King Rat

  “For the last time, Grey, button your mouth, or by God I’ll button it for you.”

  Grey tried to control himself. He wanted to pit himself against this man, here and now. He could beat him, he knew he could. Any time. Dysentery or no. “If we ever get out of this mess alive, I’ll look for you. The first thing. The very first thing.”

  “It would be a pleasure. But until that time, if you ever insult me again I’ll whip you.” Peter Marlowe turned to the other officers. “You all heard me. I’m giving him warning. I’m not going to be sworn at by this lower-class ape.” He whipped around on Grey. “Now stay away from me.”

  “How can I when you’re a lawbreaker?”

  “What law?”

  “Be at Colonel Smedly-Taylor’s after supper. And one more thing—you’re under hut arrest until time to report.”

  Grey walked away. Most of his exultation had been drained from him. It was stupid to call Marlowe names. Stupid, when there was no need.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When Peter Marlowe arrived outside Colonel Smedly-Taylor’s bungalow, Grey was already there.

  “I’ll tell the colonel you arrived,” Grey said.

  “You’re so kind.” Peter Marlowe felt uncomfortable. The peaked Air Force cap he had borrowed irritated. The ragged but clean shirt he wore irritated. Sarongs are so much more comfortable, he told himself, so much more sensible. And thinking of sarongs he thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow was the money exchange day. For the diamond. Tomorrow Shagata was to bring the money and then in three days the village once more. Maybe Sulina…

  You’re a fool to think about her. Get your wits with you, you’re going to need them.

  “All right, Marlowe. ’Tenshun,” Grey ordered.

  Peter Marlowe came to attention and began to march, militarily correct, into the colonel’s room. As he passed Grey he whispered, “Up you, Jack,” and felt a little better, and then he was in front of the colonel. He saluted smartly and fixed his eyes through the colonel.

  Seated behind a crude desk, cap on, swagger cane on the table, Smedly-Taylor looked at Peter Marlowe bleakly and returned the salute punctiliously. He prided himself on the way he handled camp discipline. Everything he did was Army. By the book.

  He sized up the young man in front of him—standing erect. Good, he told himself, that’s at least in his favor. He remained silent for a while, as was his custom. Always unsettle the accused. At last he spoke.

  “Well, Flight Lieutenant Marlowe? What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “Nothing, sir. I don’t know what I’m charged with.”

  Colonel Smedly-Taylor glanced at Grey, surprised, then frowned back at Peter Marlowe. “Perhaps you break so many rules that you have difficulty remembering them. You went into the jail yesterday. That’s against orders. You were not wearing an armband. That’s against orders.”

  Peter Marlowe was relieved. It was only the jail. But wait a minute—what about the food?

  “Well,” the colonel said curtly, “did you, or didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You knew you were breaking two orders?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you go into the jail?”

  “I was just visiting some men.”

  “Oh?” The colonel waited, then said caustically, “‘Just visiting some men’?”

  Peter Marlowe said nothing, only waited. Then it came.

  “The American was also in the jail. Were you with him?”

  “For part of the time. There is no law against that, sir. But I did break—the two orders.”

  “What mischief were you two cooking up?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “So you admit that the two of you are connected with mischief from time to time?”

  Peter Marlowe was furious with himself for not thinking before he answered, knowing that with this man, a fine man, he was out of his league. “No, sir.” His eyes focused on the colonel. But he said nothing. One rule. When you’re up before authority, you just say “No, sir,” “Yes, sir” and tell the truth. It was an inviolate rule that officers always told the truth, and here he was, against all his heritage, against everything he knew to be correct, telling lies and partial truths. That was quite wrong. Or was it?

  Colonel Smedly-Taylor now began to play the game he had played so many times before. It was easy for him to toy with a man and then slaughter him, if he felt like it. “Look, Marlowe,” he said, his manner becoming fatherly, “it has been reported that you are involving yourself with undesirable elements. You would be wise to consider your position as an officer and a gentleman. Now this association—with this American. He is a blackmarketeer. He hasn’t been caught yet, but we know, and so you must know. I would advise you to cease this association. I can’t order it, of course, but I advise it.”

