King Rat (4 page)

“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 then 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 called? 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 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 only 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.

“Hole card” registered in the distance of Peter Marlowe’s memory. And he remembered. And now that he knew the game, he began to play with Grey. “Well,” he said worriedly, “it’s like any other poker game, Grey.”

“Just explain how you play the game!” Grey thought that he had them in the lie.

Peter Marlowe looked at him, his eyes flinty. The eggs were getting cold. “What are you trying to prove, Grey? Any fool knows that it’s four cards face up and one down — one in the hole.”

A sigh fled through the room. Grey knew there was nothing he could do now. It would be his word against Marlowe’s, and he knew that even here in Changi he would have to do better than that. “That’s right,” he said grimly, looking from the King to Peter Marlowe. “Any fool knows that.” He handed the lighter back to the King. “See it’s put on the list.”

“Yes, sir.” Now that it was over, the King allowed some of his relief to show.

Grey looked at Peter Marlowe a last time, and the look was both a promise and a threat. “The old school tie would be very proud of you today,” he said with contempt, and he started out of the hut, Masters shuffling after him.

Peter Marlowe stared after Grey, and when Grey had reached the door, he said just a little louder than was necessary to the King, still watching Grey, “Can I use your lighter - my fag’s out.” But Grey’s stride did not falter, nor did he look back. Good man, thought Peter Marlowe grimly, good nerves - good man to have on your side in a death battle. And an enemy to cherish.

The King sat weakly in the electric silence and Peter Marlowe took the lighter from his slack hand and lit his cigarette. The King automatically found his packet of Kooas and stuck one in his lips and held it there, not feeling it. Peter Marlowe leaned across and snapped the lighter for the King. The King took a long time to focus on the flame and then he saw that Peter Marlowe’s hand was as unsteady as his own. He looked down the length of the hut where the men were like statues, staring back at him. He could feel the sweat-chill on his shoulders and the wetness of his shirt.

There was a clattering of cans outside. Dino got up and looked out expectantly.

“Chow,” he called out happily. The spell shattered and the men left the hut with their eating utensils. And Peter Marlowe and the King were quite alone.

The two men sat for a moment, gathering themselves. Then Peter Marlowe said shakily, “God, that was close!”

“Yes,” the King said after an unhurried pause. Involuntarily, he shuddered again, then found his wallet and took out two ten-dollar bills and put them on the table. “Here,” he said, “this’ll do for now. But you’re on the payroll from here on in. Twenty a week.”

“What?”

“I’ll give you twenty a week.” The King thought a moment. “Guess you’re right,” he said agreeably and smiled. “It is worth more. We’ll make it thirty.” Then his eyes noticed the armband, so he added, “Sir.”

“You can still call me Peter,” Peter Marlowe said, his voice edged. “And just for the books — I don’t want your money.” He got up and began to leave. “Thanks for the cigarette.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” the King said, astonished. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

Peter Marlowe stared down at the King and the anger flickered his eyes. “What the hell do you think I am? Take your money, and shove it.”

“Something wrong with my money?”

“No. Only your manners!”

“Since when has manners got anything to do with money?”

Peter Marlowe abruptly turned to go. The King jumped up and stood between Peter Marlowe and the door.

“Just a minute,” he said and his voice was taut. “I want to know something. Why did you cover up for me?”

“Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? I dropped you in the creek. I couldn’t leave you holding the baby. What do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.”

“It was my mistake. I’m sorry.”

“You got nothing to be sorry about,” the King said sharply. “It was my mistake. I got stupid. Nothing to do with you.”

“It makes no difference.” Peter Marlowe’s face was granite like his eyes. “But you must think me a complete shit if you expect me to let you be crucified. And a bigger one if you think I want money from you — when I’d been careless. I’m not taking that from anyone!”

“Sit down a minute. Please.”

“Why?”

“Goddammit, because I want to talk to you.”

Max hesitated at the door with the King’s mess cans.

“Excuse me,” he said cautiously, “here’s your chow. You want some tea?”

“No. And Tex gets my soup today.” He took the mess can of rice and put it on the table.

“Okay,” said Max, still hesitating, wondering if the King wanted a hand to beat hell out of the son of a bitch.

“Beat it, Max. And tell the others to leave us alone for a minute.”

“Sure.” Max went out agreeably. He thought the King was very wise to have no witnesses, not when you clobber an officer.

The King looked back at Peter Marlowe. “I’m asking you. Will you sit down a minute? Please.”

“All right,” said Peter Marlowe stiffly.

“Look,” the King began patiently. “You got me out of the noose. You helped me — it’s only right I help you. I offered you the dough because I wanted to thank you. If you don’t want it, fine — but I didn’t mean to insult you. If I did, I apologize.”

“Sorry,” Peter Marlowe said, softening. “I’ve got a bad temper. I didn’t understand.”

The King stuck out his hand. “Shake on it.”

Peter Marlowe shook hands.

