The King slammed the key into the lock and threw back the lid and took out the pile of ten thousand he had already counted and rushed back to the window. “Here. Ten grand. I’ve counted it. Where’s the diamond?”
“When I gets the money.”
“When I’ve got the diamond,” the King said, still holding tight to the notes.
The little man stared up belligerently and then opened his fist. The King stared at the diamond ring, examining it, not making a move to take it. Got to make sure, he told himself urgently. Got to make sure. Yes, it’s the one. I think it’s the one.
“Go on, mate,” grated the little man. “Take it!”
The King let go of the notes only when he had a firm grip on the ring, and the little man darted away. The King held his breath and bent down beside the light and examined the ring carefully.
“We’ve done it, Peter buddy,” he whispered, elated. “We’ve done it. We got the diamond and we’ve got the money.”
The stress of the last few days closing in on him, the King opened a little sack of coffee beans and made as though to bury the diamond deep within. Instead, he palmed the ring neatly. Even Peter Marlowe, the closest man to him, was fooled. As soon as he had locked the box he was overcome with a fit of coughing. No one saw him transfer the ring to his mouth. He felt around for the cup of cold coffee and drank it down, swallowing the stone. Now the diamond was safe. Very safe.
He sat on a chair waiting for the tension to pass. Oh yes, he told himself exultantly. You’ve done it.
A danger whistle cut the stillness.
Max slipped through the doorway. “Cops,” he said, and quickly joined the game of poker.
“Goddam!” The King forced his legs to move and he grabbed the stacks of money. He threw an inch at Peter Marlowe, stuffed an inch into his own pockets, and raced down the room to the poker table and gave each man a stack which they stuffed in their pockets. Then he dealt out the rest on the table and grabbed another seat and joined the game.
“Come on, for Chrissake, deal,” the King said.
“All right. All right,” Max said. “Five card.” He pushed out a hundred dollars. “Hundred to play.”
“Make it two,” Tex said, beaming.
“I’m in!”
They were all in and gloating and happy and Max dealt the first two cards and dealt himself an ace up. “I bet four hundred!”
“Your four and up four,” said Tex, who had a deuce face up and nothing in the hole.
“I’m in,” said the King, and then he looked up and Grey was standing at the door. Between Brough and Yoshima. And behind Yoshima were Shagata and another guard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Stand by your beds,” Brough ordered, his face stark and drawn.
The King shot a murderous glance at Max, who was the night’s lookout. Max had failed in his job. He had said “Cops” and not noticed the Japanese. If he had said “Japs” a different plan would have been used.
Peter Marlowe tried to get to his feet. Standing made his nausea worse, so he stumbled to the King’s table and leaned against it.
Yoshima was looking down at the money on the table. Brough had already seen it and winced. Grey had noticed it and his pulse had quickened.
“Where did this money come from?” Yoshima said.
There was a vast silence.
Then Yoshima shouted, “Where did this money come from?”
The King was dying inside. He had seen Shagata, and knew Shagata was nervous, and the King knew he was within an ace of Utram Road. “It’s gambling money, sir.”
Yoshima walked the length of the hut until he was in front of the King. “None from black market?” he asked.
“No, sir,” he said, forcing a smile.
Peter Marlowe felt the vomit rising. He reeled heavily and almost fell, and could not keep his eyes focused. “Can—I sit—please?” he said.
Yoshima looked down the room and noticed the armband. “What is an English officer doing here?” He was surprised, for his informants had told him there was very little fraternization with the Americans.
“I—was—just visiting…” But Peter Marlowe could not continue. “Excuse—” he lurched to the window and vomited.
“What’s the matter with him?” Yoshima asked.
“I think—it’s fever, sir.”
“You,” Yoshima said to Tex, “sit him on that chair.”
“Yes, sir,” Tex said.
Yoshima looked back at the King. “How is there so much money without black market?” he said silkily.
