Yes, Peter Marlowe told himself, you’d better be realistic. There’s nothing the King can do, nothing. And you shouldn’t have put him on the spot. It’s your worry, not his. Just get the money and give it to him and go up to the hospital and lie on the table and let them cut your arm off.
So the three of them—he, Mac and Larkin—sat in the fetid night. Silent. When Father Donovan joined them they forced him to eat a little rice and blachang. They made him eat it then, for if they had not, he would have given it away, as he gave away most of his rations.
“You’re very kind to me,” Donovan said. His eyes twinkled as he added, “Now, if you three would see the error of your ways and come over to the right side of the fence, you’d complete my evening.”
Mac and Larkin laughed with him. Peter Marlowe did not laugh.
“What’s the matter, Peter?” Larkin said, an edge to his voice. “You’ve been like a dingo with a sore arse all evening.”
“No harm in being a little out of sorts,” Donovan said quickly, healing the ragged silence. “My word, the news is very good, isn’t it?”
Only Peter Marlowe was outside the friendship that was in the little room. He knew his presence was suffocating, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing.
The game started, and Father Donovan opened with two spades.
“Pass,” Mac said grumpily.
“Three diamonds,” Peter Marlowe said, and as soon as he had said it he wished he hadn’t, for he had stupidly overbid his hand and had said diamonds when he should have said hearts.
“Pass,” Larkin said testily. He was sorry now that he had suggested the game. There was no fun in it. No fun.
“Three spades,” Father Donovan said.
“Pass.”
“Pass,” Peter Marlowe said, and they all looked at him surprised.
Father Donovan smiled. “You should have more faith—”
“I’m tired of faith.” The words were sudden-raw and very angry.
“Sorry, Peter, I was only—”
“Now look here, Peter,” Larkin interrupted sharply, “just because you’re in a bad humor—”
“I’m entitled to an opinion and I think it was a bad joke,” Peter Marlowe flared. Then he whirled back on Donovan. “Just because you martyr yourself by giving your food away and sleeping in the men’s barracks, I suppose that gives you the right to be the authority. Faith’s a lot of nothing! What does it get you? Nothing! Faith’s for children—and so is God. What the hell can He do about anything? Really do? Eh? Eh?”
Mac and Larkin stared at Peter Marlowe without recognition.
“He can heal,” Father Donovan said, knowing about the gangrene. He knew many things he did not want to know.
Peter Marlowe slammed his cards down on the table. “Shit!” he shouted, berserk. “That’s shit and you know it. And another thing while we’re on the subject. God! You know, I think God’s a maniac, a sadistic, evil maniac, a bloodsucker—”
“Are you out of your mind, Peter?” Larkin exploded.
“No, I’m not. Look at God,” Peter Marlowe raved, his face contorted. “God’s nothing but evil—if He really is God. Look at all the bloodshed that’s been committed in the name of God.” He shoved his face nearer Donovan’s. “The Inquisition. Remember? All the thousands that were burned and tortured to death in His name? By the Catholic sadists? And we won’t even think about the Aztecs and Incas and the poor bloody Indian millions. And the Protestants burning and killing the Catholics; and the Catholics, the Jews and the Mohammedans; and the Jews, more Jews—and the Mormons and Quakers and the whole stinking mess. Kill, torture, burn! Just so long as it’s in the name of God, you’re all right. What a lot of hypocrisy! Don’t give me faith! It’s nothing!”
“And yet you have faith in the King,” Father Donovan said quietly.
“I suppose you’re going to say he’s an instrument of God?”
“Perhaps he is. I don’t know.”
“I must tell him that.” Peter Marlowe laughed hysterically. “He’d laugh to high heaven.”
“Listen, Marlowe!” Larkin got up, shaking with rage. “You’d better apologize or get out!”
“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Peter Marlowe slammed back, “I’m leaving.” He got up and glared at them, hating them, hating himself. “Listen, priest. You’re a joke. Your skirts’re a joke. You’re all an unholy joke, you and God. You don’t serve God because God’s the devil. You’re the servant of the devil.” And then he scooped some of the cards off the table and threw them into Father Donovan’s face and stormed out into the darkness.
“What in God’s name has happened to Peter?” Mac said, shattering the appalled silence.
“In God’s name,” Father Donovan said compassionately. “Peter has gangrene. He has to have his arm amputated or he will die. You could see the scarlet streaks clearly, above his elbow.”
