King Rat

Chapter 2

"By George," the major was saying to the King with forced joviality, "and then there was the time I was in New York, in '33. Marvelous time. Such a wonderful country, the States. Did I ever tell you about the trip I made to Albany? I was a subaltern at the time . . ."

"Yes, sir," the King said tiredly. "You've told me." He felt he had been polite long enough and he could still feel Grey's eyes on him. Though he was quite safe and not afraid, he wanted to get out of the sun and out of the range of the eyes. He had a lot to do. And if the major wouldn't come to the point, what the hell! "Well, if you'll excuse me, sir. It was nice to talk to you."

"Oh, just a minute," Major Barry said quickly and looked around nervously, conscious of the curious eyes of the men that passed, conscious of their unspoken question - What's he talking to the King for? "I — er, could I see you privately?"

The King gauged him thoughtfully. "We're private here. If you keep your voice down."

Major Barry was wet with embarrassment. But he had been trying to bump into the King for days now. And it was too good an opportunity to miss. "But the Provost Marshal's hut is —"

"What have the cops to do with talking privately? I don't understand, sir."

The King was bland.

"There's no need - er - well, Colonel Sellars said that you might be able to help me." Major Barry had only the stump of a right arm and he kept scratching the stump, touching it, molding it. "Would you — handle something for us, I mean me." He waited until there was no one within hearing distance. "It's a lighter," he whispered. "A Ronson lighter. Perfect condition." Now that he had come to the point, the major felt a little easier.

But at the same time he felt naked, saying these words to the American, out in the sun, on the public path.

The King thought a moment. "Who's the owner?"

"I am." The major looked up, startled. "My God, you don't think I stole it, do you? Good Lord, I'd never do that. I've kept it safe all this time, but now, well, now we've got to sell it. The unit's all agreed." He licked his dry lips and fondled the stump. "Please. Would you? You can get the best price."

"Trading's against the law."

"Yes, but please, you — would you please? You can trust me."

The King turned so that his back was towards Grey and his face towards the fence - just in case Grey could lip read. "I'll send someone after chow,"

he said quietly. "Password is 'Lieutenant Albany said for me to see you.'

Got it?"

"Yes." Major Barry hesitated, his heart pumping. "When did you say?"

"After chow. Lunch!"

"Oh, all right."

"Just give it to him. And when I've looked it over, I'll get in touch with you.

Same password." The King flipped the burning top off his cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground. He was just about to step on it when he saw the major's face. "Oh! You want the butt?"

Major Barry bent down happily and picked it up. "Thanks. Thanks very much." He opened his little tobacco tin and carefully tore the paper off the butt and put the half inch of tobacco into the dried tea leaves and mixed them together. "Nothing like a little sweetening," he said, smiling. "Thank you very much. It'll make at least three good cigarettes."

"I'll see you, sir," said the King saluting.

"Oh, um, well —" Major Barry did not know quite how to put it. "Don't you think," he said nervously, keeping his voice low, "that, well — to give it to a stranger, just like that, how do I know that — well, everything will be all right?"

The King said coldly, "The password for one thing. Another thing, I've got a reputation. Another thing, I'm trusting you that it's not stolen. Maybe we'd better forget it."

"Oh no, please don't misunderstand me," the major said quickly, "I was just asking. It's, well, it's all I have left." He tried to smile. "Thanks. After lunch. Oh, how long do you think it'll take to, er, to dispose of it?"

"Soon as I can. Usual terms. I get ten percent of the sale price," the King said crisply.

"Of course. Thank you, and thanks again for the tobacco."

Now that everything had been said, Major Barry felt an enormous weight off his mind. With luck, he thought as he hurried down the hill, we will get six or seven hundred dollars. Enough to buy food for months, with care.

He did not think once of the man who had owned the lighter, who had given it into his keeping when the man had gone to the hospital, months ago, never to return. That was in the past. Today he owned the lighter. It was his. His to sell.

The King knew that Grey had been watching him all the time. The excitement of making a deal in front of the MP hut added to his well-being.

