King Rat

His bed was in the favored corner of the hut, under a window, set just right to catch the slightest breeze. The nearest bed was eight feet away. The King’s bed was a good one. Steel. The springs were tight and the mattress filled with kapok. The bed was covered with two blankets, and the purity of sheets peeped from the top blanket near the sun-bleached pillow. Above the bed, stretched tight on posts, was a mosquito net. It was blemishless.

The King also had a table and two easy chairs, and a carpet on either side of the bed. On a shelf, behind the bed, was his shaving equipment—razor, brush, soap, blades—and beside them, his plates and cups and homemade electric stove and cooking and eating implements. On the corner wall hung his clothes, four shirts and four long pants and four short pants. Six pairs of socks and underpants were on a shelf. Under the bed were two pairs of shoes, bathing slippers, and a shining pair of Indian chappals.

The King sat on one of the chairs and made sure that everything was still in place. He noticed that the hair he had placed so delicately on his razor was no longer there. Crummy bastards, he thought, why the hell should I risk catching their crud. But he said nothing, just made a mental note to lock it up in future.

“Hi,” said Tex. “You busy?”

“Busy” was another password. It meant “Are you ready to take delivery?”

The King smiled and nodded and Tex carefully passed over the Ronson lighter. “Thanks,” the King said. “You like my soup today?”

“You bet,” Tex said and walked away.

Leisurely the King examined the lighter. As the major had said, it was almost new. Unscratched. It worked every time. And very clean. He unscrewed the flint screw and examined the flint. It was a cheap native flint and almost finished, so he opened the cigar box on the shelf and found the Ronson flint container and put in a new one. He pressed the lever and it worked. A careful adjustment of the wick and he was satisfied. The lighter was not a counterfeit and would surely bring eight hundred, nine hundred dollars.

From where he was sitting he could see the young man and the Malay. They were still hard at it, yaketty, yaketty.

“Max,” he called out quietly.

Max hurried up the length of the hut. “Yeah?”

“See that guy,” the King said, nodding out the window.

“Which one? The Wog?”

“No. The other one. Get him for me, will you?”

Max slipped out of the window and crossed the path. “Hey, Mac,” he said abruptly to the young man. “The King wants to see you,” and he jerked a thumb towards the hut. “On the double.”

The man gaped at Max, then followed the line of the thumb to the American hut. “Me?” he asked incredulously, looking back at Max.

“Yeah, you,” Max said impatiently.

“What for?”

“How the hell do I know?”

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.”