The King was conscious of the eyes upon him, and conscious of the appalling silence and conscious of the diamond inside him, and conscious of Shagata in the doorway. He cleared his throat. “Just, we’ve—saved our dough for gambling!”
Yoshima’s hand cracked against the King’s face, rocking him backward. “Liar!”
The blow did not hurt, really, but at the same time it seemed to be a death smash. My God, the King told himself, I’m dead. My luck’s run out.
“Captain Yoshima.” Brough began to walk up the length of the hut. He knew there was no use in trying to interfere—perhaps he would make it worse—but he had to try.
“Shut up!” Yoshima said. “The man lies. Everyone knows. Stinking Yank!”
Yoshima turned his back on Brough and looked up at the King. “Give me your water bottle!”
In a dream, the King got his bottle off the shelf and handed it to Yoshima. The Japanese poured the water out, shook the bottle and peered into it. Then he tossed it on the floor and moved to Tex. “Give me your water bottle.”
Peter Marlowe’s stomach heaved again. What about the water bottles? his brain screamed. Are Mac and Larkin being searched? And what happens if Yoshima asks for mine? He gagged and staggered to the window.
Yoshima worked his way around the hut, examining every bottle. At last he stood in front of Peter Marlowe.
“Your water bottle.”
“I—” began Peter Marlowe, and again nausea overwhelmed him and buckled his knees and he was beyond speech.
Yoshima turned to Shagata and said something furiously in Japanese at him.
Shagata said, “Hai.”
“You!” Yoshima pointed at Grey. “Go with this man and the guard and get the water bottle.”
“Very well.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the King said quickly. “His water bottle’s here.”
The King reached under his bed and pulled out a bottle, his spare, kept in secret against a rainy day.
Yoshima took it. It was very heavy. Heavy enough to contain a radio or part of a radio. He pulled out the cork and upended it. A stream of dry rice grains poured out. And kept pouring until it was empty and light. No radio inside.
Yoshima hurled the bottle away. “Where is the radio?” he shouted.
“There isn’t one—” began Brough, hoping to God Yoshima wouldn’t ask him why the Englishman, who was visiting, should put his water bottle under a bed.
“Shut up.”
Yoshima and the guards searched the hut, making sure that there were no more water bottles, and then Yoshima went through the water bottles again.
“Where is the water bottle radio?” he shouted. “I know it is here. That one of you has it! Where is it?”
“There’s no radio here,” Brough repeated. “If you like we’ll strip the whole hut for you.”
Yoshima knew that somehow his information was wrong. This time he had not been told the hiding place, only that it was contained in a water bottle, or water bottles, and tonight one of the men who owned it was, at this moment, in the American hut. His eyes looked at each man. Who? Oh, he could certainly march them all up to the guardhouse, but that wouldn’t help—not without the radio. The General didn’t like failures. And without the radio—
So this time he had failed. He turned to Grey. “You will inform the Camp Commandant that all water bottles are confiscated. They are to be taken up to the guardhouse tonight!�
�
“Yes, sir,” Grey said. His whole face seemed eyes.
Yoshima realized that by the time the water bottles were taken to the guardhouse the one or ones containing the radio would be buried or hidden. But that didn’t matter—it would make the search easier, for the hiding place would have to be changed, and in the changing eyes would be watching. Who would have thought a radio could be put inside a water bottle?
“Yankee pigs,” he snarled. “You think you’re so clever. So strong. So big. Well, remember. If this war lasts a hundred years we will beat you. Even if you beat the Germans. We can fight on alone. You will never beat us, never. You may kill many of us, but we will kill many more of you. You will never conquer us. Because we are patient and not afraid to die. Even if it takes two hundred years—eventually we will destroy you.”
Then he stormed out.
Brough turned on the King. “You’re supposed to be on the ball and you let the Jap bastard and guards walk into the hut, with all that loot spread around. You need your head examined.”
“Yes, sir. I sure as hell do.”
