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!”
They turned back, and keeping to the side of a hut, ducked underneath it. They lay for a moment, their chests heaving. Feet ran past and they heard snatches of angry whispers—
“They went that way. Got t’ get ’em before the stinking cops.”
“The whole goddam camp’s after us,” the King said.
“Let’s stick the money here,” Peter Marlowe said helplessly. “We can bury it.”
“Too risky. They’d find it in a minute. Goddammit, everything was going fine. Except that bastard Timsen let us down.” The King wiped the dirt and sweat off his face. “Ready?”
“Which way?”
The King did not answer. He just crawled silently from under the hut and ran with the shadows, Peter Marlowe following close behind. He headed sure-footed across the path and jumped into the deep storm ditch beside the wire. He squirmed his way down it until they were almost opposite the American hut and stopped and leaned against the wall of the ditch, his breath fluttering. Around them was a whispered uproar and over them was a whispered uproar.
“What’s up?”
“The King’s on the run with Marlowe—they’ve got thousands of dollars with them.”
“The hell they have! Quick, maybe we can catch them.”
“Come on!”
“We’ll get the money.”
And Grey was getting reports and so was Smedly-Taylor and so was Timsen and the reports were confusing and Timsen was cursing and hissing at his men to find them before Grey or Smedly-Taylor’s men found them.
“Get that money!”
Smedly-Taylor’s men were waiting, watching Timsen’s Aussies, and they were confused too. Which way did they go? Where to look?
And Grey was waiting. He knew that both escapes were blocked, north and south. It was only a question of time. And now the search was closing. Grey knew he had them, and when he caught them they would have the money. They wouldn’t dare to let go of it, not now. It was too much money. But Grey didn’t know about Smedly-Taylor’s men or Timsen’s Aussies.
“Look,” Peter Marlowe said as he carefully lifted his head and peered around into the darkness.
The King’s eyes narrowed, searching. Then he saw the MP’s fifty yards away. He spun around. There were many other ghosts, hurrying, looking, searching. “We’ve had it,” he said frantically.
Then the King looked out, over the wire. The jungle was dark. And there was a guard plodding along the other side of the wire. Okay, he told himself. The last plan. The shit-or-bust plan.
“Here,” he said urgently, and he took out all the money and stuffed it into Peter Marlowe’s pockets. “I’ll cover for you. Go through the wire. It’s our only chance.”
“Christ, I’ll never make it. The guard’ll spot me—”
“Go on, it’s our only chance!”
“I’ll never make it. Never.”
“When you get through, bury it and come back the same way. I’ll cover for you. Goddammit, you’ve got to go.”
“For God’s sake, I’ll get killed. He’s not fifty feet away,” Peter Marlowe said. “We’ll have to give up!”
He looked around, wildly seeking another escape route, and the sudden careless movement slammed his forgotten arm against the wall of the drain and he groaned, agonized.
“You save the money, Peter,” the King said desperately, “and I’ll save your arm.”
“You’ll what?”
“You heard me! Beat it!”
“But how can you—”
“Beat it,” the King interrupte
d harshly. “If you save the dough.”
Peter Marlowe stared for an instant into the eyes of the King, then he slipped out of the trench and ran for the wire and slid under it, every moment expecting a bullet in his head. At the second of his dash, the King jumped out of the trench and whirled towards the path. He tripped deliberately and slammed down into the dust with a shout of rage. The guard glanced abruptly through the wire and laughed loudly, and when he turned back to his post he saw only a shadow which might have been anything. Certainly not a man.
Peter Marlowe was hugging the earth and he crawled like a thing of the jungle into the dank vegetation and held his breath and froze. The guard came closer and closer and then his foot was an inch away from Peter Marlowe’s hand and then the other foot straddled it a pace away, and when the guard was five paces away, Peter Marlowe slithered deeper into the brush, into the darkness, five, ten, twenty, thirty, and when he was forty paces away and safe, his heart seemed to begin again and he had to stop, stop for breath, stop for his heart, stop for the hurt of his arm, the arm that was going to be his once more. If the King said—it was.
So he lay on the earth and prayed for breath and prayed for life and prayed for strength and prayed for the King.
The King breathed now that Peter Marlowe had made it to the jungle. He got up and began to brush himself down, and Grey with an MP, was beside him.
“Stand where you are.”
“Who, me?” The King pretended to peer into the darkness and recognize Grey. “Oh, it’s you. Good evening, Captain Grey.” He shoved the MP’s restraining arm away. “Take your hands off me!”
“You’re under arrest,” said Grey, sweating and dirt-covered from the chase.
“For what? Captain.”
“Search him, Sergeant.”
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?”
“I don’t know.” A sobbing moan burst from Townsend’s lips. “Oh Christ, they hurt me, hurt me.”
“Why were you bushwhacked?”
“I—I—” Townsend wanted to shout, “The diamond, I had the diamond,” and he wanted the colonel’s help to get the bastards who’d stolen it from him. But he couldn’t tell about the diamond, for then the colonel’d want to know where he’d got it and then he’d have to say from Gurble. An’ then there’d be questions about Gurble, where had he got it from—Gurble? The suicide? Then maybe they’d say that it wasn’t suicide, it were murder, but it weren’t, least he, Townsend, didn’t think so, but who knows, maybe someone did G
urble in for the diamond. But that particular night Gurble was away from his bunk and I’d felt the outline of the diamond ring in his mattress and slipped it out and took off into the night and who could prove anythin’—and Gurble happened to suicide that night so there weren’t no harm. Except that maybe I murdered Gurble, murdered him by stealing the stone, maybe that was the final straw for Gurble, being kicked out of the unit for stealing rations and then having the diamond stole. Maybe that’d put him off his head, poor bastard, an’ made him jump into the borehole! But stealing rations didn’t make sense, not when a man’s a diamond to sell. No sense. No sense at all. Except that maybe I was the cause of Gurble’s death and I curse myself, again and again, for stealing the diamond. Since I become a thief I got no peace, no peace, no peace. An’ now, now I’m glad, glad that it’s gone from me, stolen from me.
“I don’t know,” Townsend sobbed.
Larkin saw that it was no use and left Townsend to his pain.
“Oh, sorry, Father,” Larkin said, as he almost bumped Father Donovan down the hut steps.
“Hello, old friend.” Father Donovan was wraithlike, impossibly emaciated, his eyes deepset and strangely peaceful. “How are you? And Mac? And young Peter?”
“Fine, thanks.” Larkin nodded back towards Townsend. “Do you know anything about this?”
Donovan looked at Townsend and replied gently, “I see a man in pain.”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Larkin thought a moment, smiled. “Would you like a game of bridge? Tonight? After supper?”
“Yes. Thank you. I’d like that.”
“Good. After supper.”
Father Donovan watched Larkin walk away and then went over to Townsend’s bed. Townsend was not a Catholic. But Father Donovan gave of himself to all, for he knew that all men are children of God. But are they, all of them? he asked himself in wonder. Could children of God do such things?
At noon the wind and the rain came together. Soon everything and everyone was drenched. Then the rain stopped and the wind continued. Pieces of thatch ripped away and whirled across the camp, mixing with loose fronds and rags and coolie hats. Then the wind stopped and the camp was normal with sun and heat and flies. Water in the storm channels gushed for half an hour, then began to sink into the earth and stagnate. More flies gathered.