He thought he heard a sound. He froze, waited, and heard it again, then saw the small red eyes gleaming at him. Only a rat. He took another dozen steps and saw the open wooden crate, the small crowbar that had been used to force the seals, the gleam of printing on a carton inside.
The crate stood among a dozen others innocently labeled as auto engine parts. Outwardly, there was nothing to indicate why it had been chosen for burglary.
Durell studied the floor around it, risked his light beam again to check for hairline wires at throat height, but saw nothing dangerous. Pala Mir breathed lightly behind him.
One of the cartons inside the wooden crate had been broken open and another was revealed inside it. The inked stenciling read:
U.S.NAVY Mk.7 BMRG—7734 HANDLE WITH CARE DELICATE INSTRUMENTS
Restricted
To Authorized Personnel
Only
XX47/88-70D
Durell said aloud: "Boomerangs! BMRG's. For the Judas planes. Some of the lot stolen in Saigon." "I don't understand," Pala Mir whispered. "Don't touch anything." "But—"
He saw the note then.
It was a small scrap of paper tucked into the torn carton in such a way that he couldn't miss it. He studied the paper for a moment, checking its color and texture, to see if it might be Thermit-impregnated. It looked like an ordinary page torn from a notebook. It looked safe enough, he decided. Nothing was attached to it, but he removed it with extreme care, taking his time.
For a long time he studied the dark warehouse once more, listening, smelling, and sensing with every nerve. The place seemed empty. Pala Mir spoke impatiently, her voice suddenly fierce.
"Sam, I want to know who you are and how you knew something was wrong here in Paul's warehouse and why that poor old Chiang Gi was murdered. Was he a thief?"
"No."
"Did someone else break into this crate?"
"Yes."
He was thinking about the note. It was brief and unsigned: "You're a bit late, Cajun. Sorry about Chiang."
18
THE entrance to the old stone palace was on the opposite side of the dark park beyond the statue of the White Rajah, Anthony Merrydale, and his pet tiger. They were out of sight of the dock. Beyond the point of land was a row of dingy shops catering to fishermen and sailors. Most of the shops had signs over them in English and in East Indian. But the shops were all closed now and tightly shuttered.
The gates were formidable, built of solid teak, with a chain leading up to a cluster of old iron bells. There was a small bridge leading up to it over a canal that made the spit of land and the building into an island. In addition, there was a heavy iron grill guarding the doors.
"Can we get in without sounding those bells?" Durell asked.
Pala Mir nodded in the dim light. Her dark Chinese clothing made her look slender and fragile, but he knew better. "Yes. One moment, please." She found a small push bell and put her thumb on it. "You must promise me something, Sam. I don't know too much about you, and yet I—I feel you can be my—my friend. If that's an understatement after last night on the sampan—well, you did save me from that mob last night, and I owe you more than I can repay. At the same time I must ask you, whatever you demand of me, not to disturb my grandfather."
"You said he wanted to see me."
"Yes, but please don't upset him. Don't tell him yet about Chiang Gi. The two old gentlemen knew each other very well and respected each other."
The heavy teak doors opened and the iron grill lifted automatically. A middle-aged Indian woman in a dark sari trimmed with silver looked out at them, her mouth wide and forbidding.
"Anandara, it is I, Pala Mir."
"Yes. You said you would come." The woman spoke in quiet, well-modulated English. "Is this the man?"
Pala Mir nodded and turned to Durell. "Anandara is my father's companion. No one else lives here."
"Where does your brother live?"
"Oh, he's in the city in one of the new apartments. He rarely comes here, except to badger Grandpapa."
They followed the Indian woman into a damp, vaulted corridor that smelled of must and mice with peeling ochre paint and a few Malay artifacts on the walls. One heavily framed portrait of the first Anthony Merrydale, haughtily arrogant and splendid in a jeweled turban and striped robes, stared down at them in the dim Ught. A flight of stairs led them quickly up out of this ground floor, which obviously was not used these days and perhaps had not been used for the last fifty years. The upper corridor was more pretentious but still gave evidence on the walls where paintings had been removed and presumably sold off.