“And another thing. Where’s the diamond?”
“What diamond, sir?”
Brough sat down. “Colonel Smedly-Taylor called me in and said that Captain Grey had information that you’ve got a diamond ring you’re not supposed to have. You—and Flight Lieutenant Marlowe. Of course, any searching to be done, I’ve got to be present. And I’ve no objection to Captain Grey looking—so long as I’m here. We were just about to high-tail it over here when Yoshima busted in with his guards and started yakking about he was going to search this hut—one of you was supposed to have a radio in a water bottle—how crazy can you get? Grey and I were told to go with him.” Now that the search was over, he thanked God there was no water-bottled radio here, and he knew also that Peter Marlowe and the King were part of the radio detail. Why else would the King pretend that an American water bottle belonged to the Englishman?
“All right,” Brough said to the King, “take your clothes off. You’re going to be searched. And your bunk and your black box.” He turned around. “The rest of you guys keep it quiet and get on with your game.” He glanced back at the King. “Unless you want to hand over the diamond.”
“What diamond, sir?”
As the King began undressing, Brough went over to Peter Marlowe. “Anything I can get you, Pete?” he asked.
“Just some water.”
“Tex,” Brough ordered, “get some water.” Then to Peter Marlowe: “You look terrible, what is it?”
“Just—fever—feel rough.” Peter Marlowe lay back on Tex’s bed and forced a weak smile. “That bloody Jap frightened me to death.”
“Me too.”
Grey went through the King’s clothes and the black box and his shelves and the sack of beans, and the men were astonished when the search failed to uncover the diamond.
“Marlowe!” Grey stood in front of him.
Peter Marlowe’s eyes were bloodshot, and he could hardly see. “Yes?”
“I want to search you.”
“Listen, Grey,” Brough said. “You’re within your rights to search here if I’m here. But you got no authority—”
“It’s all right,” Peter Marlowe said. “I don’t mind. If I—don’t—he’ll only—think … Give me a hand, will you?”
Peter Marlowe took off his sarong and threw it and the inch of money onto a bed.
Grey went through the hems carefully. Angrily, he threw the sarong back. “Where did you get this money?”
“Gambling,” Peter Marlowe said, retrieving his sarong.
“You,” Grey barked at the King. “What about this?” He held up another inch of notes.
“Gambling, sir,” the King said innocently, as he dressed, and Brough hid a smile.
“Where’s the diamond?”
“What diamond? Sir.”
Brough got up and moved down to the poker table. “Looks as though there’s no diamond.”
“Then where did all this money come from?”
“The man says that it’s gambling money. There’s no law against gambling. Of course I don’t approve of gambling either,” he added with a thin smile, his eyes on the King.
“You know that’s not possible!” Grey said.
“It’s not probable, if that’s what you mean,” interrupted Brough. He was sorry for Grey—with his death-bright eyes, his mouth twitching and his hands palsied—sorry for him. “You wanted to search here, and you’ve searched, and there’s no diamond.”
He stopped as Peter Marlowe began to reel towards the door. The King caught him just before he fell.
“Here, I’ll help you,” the King said. “I’d better take him to his hut.”
“You stay here,” said Brough. “Grey, maybe you’d give him a hand.”
“He can drop dead as far as I’m concerned.” Grey’s eyes went to the King. “You too! But not before I’ve caught you. And I will.”
“When you do, I’ll throw the book at him.” Brough glanced at the King. “Right?”
“Yes. Sir.”
Brough glanced back at Grey. “But until you do—or he disobeys my orders—there’s nothing to be done.”
“Then order him to stop black-marketing,” Grey said.
Brough kept his temper. “Anything for a peaceful life,” he said, and felt his men’s contempt and smiled inside. Sons of bitches. “You,” he said to the King. “You’re ordered to stop black-marketing. As I understand blackmarketing it means to sell food and goods, anything, to your own people—for profit. You’re not to sell anything for profit.”
