King Rat

  The man frowned at Max, hardening. He thought a moment, then turned to Suliman, the Malay. “Nanti-lah,” he said.

  “Bik, tuan,” said Suliman, preparing to wait. Then he added in Malay, “Watch thyself, tuan. And go with God.”

  “Fear not, my friend—but I thank thee for thy thought,” the man said, smiling. He got up and followed Max into the hut.

  “You wanted me?” he asked, walking up to the King.

  “Hi,” the King said, smiling. He saw that the man’s eyes were guarded. That pleased him, for guarded eyes were rare. “Take a seat.” He nodded at Max, who left. Without being asked, the other men who were near moved out of earshot so the King could talk in private.

  “Go on, take a seat,” the King said genially.

  “Thanks.”

  “Like a cigarette?”

  The man’s eyes widened as he saw the Kooa offered to him. He hesitated, then took it. His astonishment grew as the King snapped the Ronson, but he tried to hide it and drew deeply on the cigarette. “That’s good. Very good,” he said luxuriously. “Thanks.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marlowe. Peter Marlowe.” Then he added ironically, “And yours?”

  The King laughed. Good, he thought, the guy’s got a sense of humor, and he’s no ass kisser. He docketed the information, then said, “You’re English?”

  “Yes.”

  The King had never noticed Peter Marlowe before, but that was not unusual when ten thousand faces looked so much alike. He studied Peter Marlowe silently and the cool blue eyes studied him back.

  “Kooas are about the best cigarette around,” the King said at last. “’Course they don’t compare with Camels. American cigarette. Best in the world. You ever had them?”

  “Yes,” Peter Marlowe said, “but actually, they tasted a little dry to me. My brand’s Gold Flake.” Then he added politely, “It’s a matter of taste, I suppose.” Again a silence fell and he waited for the King to come to the point. As he waited, he thought that he liked the King, in spite of his reputation, and he liked him for the humor that glinted behind his eyes.

  “You speak Malay very well,” the King said, nodding at the Malay, who waited patiently.

  “Oh, not too badly, I suppose.”

  The King stifled a curse at the inevitable English underplay. “You learn it here?” he asked patiently.

  “No. In Java.” Peter Marlowe hesitated and looked around. “You’ve quite a place here.”

  “Like to be comfortable. How’s that chair feel?”

  “Fine.” A flicker of surprise showed.

  “Cost me eighty bucks,” the King said proudly. “Year ago.”

  Peter Marlowe glanced at the King sharply to see if it was meant as a joke, to tell him the price, just like that, but he saw only happiness and evident pride. Extraordinary, he thought, to say such a thing to a stranger. “It’s very comfortable,” he said, covering his embarrassment.

  “I’m going to fix chow. You like to join me?”

  “I’ve just had—lunch,” Peter Marlowe said carefully.

  “You could probably use some more. Like an egg?”

  Now Peter Marlowe could no longer conceal his amazement, and his eyes widened. The King smiled and felt that it had been worthwhile to invite him to eat to get a reaction like that. He knelt down beside his black box and carefully unlocked it.

  Peter Marlowe stared down at the contents, stunned. Half a dozen eggs, sacks of coffee beans. Glass jars of gula malacca, the delicious toffee-sugar of the Orient. Bananas. At least a pound of Java tobacco. Ten or eleven packs of Kooas. A glass jar full of rice. Another with katchang idju beans. Oil. Many delicacies in banana leaves. He had not seen treasure in such quantity for years.

  The King took out the oil and two eggs and relocked the box. When he glanced back at Peter Marlowe, he saw that the eyes were once more guarded, the face composed.

  “How you like your egg? Fried?”

  “Well, it seems a little unfair to accept.” It was difficult for Peter Marlowe to speak. “I mean, you don’t go offering eggs, just like that.”

  The King smiled. It was a good smile and warmed Peter Marlowe. “Think nothing of it. Put it down to ‘hands across the sea’—lend-lease.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed the Englishman’s face and his jaw muscles hardened.

  “What’s the matter?” the King asked abruptly.

  After a pause Peter Marlowe said, “Nothing.” He looked at the egg. He wasn’t due an egg for six days. “If you’re sure I won’t be putting you out, I’d like it fried.”