He heard the faint sounds of the donkey engine and winches on the freighter through the thick stone walls. Pala Mir walked quickly, guided by the stately Anandara whose gray hair was pulled back into a heavy bun at the nape of her neck. They turned right, then paused before an ornate, gold-leafed double door. On the walls to either side were Malay spears and kris and a collection of military rifles.
Pala Mir said, "Sam, I suppose you think I am vicious and dissolute, as the newspapers said, and my brother a paragon of virtue. Everyone says so, so it must be true. And yet—"
"I know you better now," he told her.
"No, you do not know me. Nor have you met my dear grandfather." She hesitated, with distress in her slightly slanted, Eurasian eyes. She resembled a wounded doe. "I told you. Grandpapa is a bit strange. Is it true that your own grandfather lived in the past, too?"
"He stopped the clock for himself in defense against a grief too heavy to bear," said Durell.
"And you understand this? You love him?"
"I do, and I regard him as one of the finest men I've been privileged to know."
She bit her lip. "It is the same with the Rajah, you know. But he is not insane or senile, as Paul tries to prove!" Her voice lifted in stifled anger, while Anandara just stood to one side, silent and impassive. "Oh, I get so furious with my own twin brother! He charges Grandpapa with wanting to turn back the clock and rule Pasangara again, but it is not so! Grandpapa is loyal to the new state and the new democracy. You must believe that. It is just that he remembers the past glory and power of the Merrydales here, and he prefers to pretend sometimes that the past still exists, because of today's ugly and inglorious present. Is that such a terrible thing?"
"If he's happy, it's wonderful."
Pala Mir nodded. "Then come, Sam, meet my grandfather, the last White Rajah of Pasangara."
She pushed open the great double-leafed doors.
He stepped back in time into all the mysterious pomp and splendor of Malaya's power of the last century. In this great chamber, overlooking the sea through narrow, slotted windows, everything had been preserved as it had been in the days of the first Rajah. The first Anthony Merrydale may have been a pirate on an international scale, but his taste in art had been impeccable. Buddhist carvings, sculptures large and small taken from inland temples, adorned the walls. There were ivories, mounted elephant tusks, tiger skins, polished Arab weapons, intricate woven patterns of plaited stuff, gold Indian plaques, and Chinese jade and porcelain. The room had a raised floor at the window end with three wide, carpeted stairs going up, embellished with an astrolabe, an ivory screen, and dim Victorian paintings the worse for wear in this tropical climate. The interior stone walls had been imported from England, Durell guessed, for griffins and stone monsters leered and menaced any intruder from the corners.
But it was the old man, seated on a tiger-skin throne with an umbrella-like silk canopy above it, that caught Durell's immediate attention.
Despite the sullen heat of the night, the White Rajah wore a massive cloak of silk, a white turban with a white plume sprouting from a huge yellow gem above the forehead, and ornate rings on skeletal fingers. His silvery hair, peering from under the regal turban, was cut long in thin white strands. The old man's nose was long and strong, the mouth cruel as only that of an adventurer, seizing power and royal authority in distant lands by sheer force of person
ality, had to be cruel. The face was static, but its serenity was belied by the eyes.
The eyes were neither senile nor addled. They were sharp and intelligent, even amused, hospitable but remotely polite.
"Ah," the old man said in Oxonian English. "The American who was so helpful to my beloved granddaughter. We welcome you, sir. Did you know, my dear fellow, that once when temple bells rang throughout Pasangara and the priests chanted for Buddha's wisdom and blessings, the response of the worshippers was. To the Serene and Excellent Rajah, health and honor, long life and perpetual victory'?"
"Grandpapa—" Pala Mir murmured.
"Have no fears, child. I do not demand such salutations in these days." The old man smiled at Durell's tall figure. Somehow, despite the theatrical getup, he did not seem ridiculous at all. "I must say, sir, that rather than mistake you for another of those bustling American businessmen or political bureaucrats, I would take you for one of my father's great mercenary captains, who carved this province out of hostile jungle and subdued the local tribes to bend them to his will and civilize them."
"Grandpapa—" the girl warned again.
The Indian woman said gently, "Let him speak, my dear."