  Peter Marlowe said nothing, bleeding inside. What the colonel said was true, and yet the King was his friend and his friend was feeding and helping both him and his unit. And he was a fine man, fine.

  Peter Marlowe wanted to say, “You’re wrong, and I don’t care. I like him and he’s a good man and we’ve had fun together and laughed a lot,” and at the same time he wanted to admit the sales, and admit the village, and admit the diamond, and admit the sale today. But Peter Marlowe could see the King behind bars—robbed of his stature. So he steeled himself to keep from confessing.

  Smedly-Taylor could easily detect the tumult in the youth in front of him. It would be so simple for him to say, “Wait outside, Grey,” and then, “Listen, my boy, I understand your problem. My God, I’ve had to father a regiment for almost as long as I can remember. I know the problem—you don’t want to rat on your friend. That’s commendable. But you’re a career officer, a hereditary officer—think of your family and the generations of officers who have served the country. Think of them. Your honor’s at stake. You have to tell the truth, that’s the law.” And then his little sigh, practiced over a generation, and “Let’s forget this nonsense of the infraction of rules by going into the jail. I’ve done it myself, several times. But if you want to confide in me…” and he’d let the words hang with just the right amount of gravity and out would come the secrets of the King and the King would be in the camp jail—but what purpose would that serve?

  For the moment, the colonel had a greater worry—the weights. That could be a catastrophe of infinite proportions.

  Colonel Smedly-Taylor knew that he could always get whatever information he wanted from this child at his whim—he knew the men so very well. He knew he was a clever commander—by God, he should be after all this time—and the first rule was keep the respect of your officers, treat them leniently until they really stepped out of line, then devour one of them ruthlessly as a lesson to the others. But you had to pick the right time, and the right crime, and the right officer.

  “All right, Marlowe,” he said firmly. “I’ll fine you a month’s pay. I’ll keep it off your record and we’ll say no more about it. But don’t break any more rules.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Peter Marlowe saluted and left, glad to be away from the interview. He had been on the threshold of telling everything. The colonel was a good and kind man, and his reputation for fairness was vast.

  “Your conscience bothering you?” Grey asked outside the bungalow, noticing the sweat.

  Peter Marlowe didn’t answer. He was still upset and enormously relieved to have escaped.

  The colonel called out, “Grey! Could I see you for a moment?”

  “Yes, sir.” Grey looked a last time at Peter Marlowe. One month’s pay! Not very much, considering that the colonel had him. Grey was surprised and not a little angry that Marlowe had got off so lightly. But, at the same time, he had seen Smedly-Taylor operate before. And he knew that the colonel was tenacious as a bulldog, that he played men like fish. He must have a plan, to let Marlowe go so easily.

  Grey stepped around Peter Marlowe and went inside once more.

  “Er, close t
he door, Grey.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When they were alone, Colonel Smedly-Taylor said, “I’ve seen Lieutenant Colonel Jones and Quartermaster Sergeant Blakely.”

  “Yes, sir?” Now we’re getting somewhere!

  “I have relieved them of their duties as from today,” the colonel said, playing with the weight.

  Grey’s smile was broad. “Yes, sir.” Now, when would the court-martial be, and how would it be arranged, and would it be in camera and would they be reduced to the ranks? Soon everyone in camp would know that he, Grey, had caught them at their treachery; he, Grey, was a guardian angel, and my God, how wonderful it would be.

  “And we’ll forget the matter,” the colonel said.

  Grey’s smile vanished. “What?”

  “Yes. I have decided to forget the matter. And so will you. In fact I repeat my order. You are not to mention this to anyone and you are to forget it.”

  Grey was so astounded that he sank to the bed and stared at the colonel. “But we can’t do that, sir!” he burst out. “We caught them red-handed. Stealing the camp food. That’s your food and my food. And they tried to bribe me. To bribe me!” His voice became hysterical. “Holy Christ, I caught them, they’re thieves, they deserve to be hung and quartered.”