  “Coming up,” the King said. He knew he had made a mistake somewhere, for the annoyance was real. Foreigners are weird, he thought. Never can tell how they’re going to react. He lifted his electric stove onto the table and plugged it into the electric socket. “Neat, huh?” he said pleasantly.

  “Yes.”

  “Max wired it for me,” he said, nodding down the hut.

  Peter Marlowe followed his glance.

  Max looked up, feeling eyes on him. “You want something?”

  “No,” the King said. “Just telling him how you wired the hot plate.”

  “Oh! It working all right?”

  “Sure.”

  Peter Marlowe got up and leaned out of the window, calling out in Malay. “I beg thee do not wait. I will see thee again tomorrow, Suliman.”

  “Very well, tuan, peace be upon thee.”

  “And upon thee.” Peter Marlowe smiled and sat down once more and Suliman walked away.

  The King broke the eggs neatly and dropped them into the heated oil. The yolk was rich-gold and its circling jelly sputtered and hissed against the heat and began to set, and all at once the sizzle filled the hut. It filled the minds and filled the hearts and made the juices flow. But no one said anything or did anything. Except Tex. He forced himself up and walked out of the hut.

  Many men who walked the path smelled the fragrance and hated the King anew. The smell swept down the slope and into the MP hut. Grey knew and Masters knew at once where it came from.

  Grey got up, nauseated, and went to the doorway. He was going to walk around the camp to escape the aroma. Then he changed his mind and turned back.

  “Come on, Sergeant,” he said. “We’ll pay a call on the American hut. Now’d be a good time to check on Sellars’ story!”

  “All right,” Masters said, almost ruptured by the smell. “The bloody bastard could at least cook before lunch—not just after—not when supper’s five hours away.”

  “The Americans are the second shift today. They haven’t eaten yet.”

  Within the American hut, the men picked up the strings of time. Dino tried to go back to sleep and Kurt continued sewing and the poker game resumed and Miller and Byron Jones III resumed their interminable chess. But the sizzle destroyed the drama of an inside straight and Kurt stuck the needle in his finger and swore obscenely, and Dino’s sleep-urge left him and Byron Jones III watched appalled as Miller took his queen with a lousy stinking pawn.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Byron Jones III said to no one, choked. “I wish it would rain.”

  No one answered. For no one heard anything except the crackle and the hiss.

  The King too was concentrating. Over the frypan. He prided himself that no one could cook an egg better than he. To him a fried egg had to be cooked with an artist’s eye, and quickly—yet not too fast.

  The King glanced up and smiled at Peter Marlowe, but Marlowe’s eyes were on the eggs.

  “Christ,” he said softly, and it was a benediction, not a curse. “That smells so good.”

  The King was pleased. “You wait till I’ve finished. Then you’ll see the goddamnedest egg you’ve ever seen.” He powdered the eggs delicately with pepper, then added the salt. “You like cooking?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Peter Marlowe. His voice sounded unlike his real voice to him. “I do most of the cooking for my unit.”

  “What do you like to be cal
led? Pete? Peter?”

  Peter Marlowe covered his surprise. Only tried and trusted friends called you by your Christian name—how else can you tell friends from acquaintances? He glanced at the King and saw only friendliness, so, in spite of himself, he said, “Peter.”

  “Where do you come from? Where’s your home?”

  Questions, questions, thought Peter Marlowe. Next he’ll want to know if I’m married or how much I have in the bank. His curiosity had prompted him to accept the King’s summons, and he almost cursed himself for being so curious. But he was pacified by the glory of the sizzling eggs.

  “Portchester,” he answered. “That’s a little hamlet on the south coast. In Hampshire.”

  “You married, Peter?”

  “Are you?”

  “No.” The King would have continued but the eggs were done. He slipped the frypan off the stove and nodded to Peter Marlowe. “Plates’re in back of you,” he said. Then he added not a little proudly, “Lookee here!”

  They were the best fried eggs Peter Marlowe had ever seen, so he paid the King the greatest compliment in the English world. “Not bad,” he said flatly. “Not too bad, I suppose,” and he looked up at the King and kept his face as impassive as his voice and thereby added to the compliment.

