by James Thayer
Connie hastily pulled the bag's drawstring, then twisted away from the fetid hole, gasping for fresh air, but was met by a pungent cloud of cloyingly sweet odor from the spider orchids they had uprooted. Her head wagged involuntarily, shaking off the grip of the jungle. Her knees sagged, and Snow caught her arm, pressing her close, as much to support himself as her. She whispered, "Joseph, we've got to get out of here . . . not thinking . . . I'm not thinking straight."
"Can you walk?"
"Yes, yes. It's my head. The jungle. And the rotten body."
He lifted the bag over a shoulder and turned to Rose. "Tell the Dusun to lead us out."
"Only too glad to." She spoke abruptly to the tribesman who backtracked around the icehouse and south toward the Peninsula highway.
An hour later the rented Buick stopped in front of the Bugis Street café. They had been unable to fit the canvas bag into the trunk, so it lay on the back seat. Rose opened the front door and slid out, then spoke to Snow through the window. "You be sure to tell your boss that I'm available for anything he needs in Singapore. I have lots and lots of contacts and could someday do him some favors."
"For a price," Snow smiled. "
Well, a girl must eat. Goodbye, Connie. Goodbye, Joseph." Rose waited until the Buick turned onto North Bridge Road. Then with a speed and purpose that belied her satin dress and silk hose, she sprinted across Bugis Street to a waiting automobile, muttered baritone curses until the starter caught, then drove after them.