“What?” Larkin stared at Mac, petrified. Then simultaneously they both got up and began hurrying out. But Father Donovan called them back.
“Wait, there’s nothing you can do.”
“Dammit, there must be something.” Larkin stood in the doorway. “The poor lad—and I thought—the poor lad—”
“There’s nothing to do, except wait. Except have faith, and pray. Perhaps the King will help, can help.” Then Father Donovan added tiredly, “The King is the only man who can.”
Peter Marlowe stumbled into the American hut. “I’ll get the money now,” he muttered to the King.
“Are you crazy? There’s too many people around.”
“To hell with the people,” Peter Marlowe said angrily. “Do you want the money or not?”
“Sit down. Sit down!” The King forced Peter Marlowe to sit and gave him a cigarette and forced him to drink coffee and thought, Jesus, what I have to do for a little loot. Patiently he told Peter Marlowe to keep his wits about him, that everything was going to be all right, for the cure was already arranged, and after an hour Peter Marlowe was calmer and at least coherent. But the King knew he was not getting through to him. He saw that he was nodding from time to time, but he knew, deep down, that Peter Marlowe was quite beyond him, and if he was beyond him, the King, he was beyond anyone.
“Is it time now?” Peter Marlowe asked, almost blinded with pain, knowing if he did not go now he would never go.
The King knew that it was too early for safety, but he knew too that he could not keep him in the hut any longer. So he sent guards in all directions. The whole area was covered. Max was watching Grey, who was on his bunk. Byron Jones III was watching Timsen. And Timsen was north, by the gate, waiting for the drug shipment, and Timsen’s boys, another source of danger, were still desperately combing the area for the hijacker.
The King and Tex watched Peter Marlowe walk, zombielike, out of the hut and across the path and up to the storm ditch. He wavered on the brink, then stepped across it and began to stagger towards the fence.
“Jesus,” Tex said. “I can’t watch!”
“I can’t either,” the King said.
Peter Marlowe was trying to focus his eyes on the fence, through the pain and delirium that was engulfing him. He was praying for a bullet. He could stand the agony no longer. But no bullet came, so he walked on, grimly erect, then reeled against the fence. He grabbed a wire to steady himself for a moment. Then he bent down to step through the wires and gave a little moan as he fell into the dregs of hell.
The King and Tex ran to the fence and picked him up and dragged him away from the fence.
“What’s the matter with him?” someone asked from the darkness.
“Guess he’s just gone stir-crazy,” the King said. “Come on, Tex, let’s get him in the hut.”
They carried him into the hut and laid him on the King’s bed. Then Tex hurried away to recall their guards and the hut returned to normal. Just one guard out.
Peter Marlowe lay on the bed, moaning and mumbling deliriously. After a while, he came out of the faint. “Oh Christ,” he
gasped and tried to get off the bed, but his body defeated him.
“Here,” the King said anxiously, giving him four aspirins. “Take it easy, you’ll be all right.” His hand was shaking as he helped him to drink some water. Son of a bitch, he thought bitterly, if Timsen doesn’t bring the stuff tonight Peter won’t make it, and if he doesn’t, then how the hell am I going to get the dough? Son of a bitch!
When Timsen finally arrived the King was a wreck.
“Hi, cobber.” Timsen was nervous too. He had had to cover for his best cobber up by the main gate while the man had gone through the wire and into the Japanese doctor’s quarters, which were fifty yards away and not so very far from the Yoshima house and too near the guardhouse for any man’s nerves. But the Aussie had sneaked in and sneaked out, and while Timsen knew there ain’t no thief in the world like a Digger on the make for a piece of merchandise, no thief in the world, even so he had sweated, waiting until the man got back safely.
“Where we going to fix him?” he asked.
“Here.”
“All right. Better post some guards.”
“Where’s the nurse?”
“I’m the first one,” Timsen said queasily. “Steven can’t get down ’ere now. He’ll take on from me.”
“You sure you know what the hell you’re doing?”
“Strike a bleedin’ light,” Timsen said. “’Course I know. You got some water boiling?”
“No.”
“Well, get some! Don’t you Yanks know anything?”
“Keep your shirt on!”
The King nodded to Tex and Tex got the water going. Timsen undid the surgical haversack and laid out a little towel.
“I’ll be goddamned,” Tex said. “I ain’t never seen something so clean before. Why, it’s almost blue it’s so white.”