  “What the hell are you talking about, you son of a bitch?” the King said furiously. “They’re the best goddam eggs you’ve seen in your life!”

  Peter Marlowe was shocked, and there was a death-silence in the hut. Then a sudden whistle broke the spell. Instantly Dino and Miller were on their feet and rushing towards the King, and Max was guarding the doorway. Miller and Dino shoved the King’s bed into the corner and took up the carpets and stuffed them under the mattress. Then they took other beds and shoved them close to the King so that now, like everyone else in Changi, the King had only four feet of space by six feet of space. Lieutenant Grey stood in the doorway. Behind him a nervous pace was Sergeant Masters.

  The Americans stared at Grey, and after just enough of a pause to make their point they all got up. After an equally insulting pause Grey saluted briefly and said, “Stand easy.” Peter Marlowe alone had not moved and still sat in his chair.

  “Get up,” hissed the King, “he’ll throw the book at you. Get up!” He knew from long experience that Grey was hopped up now. For once Grey’s eyes were not probing him, they were just fixed on Peter Marlowe, and even the King winced.

  Grey walked the length of the hut, taking his time, until he stood over Peter Marlowe. He took his eyes off Peter Marlowe and stared at the eggs for a long moment. Then he glanced at the King and back to Peter Marlowe.

  “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, Marlowe?”

  Peter Marlowe’s fingers took out his cigarette box and put a little tobacco in a slip of rattan grass. He rolled a funnel-cigarette and carried it to his lips. The length of his pause was a slap in Grey’s face. “Oh, I don’t know, old boy,” he said softly. “An Englishman’s at home wherever he is, don’t you think?”

  “Where’s your armband?”

  “In my belt.”

  “It’s supposed to be on your arm. Those are orders.”

  “They’re Jap orders. I don’t like Jap orders,” said Peter Marlowe.

  “They are also camp orders,” Grey said.

  Their voices were quite calm and only a trifle irritated to American ears, but Grey knew and Peter Marlowe knew. And there was a sudden declaration of war between them. Peter Marlowe hated the Japanese and Grey represented the Japanese to him, for Grey enforced camp orders which were also Japanese orders. Relentlessly. Between them there was the deeper hate, the inbred hate of class. Peter Marlowe knew that Grey despised him for his birth and his accent, what Grey wanted beyond all things and could never have.

  “Put it on!” Grey was within his right to order it.

  Peter Marlowe shrugged and pulled out the band and slipped it about his left elbow. On the band was his rank. Flight Lieutenant, RAF.

  The King’s eyes widened. Jesus, an officer, he thought, and I was going to ask him to—

  “So sorry to interrupt your lunch,” Grey was saying. “But it seems that someone has lost something.”

  “Lost something?” Jesus Christ, the King almost shouted. The Ronson! Oh my God, his fear screamed. Get rid of the goddam lighter!

  “What’s the matter, Corporal,” Grey said narrowly, noticing the sweat which pearled the King’s face.

  “It’s hot, isn’t it?” the King said limply. He could feel his starched shirt wilting from the sweat. He knew he had been framed. And he knew that Grey was playing with him. He wondered quickly if he dared to make a run for it, but Peter Marlowe was between him and the window and Grey could easily catch him. And to run would be to admit guilt.

  He saw Grey say something and he was poised between life and death. “What did you say, sir?” and the “sir” was not an insult, for the King was staring at Grey incredulously.

  “I said that Colonel Sellars has reported the theft of a gold ring!” Grey repeated balefully.

  For a moment the King felt lightheaded. Not the Ronson at all! Panic for nothing! Just Sellars’ goddam ring. He had sold it three weeks ago for Sellars—at a tidy profit. So Sellars has just reported a theft, has he? Lying son of a bitch. “Gee,” he said, a thread of laughter in his voice, “gee, that’s tough. Stolen. Can you imagine that!”

  “Yes I can,” said Grey harshly. “Can you?”

  The King did not answer. But he wanted to smile. Not the lighter! Safe!

  “Do you know Colonel Sellars?” Grey was asking.

