said.

  Peter Marlowe obeyed, and the guard sat down at the little table.

  “Tell him,” said the King to Peter Marlowe, “that he’s welcome.”

  “My friend says that thou art welcome and he is pleasured to see thee here.”

  “Ah, I thank thee. Does my worthy friend have anything for me?”

  “He asks have you anything for him?”

  “Tell him exactly what I say, Peter. Be exact.”

  “I’ll have to put it in the vernacular. You can’t translate exactly.”

  “That’s okay—but make sure it’s right—and take your time.”

  The King passed over the watch. Peter Marlowe noticed with surprise that it was like new, freshly burnished, a new plastic watch face, and in a neat little chamois leather case.

  “Tell him this—a guy I know wants to sell it. But it’s expensive, and maybe not what he wants.”

  Even Peter Marlowe saw the glint of avarice in the Korean’s eyes as he took the watch out of the case and held it to his ear, grunted casually and put it back on the table.

  Peter Marlowe translated the Korean’s reply. “Hast thou something else? I regret that Omegas are not bringing much in Singapore these days.”

  “Thy Malay is exceptionally good, sir,” Torusumi added to Peter Marlowe, politely sucking the air past his teeth.

  “I thank thee,” Peter Marlowe said grudgingly.

  “What’d he say, Peter?”

  “Just that I spoke Malay well, that’s all.”

  “Oh! Well, tell him I’m sorry, but that’s all I’ve got.”

  The King waited until this had been translated, then smiled and shrugged and picked up the watch and put it into its case and back in his pocket, and got up. “Salamat!” he said.

  Torusumi showed his teeth once more, then indicated that the King should sit. “It is not that I want the watch,” he said to the King. “But because thou art my friend and thou hast taken much trouble, I should inquire what does the man who owns this insignificant watch want for it?”

  “Three thousand dollars,” the King replied. “I’m sorry it’s overpriced.”

  “Truly it is overpriced. The owner has sickness in his head. I am a poor man, only a guard, yet because we have done business in the past and to do thee a favor I will offer three hundred dollars.”

  “I regret. I dare not. I have heard that there are other buyers who would pay a more reasonable price through other intermediaries. I agree that thou art a poor man and should not offer money for so insignificant a watch. Of course, Omegas are not worth much money, but in deference to the owner thou wouldst understand it would be an insult to offer him anything less than a second-class watch is worth.”

  “That is true. Perhaps I should increase the price, for even a poor man has honor, and it would be honorable to try to alleviate any man’s suffering in these trying times. Four hundred.”

  “I thank your concern for my acquaintance. But this watch—being an Omega—and being that the price of Omegas has fallen from their accepted high place previously, obviously there is a more definite reason for thou not wanting to do business with me. A man of honor is always honorable—”

  “I, too, am a man of honor. I had no wish to impugn thy reputation and the reputation of your acquaintance who owns the watch. Perhaps I should risk my reputation and try to see if I could persuade those miserable Chinese merchants with whom I have to deal to give a fair price once in their miserable existences. I’m sure that thou wilt agree, five hundred would be the maximum a fair and honorable man could go for an Omega, even before their price dropped.”

  “True, my friend. But I have a thought for thee. Perhaps the prices of Omegas have not dropped from their ichi-bon position. Perhaps the miserly Chinese are mistakenly taking advantage of a man of honor. Why, only last week another of thy Korean friends came to me and bought such a watch and paid three thousand dollars for it. I only offered it to thee because of my long friendship and trust that pertains as between associates of long standing.”

  “Dost thou tell me truly?” Torusumi spat vehemently on the floor, and Peter Marlowe readied himself for the blow which had followed such outbursts before.

  The King sat unperturbed. God, thought Peter Marlowe, he’s got nerves of steel. The King pulled out some shreds of tobacco and began to roll himself a cigarette. When Torusumi saw this, he stopped raving and offered the pack of Kooas and cooled.

  “I am astonished that the miserable Chinese merchants for whom I risk my life are so corrupt. I am horrified to hear what thou, my friend, hast told me. Worse, I am appalled. To think that they have abused my trust. For a year I have been dealing with the same man. And to think that he has cheated me for so long. I think I will kill him.”

  “Better,” said the King, “to outsmart him.”

  “How? I would dearly like my friend to tell me.”

  “Curse him with thy tongue. Tell him that information has been given thee to prove that he is a cheat. Tell him if he does not give thee a fair price in future—a fair price plus twenty percent to pay thee back for all his past errors—then thou mayest whisper in the ear of the authorities. Then they will take him and take his women and take his children and abuse them to thy satisfaction.”

  “It is superb advice. I am happy with the thought of my friend. Because of his thought and the friendship I hold for him, let me offer fifteen hundred dollars. It is all the money I have in the world, plus some money entrusted to me by my friend who is with the sickness of women in the stink-house called a hospital and who cannot work for himself.”

  The King bent down and slapped at the clouds of mosquitoes on his ankles. That’s more like it, boy, he thought. Let’s see. Twenty would be high. Eighteen okay. Fifteen not bad.

  “The King begs thee to wait,” Peter Marlowe translated. “He must consult wit
h the miserable man who wishes to sell thee an overpriced commodity.”

  The King climbed through the window and walked down the length of the hut, checking. Max was in place. Dino down the path to one side. Byron Jones III to the other.

  He found Major Prouty, sweating with anxiety in the shadow of the hut next to the American hut.

  “Gee, I’m sorry, sir,” the King whispered unhappily. “The guy’s not anxious at all.”

  Prouty’s anxiety intensified. He had to sell. Oh God, he thought, just my luck. Got to get some money somehow.

  “Won’t he offer anything?”

  “Best I could do was four hundred.”

  “Four hundred! Why everyone knows that an Omega’s worth at least two thousand.”

  “I’m afraid that’s a story, sir. He, well, he seems suspicious. That it’s not an Omega.”

  “He’s out of his mind. Of course it’s an Omega.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the King, stiffening slightly. “I’m only reporting…”

  “My fault, Corporal. I didn’t mean to pick on you. These yellow bastards are all the same.” Now what do I do? Prouty asked himself. If I don’t sell it through the King we won’t sell it at all, and the unit needs the money and all our work will be for nothing. What do I do?

  Prouty thought a minute, then said, “See what you can do, Corporal. I couldn’t take less than twelve hundred. I just couldn’t.”

  “Well, sir. I don’t think I can do much, but I’ll try.”

  “There’s a good fellow. I’m relying on you. I wouldn’t let it go so low, but well, food’s been so short. You know how it is.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the King politely. “I’ll try, but I’m afraid I can’t push him up much. He says the Chinese aren’t buying like they used to. But I’ll do what I can.”

  Grey had marked Torusumi walking the camp and he knew that the time would soon be ripe. He had waited enough and now it was time. He got up and walked out of the hut, adjusting his armband and straightening his hat. No need for another witness, his word was enough. So he went alone.