Timsen spat and washed his hands carefully with a new cake of soap and started to boil the hypodermic and forceps. Then he bent over Peter Marlowe and slapped his face a little.
“Hey, cobber!”
“Yes,” Peter Marlowe said, weakly.
“I’m going to clean the wound, right?”
Peter Marlowe had to concentrate. “What?”
“I’m going to give you the hantitoxin—”
“I’ve got to get up to the hospital,” he said drunkenly. “It’s time now—cut it—I’m telling you—” His spirit left him once more.
“Just as well,” Timsen said.
When the hypodermic was sterilized, Timsen gave an injection of morphine. “You help,” he said brusquely to the King. “Keep the bloody sweat out of me eyes.” Obediently the King got a towel.
Timsen waited until the injection reacted, then he ripped off the old bandage and laid the wound bare. “Jesus!” The whole wound area was puffy and purple and green. “I think it’s too late.”
“My God,” the King said. “No wonder the poor son of a bitch was crazy.”
Gritting his teeth, Timsen carefully cut away the worst of the rotted, putrid skin and probed deep and washed the wound as clean as he could. Then he sprinkled sulfa powder over it and neatly rebandaged it. When this was done, he straightened and sighed. “My bleedin’ back!” He looked at the purity of the bandage, then turned to the King. “Got a piece of shirt?”
The King grabbed a shirt from the wall and gave it to him. Timsen ripped the arm out and tore it into a rough bandage and wrapped it on top of the bandage.
“What the hell’s that for?” the King asked blearily.
“Camouflage,” Timsen said. “I suppose you think he can walk around the camp with a nice new bandage on him and not get stopped by curious docs and MP’s asking him where the hell he got it?”
“Oh, I see.”
“Well now, that’s something!”
The King let the crack pass. He was too qualmish with the memory of Peter Marlowe’s arm and the smell of it and the blood and the clotted mucused bandage that lay on the floor. “Hey Tex, get rid of that stinking thing.”
“Who, me? Why—”
“Get rid of it.”
Tex reluctantly picked up the bandage and went outside. He kicked the soft earth away and buried it, and was sick. When he came back he said, “Thank God I don’t have to do this every day.”
Timsen shakily filled the hypodermic and bent over Peter Marlowe’s arm. “You got to watch. Watch for Christ’s sake,” he growled as he saw the King turn away. “If Steven doesn’t come, maybe you’ll have to do it. The injection’s got to be intravenous, right? You find the vein. Then you just stick the needle in and inch out a little until you can pull some blood into the syringe. See? Then you’re sure the needle’s in the vein. Once you’re sure, you just squirt the hantitoxin in. But not fast. Take about three minutes for the cc.”
The King watched, revolted, until the needle was jerked out and Timsen pressed a little piece of cotton wool over the puncture.
“Goddammit,” the King said. “I’ll never be able to do that.”
“You want to let him die, okay.” Timsen was sweating and nauseated too. “An’ my old man wanted me to be a doctor!” He pushed the King out of the way and put his head out of the window and was violently sick. “Get me some coffee for God’s sake.”
Peter Marlowe stirred and became half awake.
“You’re going to be all right, cobber. You understand me?” Timsen bent over him, gentle.
Peter Marlowe nodded myopically and lifted his arm. For a moment he stared at it unbelievingly, then he muttered, “What happened? It’s–still on–it’s still on!”
“Of course it’s on,” the King said proudly. “We just fixed you up. Anti-toxin, the lot. Me and Timsen!”
But Peter Marlowe only looked at him, his mouth working and no words coming out. Then at length, he said in a whisper, “It’s still—on.” He used his right hand to feel the arm that should not be there but was. And when he was sure he was not dreaming, he lay back in a pool of sweat and closed his eyes and began to cry. A few minutes later he was asleep.
“Poor bugger,” Timsen said. “He must’ve thought he was on the op table.”
“How long’s he going to be out?”
“About another couple of hours. Listen,” Timsen said, “he’s got to have an injection every six hours until the toxin’s out of him. For, say, about forty-eight hours. And new dressings every day. And more sulfa. But you got to remember. He must keep up the injections. And don’t be surprised if he vomits all over the place. There’s bound to be a reaction. A bad one. I made the first dose heavy.”
“You think he’ll be all right?”
“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, yo
u 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?”
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