  “Slightly, sir. I’ve played bridge with him, once or twice.” The King was quite calm now.

  “Did he ever show the ring to you?” Grey said relentlessly.

  The King double-checked his memory. Colonel Sellars had shown him the ring twice. Once when he had asked the King to sell it for him, and the second time when he had gone to weigh the ring. “Oh no, sir,” he said innocently. The King knew he was safe. There were no witnesses.

  “You’re sure you never saw it?” Grey said.

  “Oh no, sir.”

  Grey was suddenly sick of the cat-and-mouse game and he was nauseated with hunger for the eggs. He would have done anything, anything for one of them.

  “Have you got a light, Grey, old boy?” Peter Marlowe said. He had not brought his native lighter with him. And he needed a smoke. Badly. His dislike of Grey had dried his lips.

  “No.” Get your own light, Grey thought angrily, turning to go. Then he heard Peter Marlowe say to the King, “Could I borrow your Ronson please?” And slowly he turned back. Peter Marlowe was smiling up at the King.

  The words seemed etched upon the air. Then they sped into all corners of the hut.

  Appalled, groping for time, the King started to find some matches.

  “It’s in your left pocket,” Peter Marlowe said.

  And in that moment the King lived and died and was born again. The men in the hut did not breathe. For they were to see the King chopped. They were to see the King caught and taken and put away, a thing which beyond all things was an impossibility. Yet here was Grey and here was the King and here was the man who had fingered the King—and laid him like a lamb on Grey’s altar. Some of the men were horrified and some were gloating and some were sorry and Dino thought angrily, Jesus, and it was my day to guard the box tomorrow!

  “Why don’t you light it for him?” Grey said. The hunger had left him and in its place was only warmth. Grey knew that there was no Ronson lighter on the list.

  The King took out the lighter and snapped it for Peter Marlowe. The flame that was to burn him was straight and clean.

  “Thanks.” Peter Marlowe smiled, and only then did he realize the enormity of his deed.

  “So,” said Grey as he took the lighter. The word sounded majestic and final and violent.

  The King did not answer, for there was no answer. He merely waited, and now that he was committed, he felt no fear, he on
ly cursed his own stupidity. A man who fails through his own stupidity has no right to be called a man. And no right to be the King, for the strongest is always the King, not by strength alone, but King by cunning and strength and luck together.

  “Where did this come from, Corporal?” Grey’s question was a caress.

  Peter Marlowe’s stomach turned over and his mind worked frantically and then he said, “It’s mine.” He knew that it sounded like the lie it was, so he added quickly, “We were playing poker. I lost it. Just before lunch.”

  Grey and the King and all the men stared at him stunned.

  “You what?” said Grey.

  “Lost it,” repeated Peter Marlowe. “We were playing poker. I had a straight. You tell him,” he added abruptly to the King, tossing the ball to him to test him.

  The King’s mind was still in shock but his reflexes were good. His mouth opened and he said, “We were playing stud. I had a full, and …”

  “What were the cards?”

  “Aces on twos.” Peter Marlowe interrupted without hesitation. What the hell is stud? he asked himself.

  The King winced. In spite of magnificent control. He had been about to say kings on queens, and he knew that Grey had seen the shudder.

  “You’re lying, Marlowe!”

  “Why, Grey, old chap, what a thing to say!” Peter Marlowe was playing for time. What the bloody hell is stud? “It was pathetic,” he said, feeling the horror-pleasure of great danger. “I thought I had him. I had a straight. That’s why I bet my lighter. You tell him,” he said abruptly to the King.

  “How do you play stud, Marlowe?”

  Thunder broke the silence, grumbling on the horizon, and the King opened his mouth but Grey stopped him.

  “I asked Marlowe,” he said threateningly.

  Peter Marlowe was helpless. He looked at the King and though his eyes said nothing, the King knew. “Come on,” Peter Marlowe said quickly, “let’s show him.”

  The King immediately turned for the cards and said without hesitation, “It was my hole card—”

  Grey whirled furiously. “I said I wanted Marlowe to tell me. One more word out of you and I’ll put you under arrest for interfering with justice.”

  The King said nothing. He only prayed that the clue had been sufficient.