Pleased with himself, he walked up the slight rise, responding automatically to the greetings of the men - officers and enlisted men, English and Australian - that he knew. The important ones got special treatment, the others a friendly nod. The King was conscious of their malevolent envy and it bothered him not at all. He was used to it; it amused him and added to his stature. And he was pleased that the men called him the King. He was proud of what he had done as a man - as an American. Through running he had created a world. He surveyed his world now and was well satisfied.

He stopped outside Hut Twenty-four, one of the Australian huts, and poked his head through a window.

"Hey, Tinker," he called out. "I want me a shave and a manicure."

Tinker Bell was small and wiry. His skin was pigment-brown and his eyes were small and very brown and his nose was peeling. He was a sheep shearer by trade but he was the best barber in Changi.

"Wot's this, your ruddy birthday? I gave you a manicure the day before yesterday."

"So I get another today."

Tinker shrugged and jumped out the window. The King sat back in the chair under the lee of the hut's overhang, relaxing contentedly as Tinker put the sheet around his neck and settled him just right. "Look at this, mate," he said, and held a little cake of soap under the King's nose. "Smell it."

"Hey," said the King, grinning. "That's the real McCoy."

"Don't know about that, mate! But it's Yardley's ruddy violets. A cobber o'

mine swiped it on a work party. Right from under the nose of a bloody Nip.

Cost me thirty dollars," he said with a wink, doubling the price. "I'll keep it just for you, special, if you likes."

"Tell you what. I'll make it five bucks a time, instead of three, as long as it lasts," the King said.

Tinker calculated quickly. The cake of soap would last perhaps eight shaves, maybe ten. "Strike a light, mate. I 'ardly makes me money back."

The King grunted. "You got taken, Tink. I can buy that by the pound for fifteen a cake."

"My bloody oath," Tinker burst out, feigning anger. "A cobber taking me for a sucker! Now that ain't right!" Furiously he mixed hot water and the sweet-smelling soap into a lather. Then he laughed. "You're the King all right, mate."

"Yeah," the King said contentedly. He and Tinker were old friends.

"Ready, mate?" Tinker asked as he held up the lathered brush.

"Sure." Then the King saw Tex walking down the path. "Wait a minute.

Hey, Tex!" he called out.

Tex looked across at the hut and saw the King and ambled over to him.

"Yeah?" He was a gangling youth with big ears and a bent nose and contented eyes, and he was tall, very tall.

Without being asked, Tinker moved out of earshot as the King beckoned Tex closer. "Do something for me?" he asked quietly.

"Sure."

The King took out his wallet and peeled off a ten-dollar note. "Go find Colonel Brant. The little guy with the beard rolled under his chin. Give him this."

"You know where he'd be?"

"Down by the corner of the jail. It's his day for keeping an eye on Grey."

Tex grinned. "Hear you had a set-to."

"The son of a bitch searched me again."

"Tough," said Tex dryly, scratching his blond crewcut.

"Yes." The King laughed. "And tell Brant not to be so goddam late next time. But you should have been there, Tex. Man, that Brant's a great actor.

He even made Grey apologize." He grinned, then added another five. "Tell him this is for the apology."

"Okay. That all?"

"No." He gave him the password and told him where to find Major Barry, then Tex went his way and the King settled back. Altogether, today had been very profitable.

Grey hurried across the dirt path and up the steps to Hut Sixteen. It was almost lunchtime and he was painfully hungry.

Men were already forming an impatient line for food. Quickly Grey went to his bed and got his two mess cans and mug and spoon and fork and joined the line.

"Why isn't it here already?" he wearily asked the man ahead of him.

"How the hell do I know?" Dave Daven said curtly. His accent was public school - Eton, Harrow or Charterhouse - and he was tall like bamboo.

"I was just asking," Grey said irritably, despising Daven for his accent and his birthright.

After they had waited an hour, the food arrived. A man carried two containers to the head of the line and set them down. The containers had formerly held five gallons of high-octane gasoline. Now one was half full of rice - dry, pellucid. The other was full of soup.