"I amuse myself, Pala Mir." Again those shrewd eyes, as ancient as his royal Oriental costume, bored right through Durell. "Yes, my dear fellow, there is something fearful about you. Once, of course, there was true splendor in this court—riches and honors and good works for the people of Pasangara. Exploitation, yes, and tyranny, too— even terror when necessary. The White Rajah employed several mercenaries like you, Mr. Durell. There is that air about you, yes, of danger and cold death."
"Mr. Merrydale—" Durell began.
The old man held up a hand; rings glittered on his thin fingers. "Permit me, sir. I know men. Once, you would have been the right hand of the Rajah, the man to send villains and traitors to be strangled for betraying the state. Who then was immune from the Rajah's eyes? I believe, my dear sir, that my palace has been invaded by you, in
a sense, and perhaps I shall wind up as a corpse floating in the coastal swamps."
"I assure you, I am from the twentieth century," said Durell.
"But you are a rajah's man. I see it, I see it!" the old gentleman said triumphantly. "Do you dispute your true vocation?"
Pala Mir spoke gently. "Grandpapa, Mr. DureU has been helpful to me, and he is a friend who needs help in return. He wants your permission to visit the mountain palace." She turned her grave, dark-blue eyes to Durell. "Is that not so?"
"Yes. If I could—"
"And what of the civil and military authorities, eh?" The old man cackled and wobbled his head; his great turban jewels flashed and sparkled. "Well, never mind, never mind. I am still respected here. And I understand you, sir. I fear you but I like you."
The White Rajah stood up from his throne and proved taller and stronger than Durell had expected. His long silk gown fell away in enormous pleats, revealing stupendous striped pantaloons and leather slippers with curled, pointed toes. "You are welcome here and welcome to my aid. It is not often now that I am consulted. I understand the state is in danger, and whatever honors have been stripped from me, I am loyal and devoted to the welfare of Pasangara."
"I assure you, I have no intention of meddling in the security of the province."
"Perhaps not. We shall see. Once, of course, when I was rich, my poor Pala Mir would have wanted for nothing, and she would have been a happy child—"
"I want nothing now. Grandpapa."
"I know, my dear. Well, well. I am consulted at last." The Rajah was pleased. He looked cunningly at Durell. "There are saboteurs, guerrillas. Red agents in the mountains, did you know that? My poor country has been the object of invasion since history began, my dear Durell. From Kubla Khan, who sent naval expeditions to the
Malayan independent kingdoms, on through the Portuguese Admiral Lopez de Sequeira, who brought letters from the king of Portugal to the great Sultan Mahmud. Do you know our true history, sir, and our longing for freedom? Do you know the fine stories of our national heroes Tun Perak, the Kingmaker, and Hang Tuah, the Malay admiral? We have not always been cursed by guns, of course. The Apostle of the Indies, Francis Xavier, once visited Pasangara, too. We have been shuttled back and forth between the Dutch, the Portuguese, the British, the English East India Company, and the Dutch United Company for generations. We have had civil wars between Malay chieftains, Chinese tin miners, and British rubber planters for much too long." • "Grandpapa—" Pala Mir said again.
"Permit me, child. One must keep matters in proper perspective. We have Indian workers on the rubber estates, Chinese in the tin mines, Malays in the rural villages. Everyone has been tolerated and welcomed in a spirit of peace and unity. Malaya has much to be proud of. We fought the Chinese Communist agents after the Second World War, we resettled our refugees in the *new villages,' and ultimately we defeated those guerrillas in their jungle hideouts."
The old man seemed to achieve a new height and dignity as he spoke. "Now we are in difficulty again from those who will not let us live in peace. The city and the countryside are dangerous. My hands are tied, of course." The Rajah shrugged. "I am still suspect in our new democracy. I do not mind. I would give all I have, or hope to have, to help, and if I could go back to the mountain palace, I would be rich again and perhaps be of some use—"
Pala Mir said, "Grandpapa insists there are chests of gold coins there, hidden by the first Rajah."