“Dealing in contraband, that’s black-marketing.”
“Captain Grey, selling for profit or even stealing from the enemy is not black-marketing. There’s no harm in a little trading.”
“But it’s against orders!”
“Jap orders! And I don’t acknowledge enemy orders. And they are the enemy.” Brough wanted to end this nonsense. “No black-marketing. It’s ordered.”
“You Americans stick together—I’ll say that for you.”
“Now don’t you start. I’ve had enough for one night from Yoshima. No one’s black-marketing here or breaking any laws that are laws—so far as I know. Now that’s the end of it. I catch anyone stealing anything or selling food for profit or drugs for profit I’ll break his arm off myself and stuff it down his throat. And I’m senior American officer and these are my men and that’s what I say. Understand?”
Grey stared at Brough and promised himself that he would watch him too. Rotten people, rotten officers. He turned and stalked out of the hut.
“Help Peter back to his bunk, Tex,” said Brough.
“Sure, Don.”
Tex lifted him in his arms and grinned at Brough. “Like a baby, sir,” he said and went out.
Brough stared at the money on the poker table. “Yep,” he said, nodding, as though to himself, “gambling’s no good. No goddam good at all.” He looked up at the King and said sweetly, “I don’t approve of gambling, do you?”
Watch yourself, the King told himself, Brough’s got that mean officer look about him. Why is it only son of a bitch officers get that look and why is it you always know it—and can always smell the danger twenty feet away?
“Well,” the King said, offering Brough a cigarette and holding the light for him, “I guess it depends on how you look at it.”
“Thanks. Nothing like a tailor-made.” Once more Brough’s eyes locked on the King’s. “And how do you look at it, Corporal?”
“If I’m winning, it looks good. If I’m losing, not so good,” and added under his breath, “You son of a bitch, what the hell’s on your mind?”
Brough grunted and looked at the stack of notes in front of the place where the King had been seated. Nodding thoughtfully, he thumbed through the notes and held them in his hand. All of them. His eyes saw the large piles in front of every place. “Looks like everybody’s winning in this school,” he said reflectivel
y to no one in particular.
The King didn’t answer.
“Looks like you could afford a contribution.”
“Huh?”
“Yes, ‘huh,’ goddammit!” Brough held up the notes. “About this much. To go into the goddam pool. Officers and enlisted men alike.”
The King moaned. Best part of four hundred dollars. “Jesus, Don…”
“Gambling’s a bad habit. Like swearing, goddammit. You play cards, you might just lose the money, then where’d you be? A contribution’d save your soul for better things.”
Barter, you fool, the King told himself. Settle for half.
“Gee, I’d be happy to—”
“Good.” Brough turned to Max. “You too, Max.”
“But sir—” the King began heatedly.
“You’ve had your say.”
Max tried not to look at the King, and Brough said, “That’s right, Max. You look at him. Good man. He’s made a contribution, why the hell can’t you?”
Brough took three-fourths of the notes from each stack and counted the money quickly. In front of them. The King had to sit and watch.
“That makes ten bucks a man a week for six weeks,” said Brough. “Thursday’s payday. Oh yeah. Max! Collect all water bottles and take them up to the guardhouse. Right now!” He stuffed the money into his pocket, then walked to the door. At the door he had a sudden thought. He took the notes out once more and peeled off a single five-dollar bill. Looking at the King, he tossed it into the center of the table.
“Burying money.” His smile was angelic. “’Night, you guys.”
Throughout the camp, the collection of water bottles was under way.
Mac and Larkin and Peter Marlowe were in the bungalow. On the bed, beside Peter Marlowe, were their water bottles.
“We could take the wireless out of them and drop the cases down a borehole,” Mac said. “Those bloody bottles are going to be difficult to hide now.”
“We could drop ’em as they are down a borehole,” Larkin said.
“You don’t really mean that, do you, Colonel?” asked Peter Marlowe.
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