Today it was shark soup - at least, one shark had been divided ounce by ounce into soup for ten thousand men. It was warm and tasted slightly of the fish, and in it there were pieces of eggplant and cabbage, a hundred pounds for ten thousand. The bulk of the soup was made from leaves, red and green, bitter and yet nutritious, grown with so much care in the gardens of the camp. Salt and curry powder and chili pepper spiced it.

Silently each man moved forward in turn, watching the serving of the man in front and the man behind, measuring their portions against the one he was given. But now, after three years, the measures were all the same.

A cup per man of soup.

The rice was steaming as it was served. Today it was Java rice, each grain separate, the best in the world. A cupful per man.

A mug of tea.

Each man took his food away and ate silently, quickly, with exquisite agony. The weevils in the rice were added nourishment, and the worm or insect in the soup was removed without anger if it was seen. But most men did not look at the soup after the first quick glance to find out if there was a piece of fish in it.

Today there was a little left over from the servings and the list was checked and the three men who headed it got the extra and thanked today.

Then the food was gone and lunch was over and dinner was at sundown.

But though there was only soup and rice, here and there throughout the camp a man might have a piece of coconut or half a banana or piece of sardine or thread of bully or even an egg to mix with his rice. One whole egg was rare. Once a week, if the camp hens laid according to plan, an egg was given to each man. That was a great day. A few men were given one egg every day, but no man wanted to be one of the special few.

"Hey listen, you chaps!" Captain Spence stood in the center of the hut, but his voice could be heard outside. He was officer of the week, the hut adjutant, a small dark man with twisted features. He waited till they had all moved inside. "We've got to supply ten more bods for the wood detail tomorrow." He checked his list and called out the names, and then looked up. "Marlowe?" There was no reply. "Anyone know where Marlowe is?"

"I think he's down with his unit," Ewart called out.

"Tell him he's on the airfield work party tomorrow, will you?"

"All right."

Spence started coughing. His asthma was bad today, and when the spasm had passed he continued: "The Camp Commandant had another interview with the Jap General this morning. He asked for increased rations and medical supplies." He cleared his throat in the momentary hush. Then he went on and his voice was flat. "He got the usual turndown.

The rice ration stays at four ounces of grain per man per day." Spence looked out of the doors and checked that both lookouts were in position.

Then he dropped his voice and all the men listened expectantly.

"The Allies are about sixty miles from Mandalay, still going strong.

They've got the Japs on the run. The Allies are still going in Belgium but the weather's very bad. Snowstorms. On the Eastern front, the same thing, but the Russians are going like bats out of hell and expect to take Krakov in the next few days. The Yanks are going well in Manila. They're near" -

he hesitated, trying to remember the name - "I think it's the Agno River, in Luzon. That's all. But it's good."

Spence was glad that this part was over. He learned the news by heart daily at the hut adjutants' meeting, and every time he stood up to repeat it publicly, his sweat chilled and his stomach felt empty. One day an informer might point a finger at him and tell the enemy that he was one of the men who delivered the news, and Spence knew that he was not strong enough to stay silent. Or one day a Japanese might hear him tell the others, and then, then…

"That's all, chaps." Spence went over to his bunk, filled with nausea. He took off his pants and walked out of the hut with a towel over his arm.

The sun beat down. Two hours yet until the rain. Spence crossed the asphalt street and stood in line for a shower. He always had to have a shower after he gave the news, for the sweat-stench was acrid on him.

"All right, mate?" Tinker asked.

The King looked at his nails. They were well manicured. His face felt tight from the hot and cold towels, and tangy with the lotion. "Great," he said as he paid him. "Thanks, Tink." He moved out of the chair, put on his hat and nodded to Tinker and to the colonel who had been waiting patiently for a haircut.

Both men stared after him.

The King walked briskly up the path once more, past clustering huts, heading for home. He was pleasantly hungry.