  “True.” Colonel Smedly-Taylor nodded gravely. “But I think, under the circumstances, that this is the wisest decision.”

  Grey leaped to his feet. “You can’t do that!” he shouted. “You can’t let them off scot-free! You can’t—”

  “Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do!”

  “I’m sorry,” Grey said, fighting for control. “But, sir, those men are thieves. I caught them. You’ve got the weight.”

  “I’ve decided that this is the end of the matter.” His voice was calm. “The matter is closed.”

  Grey’s temper snapped. “By God, it’s not closed! I won’t let it be closed! Those bastards’ve been eating when we’ve been hungry! They deserve to get chopped! And I insist—”

  Smedly-Taylor’s voice overrode the hysteria. “Shut up, Grey! You can’t insist on anything. The matter is closed.”

  Smedly-Taylor sighed heavily and picked up a piece of paper and said, “This is your official report. I’ve added something today. I’ll read it to you. ‘I strongly recommend Lieutenant Grey for his work as Provost Marshal of the Camp Police. His performance of duty is, beyond question, excellent. I would like to recommend that he be given the acting rank of Captain.’” He looked up from the paper. “I propose sending this to the Camp Commandant today and recommending that your promotion be effective from today’s date.” He smiled. “You know of course that he has the authority to promote you. Congratulations, Captain Grey. You deserve it.” He offered Grey his hand.

  But Grey didn’t accept it. He merely looked at it and at the paper, and he knew. “Why, you rotten bastard! You’re buying me off. You’re as bad—maybe you’ve been eating the rice too. Why, you shit, you dirty rotten shit—”

  “You hold your tongue, you jumped-up subaltern! Stand to attention! I said stand to attention!”

  “You’re in with them, and I’m not going to let any of you get away with it,” Grey shouted and snatched the weight off the table and backed away. “I can’t prove anything about you yet, but I’ve proof against them. This weight—”

  “What about the weight, Grey?”

  It took Grey an age to look down at the weight. The bottom was un-marred.

  “I said, ‘What about the weight?’” Stupid fool, Smedly-Taylor thought contemptuously as he watched Grey search for the hole. What a fool! I could eat him for breakfast and not notice it.

  “It’s not the one I gave you,” Grey choked. “It’s not the same. It’s not the same.”

  “You’re quite wrong. It’s the same one.” The colonel was quite calm.

  He continued, his voice benign and solicitous. “Now, Grey, you’re a young man. I understand that you want to stay in the army when the war’s over. That’s good. We can use intelligent, hard-working officers. Regular Army’s a wonderful life. Certainly. And Colonel Samson was telling me how highly he thinks of you. As you know, he’s a friend of mine. I’m sure I could prevail upon him to add to my recommendation that you should be granted a permanent commission. You’re just overwrought, understandably so. These are terrible times. I think it’s wise to let this matter drop. It would be ill-advised to involve the camp in a scandal. Very ill-advised. I’m sure you understand the wisdom of this.”

  He waited, despising Grey. At just the correct time—for he was an expert—he said, “Do you want me to send your recommendation for captaincy to the Camp Commandant?”

  Grey slowly turned to the paper, eyeing it with horror. He knew that the colonel could give or withhold, and where he could give or withhold, he could also slaughter. Grey knew he was beaten. Beaten. He tried to speak, but so vast was his misery that he could not speak. He nodded and he heard Smedly-Taylor say, “Good, you can take it as read that your captaincy is confirmed. I feel sure my recommendation and Colonel Samson’s will add tremendous weight to your being granted a permanent commission after the war,” and he felt himself go out of the room and up to the jail hut and dismiss the MP and he didn’t care that the man looked at him as though he were mad. Then he was alone inside the jail hut. He shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed within the cell and his misery erupted and he wept.

  Broken.

  Ripped apart.

  Tears wet his hands and face. His spirit whirled in terror, teetering on the brink of the unknown, then fell into eternity…

  When Grey came to, he was lying on a stretcher being carried by two MP’s. Dr. Kennedy was clomping ahead. Grey knew that he was dying but he did not care. Then he saw the King standing beside the path, looking down at him.