“You don’t like Grey, do you?” the King said carefully.

“No.”

“Why?”

Peter Marlowe shrugged. The King divided the rice carelessly and handed him the larger portion. “Let’s eat.”

“But what about you?” said Peter Marlowe, gaping at the bigger helping.

“I’m not hungry. My appetite went with the birds. Jesus, that was close. I thought we’d both had it.”

“Yes,” Peter Marlowe said, with the beginning of a smile. “It was a lot of fun, wasn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, the excitement. Haven’t enjoyed anything so much in years, I suppose. The danger — excitement.”

“There are a lot of things I don’t understand about you,” the King said weakly. “You mean to say you enjoyed it?”

“Certainly — didn’t you? I thought it was almost as good as flying a Spit. You know, at the time it frightens you, but at the same time doesn’t — and during and after you feel sort of lightheaded.”

“I think you’re just out of your head.”

“If you weren’t enjoying it then why the hell did you try to throw me with ‘stud’? I bloody nearly died.”

“I didn’t try to throw you. Why the hell would I want to throw you?”

“To make it more exciting and to test me.”

The King bleakly wiped his eyes and his face. “You mean to say you think I did that deliberately?”

“Of course. I did the same to you when I passed the questioning to you.”

“Let’s get this straight. You did that just to test my nerves?” the King gasped.

“Of course, old boy,” Peter Marlowe said. “I don’t understand what’s the matter.”

“Jesus,” said the King, a nervous sweat beginning again. “We’re almost in the pokey and you play games!” The King paused for breath. “Crazy, just plain crazy, and when you hesitated after I’d fed you the ‘hole’ clue, I thought we were dead.”

“Grey thought that too. I was just playing with him. I only finished it quickly because the eggs were getting cold. And you don’t see a fried egg like that every day. My word on it.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t any good.”

“I said it wasn’t ‘bad.’” Peter Marlowe hesitated. “Look. Saying it’s ‘not bad’ means that it’s exceptional. That’s a way of paying a chap a compliment without embarrassing him.”

“You’re out of your skull! You risk my neck — and your own — to add to the danger, you blow your stack when I offer you some money with no strings attached, and you say something’s ‘not bad’ when you mean it’s great. Jesus,” he added, stupefied, “I guess I’m simple or something.”

He glanced up and saw the perplexed look on Peter Marlowe’s face and he had to laugh. Peter Marlowe began laughing too, and soon the two men were hysterical.

Max peered into the hut and the other Americans were close behind.

“What the hell’s gotten into him?” Max said gaping. “I thought by now he’d be beating his fucking head in.”

“Madonna,” gasped Dino. “First the King nearly gets chopped, and now he’s laughing with the guy who fingered him.”

“Don’t make sense.” Max’s stomach had been flapping ever since the warning whistle.

The King looked up and saw the men staring at him. He pulled out the remains of the pack of cigarettes. “Here, Max. Pass these around. Celebration!”

“Gee, thanks.” Max took the pack. “Wow! That was a close one. We’re all so happy for you.”

The King read the grins. Some were good and he marked those. Some were false and he knew those anyway. The men echoed Max’s thanks.

Max herded the men outside once more and began to divide the treasure. “It’s shock,” he said quietly. “Must be. Like shell shock. Any moment he’ll be tearing the Limey’s head off.” He stared off as another burst of laughter came from the hut, then shrugged.

“He’s off his head — and no wonder.”

“For God’s sake,” Peter Marlowe was saying, holding his stomach. “Let’s eat. If I don’t soon, I won’t be able to.”

So they began to eat. Between laughter spasms. Peter Marlowe regretted that the eggs were cold, but the laughter warmed the eggs and made them superb. “They need a little salt, don’t you think?” he said, trying to keep his voice flat. “Gee, I guess so. I thought I’d used enough.” The King frowned and turned for the salt and then he saw the crinkling eyes.

“What the hell’s up now?” he asked, beginning to laugh in spite of himself.

“That was a joke, for God’s sake. You Americans don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?”

“Go to hell! And for Chrissake stop laughing!”

When they had finished the eggs, the King put some coffee on the hot plate and searched for his cigarettes. Then he remembered he had given them away, so he reached down and unlocked the black box.

“Here, try some of this,” Peter Marlowe said, offering his tobacco box.

“Thanks, but I can’t stand the stuff. It plays hell with my throat.”

“Try it. It’s been treated. I learned how from some Javanese.”

Dubiously the King took the cigarette box. The tobacco was the same cheap weed, but instead of being straw-yellow it was dark golden; instead of being dry it was moist and had a texture; instead of being odorless it smelled like tobacco, sweet-strong. He found his packet of rice papers and took an overgenerous amount of the treated weed. He rolled a sloppy tube and nipped off the protruding ends, dropping the excess tobacco carelessly on the floor.

Godalmighty, thought Peter Marlowe, I said try it, not take the bloody lot. He knew he should have picked up the shreds of tobacco and put them back in the box, but he did not. Some things a chap can’t do, he thought again.