The American hut was set apart from the others, near enough to the walls to share the afternoon shade, and near enough to the encircling path which was the life stream of the camp and near enough to the fence. It was just right. Captain Brough, USAF, the senior American officer, had insisted that the American enlisted men have their own hut. Most of the American officers would have preferred to move in too — it was difficult for them to live among foreigners — but this was not allowed, for the Japanese had ordered that officers be separated from enlisted men. The other nationalities found this hard to stomach, the Australians less so than the English.

The King was thinking about the diamond. It would not be easy to swing this deal, and this deal he had to swing. Suddenly as he approached the hut, he noticed beside the path a young man sitting on his haunches, talking rapidly in Malay to a native. The man's skin was heavily pigmented and beneath the skin the muscles showed. Wide shoulders. Slim hips. The man wore only a sarong, and the way he wore it, it seemed to belong. His face was craggy, and though he was Changi-thin, there was a grace to his movements and a sparkle about him.

The Malay — black-brown, tiny — was listening intently to the man's lilting speech; then he laughed and showed teeth abused by betel nut, and replied, accenting the melodious language with a wave of his hand. The man joined his laugh and interrupted with a flood of words, oblivious of the King's intent stare.

The King could catch only a word here and a word there, for his Malay was bad and he had to get by with a mixture of Malay and Japanese and pidgin English. He listened to the rich laugh and knew it was a rare thing.

When this man was laughing, you could see that the laugh came from inside. This was very rare. Priceless.

Thoughtfully the King entered the hut. The other men looked up briefly and greeted him amiably. He returned their greetings without favor. But he knew and they knew.

Dino was lying on his bunk half asleep. He was a neat little man with dark skin and dark hair, prematurely flecked with gray, and veiled liquid eyes.

The King felt the eyes and nodded and saw Dino's smile. But the eyes were not smiling.

In the far corner of the hut Kurt looked up from the pants he was trying to patch up and spat on the floor. He was a stunted, evil-looking man with yellow-brown teeth, ratlike, and he always spat on the floor and not one of them liked him, for he would never bathe. Near the center of the hut Byron Jones III and Miller were playing their interminable chess. Both were naked. When Miller's merchant ship was torpedoed two years before, he had weighed two hundred and eighty-eight pounds. He was six feet, seven inches. Now he turned the scale at a hundred and thirty-three, and the folds of belly skin hung like a pelt over his sex. His blue eyes lit up as he reached over and took a knight. Bryon Jones III quickly removed the knight, and now Miller saw that his castle was threatened.

"You've had it, Miller," Jones said, scratching the jungle sores on his legs.

"Go to hell!"

Jones laughed. "The Navy could always take the Merchant Marine at anything."

"You bastards still got yourselves sunk. A battleship yet!"

"Yeah," Jones said thoughtfully, toying with his eye patch, remembering the death of his ship, the Houston, and the deaths of his buddies and the loss of his eye.

The King walked the length of the hut. Max was still sitting beside his bed and the big black box that was chained to it.

"Okay, Max," the King said. "Thanks. You can quit now."

"Sure." Max had a well-used face. He came from West Side New York and he had learned the lessons of life from those streets at an early age.

His eyes were brown and restless.

Automatically the King took out his tobacco box and gave Max a little of the raw tobacco.

"Gee, thanks," Max said. "Oh yeah, Lee told me to tell you he's done your laundry. He's getting chow today — we're on the second shift — but he told me to tell you."

"Thanks." The King took out his pack of Kooas and a momentary hush fell upon the hut. Before the King could get his matches out, Max was striking his native flint lighter.

"Thanks, Max." The King inhaled deeply. Then, after a pause, he said,

"You like a Kooa?"

"Jesus, thanks," Max said, careless of the irony in the King's voice.

"Anything else you want?"

"I'll call you if I need you."

Max walked down the hut to sit on his string bed beside the door. Eyes saw the cigarette but mouths said nothing. It was Max's. Max had earned it. When it was their day to guard the King's possessions, well, maybe they'd get one too.

Dino smiled at Max, who winked back. They would share the cigarette after chow. They always shared what they could find or steal or make.

Max and Dino were a unit.

