King Rat

“You better look after number one, buddy.”

Peter Marlowe smiled. “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m not coming here for a while. Don’t want to drag you into anything.”

“What’re you going to do if Yoshima starts heading your way?”

“Make a run for it.”

“Run where, for God’s sake?”

“Better that than just sit.”

Dino, the guard of the moment, stuck his head through the doorway. “Excuse me, but Timsen’s heading this way.”

“Okay,” the King said. “I’ll see him.” He turned back to Peter Marlowe. “It’s your neck, Peter. My advice is dump it.”

“Wish we could, but we can’t.”

The King knew that there was nothing he could do.

“Hi, cobber,” Timsen said as he came in, his face taut with anger. “Heard you had a bad bit of luck, right?”

“I need a new set of watchdogs, that’s for sure.”

“You and me both,” Timsen said furiously. “The bushwhackers dumped your black box under my bloody hut. My hut!”

“What?”

“That’s right. It’s there, under my hut, clean as a whistle. Bloody bastards, that’s the truth. No Aussie’d steal it and dump it under my hut. No sir. Got to be a Pommy or a Yank.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. All I know is they weren’t none of mine. You got my ruddy oath on that.”

“I’ll believe you. But you can spread the word—there’s a thousand bucks reward for the proof as to who hijacked my box.” The King reached under his pillow and deliberately pulled out the pile of notes that Cheng San had given him for the completion of the sale. He peeled off three hundred dollars and offered them to Timsen, who was staring wide-eyed at the vastness of the pile. “I need some sugar and coffee and oil—maybe a coconut or two. You fix it?”

Timsen took the money, unable to tear his eyes from the remaining pile of notes. “You completed the sale, right? My ruddy oath, never thought you’d do it. But you have, right?”

“Sure,” the King said nonchalantly. “I got enough to last a month or two.”

“A bloody year, mate,” Timsen said, overwhelmed. He turned and walked slowly to the door, then looked back with a sudden laugh. “A thousand, eh? I’d say that’d produce results, right?”

“Yeah,” the King said. “Just a question of time.”

Within the hour the news of the reward had spread through the camp. Eyes began to watch with renewed interest. Ears were tuned to catch the whispers on the wind. Memories were searched and re-searched. It was only a question of time before the thousand would be claimed.

That night when the King walked the camp he felt, as never before, the hate and the envy and the strength of the eyes. It made him feel good and better than good, for he knew that they all knew he had a vast pile of notes where they had none—that he, of all of them, truly had it made.

Samson sought him out, and Brant—and many others—and though he sickened at their fawning, it pleased him enormously that for the first time they did it in public. He passed the MP hut, and even Grey, standing outside, merely returned his neat salute and did not call him in to be searched. The King smiled to himself, knowing that even Grey was thinking about the stack of notes and the reward.

Nothing could touch the King now. The stack of notes were safety and life and power. And they were his alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

When Yoshima came this time, he came stealthily but with great speed. He did not come as usual through the camp along the road, but he came with many guards through the wire, and when Peter Marlowe saw the first of the guards the bungalow was already surrounded and there was nowhere to run. Mac was still under his mosquito net, listening through the earphone, when Yoshima swooped into the bungalow.

Peter Marlow and Larkin and Mac were herded into one corner. Then Yoshima picked up the earphone and listened. The radio was still connected and he heard the tail end of the news broadcast.

“Very ingenious,” he said, putting the earphone down. “Your names, please?”

“I’m Colonel Larkin, this is Major McCoy, and this is Flight Lieutenant Marlowe.”

Yoshima smiled. “Would you like a cigarette?” he asked.

They each took a cigarette and accepted a light from Yoshima, who also lit one for himself. They all smoked in silence. Then Yoshima spoke.

“Disconnect the radio and come with me.”

Mac’s fingers trembled as he bent down. He looked around nervously as another Japanese officer appeared abruptly out of the night. The officer whispered urgently in Yoshima’s ear. For a moment Yoshima stared at him speechless, then he snapped at a guard, who posted himself in the doorway, and hurried away with the officer and all the other guards.

“What’s up?” said Larkin, his eyes on the guard, who covered them with a bayoneted rifle.