The King snapped the lighter and they grinned together at the sight of it. The King took a careful puff, then another. Then a deep inhale. “But it’s great,” he said astonished. “Not as good as a Kooa - but this’s —“ He stopped and corrected himself. “I mean it’s not bad.”

“It’s not bad at all.” Peter Marlowe laughed.

“How the hell do you do it?”

“Trade secret.”

The King knew he had a gold mine in his hands. “I guess it’s a long and involved process,” he said delicately.

“Oh, actually it’s quite easy. You just soak the raw weed in tea, then squeeze it out. Then you sprinkle a little white sugar over it and knead it in, and when it’s all absorbed, cook it gently in a frying pan over a low heat. Keep turning it over or it’ll spoil. You’ve got to get it just right. Not too dry and not too moist.”

The King was surprised that Peter Marlowe had told him the process so easily without making a deal first. Of course, he thought, he’s just whetting my appetite. Can’t be that easy or everyone’d be doing it. And he probably knows I’m the only one who could handle the deal.

“Just like that?” the King said smiling.

“Yes. Nothing to it really.”

The King could see a thriving business. Legitimate too. “I suppose everyone in your hut cures their tobacco the same way.”

Peter Marlowe shook his head. “I just do it for my unit. I’ve been teasing them for months, telling them all sorts of stories, but they’ve never worked out the exact way.”

The King’s smile was huge. “Then you’re the only one who knows how to do it!”

“Oh no,” said Peter Marlowe and the King’s heart sank. “It’s a native custom. They do it all over Java.”

The King brightened. “But no one here knows about it, do they?”

“I don’t know. I’ve really never thought about it.”

The King let the smoke dribble out of his nostrils and his mind worked rapidly. Oh yes, he told himself, this is my lucky day.

“Tell you what, Peter. I got a business proposition for you. You show me exactly how to do it, and I’ll cut you in for —“ He hesitated. “Ten percent.”

“What?”

“All right. Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five?”

“All right,” the King said, looking at Peter Marlowe with new respect. “You’re a hard trader and that’s great. I’ll organize the whole deal. We’ll buy in bulk. We’ll have to set up a factory. You can oversee production and I’ll look after sales.” He stuck out his hand. “We’ll be partners — split right down the middle, fifty-fifty. It’s a deal.”

Peter Marlowe stared down at the King’s hand. Then he looked into his face. “Oh no it’s not!” he said decisively.

“Goddammit,” the King exploded. “That’s the fairest offer you’ll ever get. What could be fairer? I’m putting up the dough. I’ll have to —“ A sudden thought stopped him. “Peter,” he said after a moment, hurt but not showing it, “no one has to know we’re partners. You just show me how to do it, and I’ll see you get your share. You can trust me.”

“I know that,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Then we’ll split fifty-fifty.” The King beamed.

“No we won’t.”

“Jesus Christ,” the King said as he felt the screws applied. But he held his temper and thought about the deal. And the more he thought — he looked around to make sure that no one was listening. Then he dropped his voice and said hoarsely, “Sixty-forty, and I’ve never offered that to anyone in my life. Sixty-forty it is.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Isn’t?” the King burst out, shocked. “I’ve got to get something out of the deal. What the hell do you want for the process? Cash on the line?”

“I don’t want anything,” said Peter Marlowe.

“Nothing?” The King sat down feebly, wrecked.

Peter Marlowe was bewildered. “You know,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t understand why you get so excited about certain things. The process isn’t mine to sell. It’s a simple native custom. I couldn’t possibly take anything from you. That wouldn’t be right. Not at all. And anyway, I —“ Peter Marlowe stopped and said quickly, “Would you like me to show you now?”

“Just a minute. You mean to tell me you want nothing for showing me the process? When I’ve offered to split sixty-forty with you? When I tell you I can make money out of the deal?” Peter Marlowe nodded. “That’s crazy,” the King said helplessly. “It’s wrong. I don’t understand.”

“Nothing to understand,” Peter Marlowe said, smiling faintly. “Put it down to sunstroke.”

The King studied him a long moment. “Will you give me a straight answer to a straight question?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

The words hung in the heat between them.

“No,” said Peter Marlowe, breaking the silence.

And there was truth between them.

An hour later Peter Marlowe was watching Tex cook the second batch of tobacco. This time Tex was doing it without help, and the King was clucking around like an old hen.

“You sure he put in the right amount of sugar?” the King asked Peter Marlowe anxiously.

“Exactly right.”

“How long will it be now?”

“How long do you think, Tex?”

Tex smiled back at Peter Marlowe and stretched his gangling six-foot three. “Five, maybe six minutes, thereabouts.”

Peter Marlowe got up. “Where’s the place? The loo?”

“The John? Around the back.” The King pointed. “But can’t you wait till Tex’s finished? I want to make sure he’s got it right.”

“Tex’s doing fine,” Peter Marlowe said and walked out.