And it was the same throughout the world of Changi. Men ate and trusted in units. Twos, threes, rarely fours. One man could never cover enough ground, or find something edible and build a fire and cook it and eat it —not by himself. Three was the perfect unit. One to forage, one to guard what had been foraged and one spare. When the spare wasn't sick, he too foraged or guarded. Everything was split three ways: if you got an egg or stole a coconut or found a banana on a work party or made a touch somewhere, it went to the unit. The law, like all natural law, was simple.

Only by mutual effort did you survive. To withhold from the unit was fatal, for if you were expelled from a unit, the word got around. And it was impossible to survive alone.

But the King didn't have a unit. He was sufficient unto himself.

His bed was in the favored corner of the hut, under a window, set just right to catch the slightest breeze. The nearest bed was eight feet away.

The King's bed was a good one. Steel. The springs were tight and the mattress filled with kapok. The bed was covered with two blankets, and the purity of sheets peeped from the top blanket near the sun-bleached pillow. Above the bed, stretched tight on posts, was a mosquito net. It was blemishless.

The King also had a table and two easy chairs, and a carpet on either side of the bed. On a shelf, behind the bed, was his shaving equipment-razor, brush, soap, blades - and beside them, his plates and cups and homemade electric stove and cooking and eating implements. On the corner wall hung his clothes, four shirts and four long pants and four short pants. Six pairs of socks and underpants were on a shelf. Under the bed were two pairs of shoes, bathing slippers, and a shining pair of Indian chappals.

The King sat on one of the chairs and made sure that everything was still in place. He noticed that the hair he had placed so delicately on his razor was no longer there. Crummy bastards, he thought, why the hell should I risk catching their crud. But he said nothing, just made a mental note to lock it up in future.

"Hi," said Tex. "You busy?"

"Busy" was another password. It meant "Are you ready to take delivery?"

The King smiled and nodded and Tex carefully passed over the Ronson lighter. "Thanks," the King said. "You like my soup today?"

"You bet," Tex said and walked away.

Leisurely the King examined the lighter. As the major had said, it was almost new. Unscratched. It worked every time. And very clean. He unscrewed the flint screw and examined the flint. It was a cheap native flint and almost finished, so he opened the cigar box on the shelf and found the Ronson flint container and put in a new one. He pressed the lever and it worked. A careful adjustment of the wick and he was satisfied.

The lighter was not a counterfeit and would surely bring eight hundred, nine hundred dollars.

From where he was sitting he could see the young man and the Malay.

They were still hard at it, yaketty, yaketty.

"Max," he called out quietly.

Max hurried up the length of the hut. "Yeah?"

"See that guy," the King said, nodding out the window.

"Which one? The Wog?"

"No. The other one. Get him for me, will you?"

Max slipped out of the window and crossed the path. "Hey, Mac," he said abruptly to the young man. "The King wants to see you," and he jerked a thumb towards the hut. "On the double."

The man gaped at Max, then followed the line of the thumb to the American hut. "Me?" he asked incredulously, looking back at Max.

"Yeah, you." Max said impatiently.

"What for?"

"How the hell do I know?"

The man frowned at Max, hardening. He thought a moment, then turned to Suliman, the Malay. "Nanti-lah," he said.

"Bik, tuan," said Suliman, preparing to wait. Then he added in Malay,

"Watch thyself, tuan. And go with God."

"Fear not, my friend — but I thank thee for thy thought," the man said, smiling. He got up and followed Max into the hut.

"You wanted me?" he asked, walking up to the King.

"Hi," the King said, smiling. He saw that the man's eyes were guarded.

That pleased him, for guarded eyes were rare. "Take a seat." He nodded at Max, who left. Without being asked, the other men who were near moved out of earshot so the King could talk in private.

"Go on, take a seat," the King said genially.

"Thanks."

"Like a cigarette?"

The man's eyes widened as he saw the Kooa offered to him. He hesitated, then took it. His astonishment grew as the King snapped the Ronson, but he tried to hide it and drew deeply on the cigarette. "That's good. Very good," he said luxuriously. "Thanks."