  Grey noticed the neat polished shoes, the trousers’ crease, the tailor-made Kooa, the well-fed countenance. And he remembered that he had a job to do. He could not die yet. Not yet, not while the King was well-creased and polished and well fed. Not with the diamond in the offing. By God, no!

  “We’d better make this the last game,” Colonel Smedly-Taylor was saying. “Mustn’t miss the show.”

  “Can’t wait to get an eyeful of Sean,” Jones said, sorting his cards. “Two diamonds.” He opened smugly.

  “You’ve the luck of the devil,” Sellars said sharply. “Two spades.”

  “Pass.”

  “Not always the luck of the devil, partner,” Smedly-Taylor said with a thin smile. His granite eyes looked at Jones. “You were pretty stupid today.”

  “It was just bad luck.”

  “There’s no excuse for bad luck,” Smedly-Taylor said, studying his cards. “You should have checked. You were incompetent not to check.”

  “I’ve said I’m sorry. You think I don’t realize that it was stupid? I’ll never do that again. Never. I never knew what it was like to be panicked.”

  “Two no trumps.” Smedly-Taylor smiled at Sellars. “This’ll make it rubber, partner.” Then he turned to Jones again. “I’ve recommended that Samson take over from you—you need a ‘rest.’ That’ll take Grey off the scent—oh yes, and Sergeant Donovan’ll be Samson’s Quartermaster Sergeant.” He laughed shortly. “It’s a pity we have to change the system, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll just have to make sure that Grey’s busy on the days the false weights are used.” He looked back at Sellars. “That’ll be your job.”

  “Very good.”

  “Oh, by the way, I fined Marlowe a month’s pay. He’s in one of your huts, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Sellars said.

  “I was soft on him, but he’s a good man, comes from a good family—not like that lower-class sod Grey. My God, what a bloody nerve—to think I’d recommend him for a permanent commission. That’s just the sort of guttersnipe we don’t need in the Regular Army. My God, no! If he gets a permanent commission it’ll be over my dead body.”

  “I quite agree,” Sellars
said with distaste. “But with Marlowe you should have made it three months’ pay. He can afford it. That damned American’s got the whole camp tied up.”

  “He has for the time being.” Smedly-Taylor grunted and re-examined his cards once more, trying to cover his slip.

  “You’ve something on him?” Jones asked tentatively. Then he added, “Three diamonds.”

  “Blast you,” Sellars said. “Four spades.”

  “Pass.”

  “Six spades,” Smedly-Taylor said.

  “Do you really have something on the American?” Jones asked again.

  Colonel Smedly-Taylor kept his face blank. He knew about the diamond ring and he’d heard that a deal had been made, that the ring would change hands soon. And when the money was in the camp, well, a plan had been thought of—a good plan, a safe plan, a private plan—to get the money. So he just grunted and smiled his thin smile and said off-hand, “If I have, I’m certainly not going to tell you about it. You’re not to be trusted.”

  When Smedly-Taylor smiled, they all smiled, relieved.

  Peter Marlowe and Larkin joined the stream of men going into the open-air theater.

  The stage lights were already on and the moon beamed down. At capacity the theater could hold two thousand. The seats, which fanned out from the stage, were planks set on coconut stumps. Each show was repeated for five nights, so that everyone in the camp could see it at least once. Seats were allocated by lot and were always at a premium.

  Most of the rows were already crammed. Except the front rows where the officers sat. Officers always sat in front of the enlisted men and came later. Only the Americans did not follow the custom.

  “Hey, you two,” the King called out. “You want to sit with us?” He had the favored seat on the aisle.

  “Well, I’d like to, but you know—” Peter Marlowe said uncomfortably.

  “Yeah. Well, see you later.”

  Peter Marlowe glanced at Larkin and knew he was thinking too that it was wrong not to sit with your friends if you wanted—and at the same time it was wrong to sit there.