King Rat

“I’ll answer that in ten days.” Timsen got the haversack together and made a neat little parcel of the towel, soap, hypodermic, antitoxin and sulfa powder. “Now let’s settle up, right?”

The King took out the pack that Shagata had given him. “Smoke?”

“Ta.”

When the cigarettes were lit the King said, matter of fact, “We can settle up when the diamond deal goes through.”

“Oh no, mate. I delivers, I get paid. That’s nothing to do with this,” Timsen said sharply.

“No harm in waiting a day or so.”

“You got enough money and then some from the profit—” He stopped suddenly as he hit upon the answer. “Oho!” he said with a broad smile, jerking his thumb at Peter Marlowe. “No money until your cobber goes an’ gets it, right?”

The King slipped off his wrist watch. “You want to hold this as security?”

“Oh no, matey, I trust you.” He looked at Peter Marlowe. “Well, seems like a lot depends on you, old son.” When he turned back to the King his eyes were crinkled merrily. “Gives me time, too, don’t it?”

“Huh?” the King said innocently.

“Come off it, mate. You know the ring’s been bushwhacked. There’s only you in the camp what can handle it. If I could’ve, you think I’d let you in on it?” Timsen’s beam was seraphic. “So that gives me time to find the bushwhacker, right? If he comes to you first, you won’t have the money to pay, right? Without the money he won’t let go of it, right? No money, no deal.” Timsen waited and then said benignly, “’Course you could tell me when the bastard offers it, couldn’t you? After all, it’s me property, right?”

“Right,” the King said agreeably.

“But you won’t,” Timsen sighed. “Wot a lot of ruddy thieves.”

He bent over Peter Marlowe and checked his pulse. “Hum,” he said reflectively. “Pulse’s up.”

“Thanks for the help, Tim.”

“Think nothing of it, mate. I got a vested interest in the bastard, right? And I’m going t’watch him like a ruddy ’awk. Right?”

He laughed again and went out.

The King was exhausted. After he had made himself some coffee he felt better, and he lay back in the chair and drifted into sleep.

He awoke with a start and looked at the bed. Peter Marlowe was staring at him.

“Hello,” Peter Marlowe said weakly.

“How you feel?” The King stretched and got up.

“Like hell. I’m going to be sick any moment. You know, there’s nothing—nothing I can say—”

The King lit the last of the Kooas and stuck it between Peter Marlowe’s lips. “You earned it, buddy.”

While Peter Marlowe lay gathering strength, the King told him about the treatment and what had to be done.

“The only place I can think of,” Peter Marlowe said, “is the colonel’s place. Mac can wake me and help me down from the hut. I can lie on my own bunk most of the time.”

The King gingerly held one of his mess cans as Peter Marlowe vomited.

“Better keep it handy. Sorry. My God,” Peter Marlowe said aghast as he remembered. “The money! Did I get it?”

“No. You passed out this side of the wire.”

“Oh God, I don’t think I could make it tonight.”

“No sweat, Peter. Soon as you feel better. No point in taking chances.”

“It won’t harm the deal?”

“No. Don’t worry about that.”

Peter Marlowe was sick again, and when he had recovered he looked terrible. “Funny,” he said, holding back a retch. “Had a weird dream. Dreamed I had a terrific row with Mac and the colonel and old Father Donovan. My God, I’m glad it was a dream.” He forced himself up on his good arm, wavered and lay back. “Help me up, will you?”

“Take your time. It’s only just after lights-out.”

“Mate!”

The King leaped to the window and stared out into the darkness. He saw the faint outline of the little weasel man crouching against the wall.

“’Urry,” the man whispered. “I got the stone ’ere.”

“You’ll have to wait,” the King said. “I can’t give you the money for two days.”

“Why you rotten bastard—”

“Listen, you son of a bitch,” the King said. “If you want to wait for two days, great! You don’t, go to hell!”

“All right, two days.” The man swore obscenely and disappeared.

The King heard his feet patter away, and in a moment he heard other feet hot in pursuit. Then silence, broken only by the hum of the crickets.

“What was that all about?” Peter Marlowe said.

“Nothing,” replied the King, wondering if the man had escaped. But he knew that whatever happened, he would get the diamond. So long as he got the money.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

For two days Peter Marlowe battled with death. But he had the will to live. And he lived.

“Peter!” Mac gently shook him awake.

“Yes, Mac?”

“It’s time.”

Mac helped Peter Marlowe off the bunk and together they maneuvered down the steps, youth leaning on age, and made their way in the darkness to the bungalow.

Steven was already there and waiting. Peter Marlowe lay on Larkin’s bunk and submitted again to the needle stab. He had to bite hard not to shout; Steven was gentle, but the needle was blunt.