"No, no, nothing so romantic as hidden treasure, my child. Simply a precaution taken by my father for extra funds in time of emergency. Nobody believes me. Paul thinks my wits are addled when I speak of it. But if you would help me, Mr. Durell," his eyes grew sly but amused, "I would go with you for whatever purposes you have there. I would pay you well—"
"No need for that," Durell said.
"We will arrange it, then. At once. No time like the present, eh? Is the city safe now? Have the riots ended? Colonel Tileong was here this afternoon to impress upon me the necessity of staying in the palace, in view of the temper of my poor children, my poor Malays who suffer and are so patient—"
The Rajah paused suddenly, and Durell saw the mold-ering curtains at the window flutter slightly in a warm draft. He knew the doors to the enormous room had been opened behind him, and he turned casually but not before he saw the incredible change come over the gallant old man.
Where there had been strength and a cynical amusement, there was now a look of blank vapidky, of childish guilt. A vacuous expression now appeared in the suddenly faded eyes. The long nose drooped. The jeweled turban looked foolish. A trembling finger came up a corner of the mouth and clung to the lower lip, moving a bead of saliva on it.
"Paul, dear boy?"
Durell saw Pala Mir's twin brother in the doorway. The Indian woman, Anandara, made a small gesture, her hand rising to her full bosom; she seemed to shrink a little in her silver-trimmed sari.
"Grandpapa," said Paul Merrydale, "I warned you not to have anything to do with this man. Why did you disobey me?"
"Dear boy, I—I'm sorry—"
"Let the Rajah be," said Anandara quietly.
"Shut up," Paul snapped. "I've had about enough of your orders, too, ever since I was a boy. Things have changed in Pasangara, haven't you heard?" He swung around to Durell. "As for you, your days here are ended, understand?"
Paul Merrydale was not alone. Two Chinese stood behind him. One wore a maritime officer's cap and obviously came from the freighter—a burly man from Szechwan with a sharp nose and intelligent, hostile eyes. The other Chinese was a seaman who swung a heavy billy club from a thong wrapped around his wrist.
Paul was as elegant as ever in a white drill suit and a flowered cravat. Whatever the hour—and it was past midnight now—he seemed to have just stepped from a bandbox. His elegance, however, was deceptive.
"Grandpapa—"
The old Rajah made a quavering sound of fear "Grandson, you must protect me! I
am an old man, and I am not political, as you know."
"Exactly. You and Pala have been foolish enough. Please do not interfere now."
"Of course not, Paul. Do as you think best."
Merrydale fixed his pale eyes on Durell. "You will stay here until the police come."
Before Durell could reply, the telephone rang.
The sound was incongruous in that barbaric, splendid room. Durell had not seen the instrument, but Paul Merrydale knew where it was. He moved with a long stride and pushed aside a bronze-studded Malay shield and took the phone from the wall. He spoke angrily. "The Palace. What is it?"
There was an awkward pause. The two Chinese from the freighter blocked the exit. Their slanted eyes never left Durell's tall figure. Durell stood quietly while Merrydale listened to someone explosive on the telephone. Then Paul said angrily, "It is no concern of yours. He is not in my custody. Perhaps you should speak to Colonel Tileong."
Again there was a pause, and then Merrydale turned impatiently and thrust the telephone at Durell.
"Mr. Condon, your consul, wants to speak to you."
"Thank you."
David Condon's voice was high and light, quick and urgent. "Durell? I know you can't talk. I took a chance hoping you'd be there. Are you all right?"
"For the moment," Durell said quietly.
"Threatened?"
"Yes."
"Chinese?"
"And Merrydale, Junior."
Paul Merrydale bit his lip. Durell stared at him with blank eyes while he listened to the young diplomat speak with a rush of words into the earphone.
"That's not the worst of it. You got out only because I finally figured where you were and got Premier Kuang on an urgent diplomatic protest concerning you. But you seem to have a penchant for trouble. I really shouldn't be involved with you at all; I have my own directives, as you know—"
"We want the same thing," Durell said.
"Yes. Well. Be that as it may, Tileong is on his way to the Rajah now—after you, of course."
"Why?"
"He's had a tip, apparently. The premier made a small mention of it just minutes ago. You'd better get out of there."
Assignment White Rajah Page 11