King Rat

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 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—”