"What's your name?"

"Marlowe. Peter Marlowe." Then he added ironically, "And yours?"

The King laughed. Good, he thought, the guy's got a sense of humor, and he's no ass kisser. He docketed the information, then said, "You're English?"

"Yes."

The King had never noticed Peter Marlowe before, but that was not unusual when ten thousand faces looked so much alike. He studied Peter Marlowe silently and the cool blue eyes studied him back.

"Kooas are about the best cigarette around," the King said at last.

"'Course they don't compare with Camels. American cigarette. Best in the world. You ever had them?"

"Yes," Peter Marlowe said, "but actually, they tasted a little dry to me. My brand's Gold Flake." Then he added politely, "It's a matter of taste, I suppose." Again a silence fell and he waited for the King to come to the point. As he waited, he thought that he liked the King, in spite of his reputation, and he liked him for the humor that glinted behind his eyes.

"You speak Malay very well," the King said, nodding at the Malay, who waited patiently.

"Oh, not too badly, I suppose."

The King stifled a curse at the inevitable English underplay. "You learn it here?" he asked patiently.

"No. In Java." Peter Marlowe hesitated and looked around. "You've quite a place here."

"Like to be comfortable. How's that chair feel?"

"Fine." A flicker of surprise showed.

"Cost me eighty bucks," the King said proudly. "Year ago."

Peter Marlowe glanced at the King sharply to see if it was meant as a joke, to tell him the price, just like that, but he saw only happiness and evident pride. Extraordinary, he thought, to say such a thing to a stranger.

"It's very comfortable," he said, covering his embarrassment.

"I'm going to fix chow. You like to join me?"

"I've just had lunch," Peter Marlowe said carefully.

"You could probably use some more. Like an egg?"

Now Peter Marlowe could no longer conceal his amazement, and his eyes widened. The King smiled and felt that it had been worthwhile to invite him to eat to get a reaction like that. He knelt down beside his black box and carefully unlocked it.

Peter Marlowe stared down at the contents, stunned. Half a dozen eggs, sacks of coffee beans. Glass jars of gula malacca, the delicious toffee-sugar of the Orient. Bananas. At least a pound of Java tobacco. Ten or eleven packs of Kooas. A glass jar full of rice. Another with katchang idju beans. Oil. Many delicacies in banana leaves. He had not seen treasure in such quantity for years.

The King took out the oil and two eggs and relocked the box. When he glanced back at Peter Marlowe, he saw that the eyes were once more guarded, the face composed.

"How you like your egg? Fried?"

"Well, it seems a little unfair to accept." It was difficult for Peter Marlowe to speak. "I mean, you don't go offering eggs, just like that."

The King smiled. It was a good smile and warmed Peter Marlowe. "Think nothing of it. Put it down to 'hands across the sea' lend-lease."

A flicker of annoyance crossed the Englishman's face and his jaw muscles hardened.

"What's the matter?" the King asked abruptly.

After a pause Peter Marlowe said, "Nothing." He looked at the egg. He wasn't due an egg for six days. "If you're sure I won't be putting you out, I'd like it fried."

"Coming up," the King said. He knew he had made a mistake somewhere, for the annoyance was real. Foreigners are weird, he thought. Never can tell how they're going to react. He lifted his electric stove onto the table and plugged it into the electric socket. "Neat, huh?' he said pleasantly.

"Yes."

"Max wired it for me," he said, nodding down the hut.

Peter Marlowe followed his glance.

Max looked up, feeling eyes on him. "You want something?"

"No," the King said. "Just telling him how you wired the hot plate."

"Oh! It working all right?"

"Sure."

Peter Marlowe got up and leaned out of the window, calling out in Malay.

"I beg thee do not wait. I will see thee again tomorrow, Suliman."

"Very well, tuan, peace be upon thee."

"And upon thee." Peter Marlowe smiled and sat down once more and Suliman walked away.

The King broke the eggs neatly and dropped them into the heated oil. The yolk was rich-gold and its circling jelly sputtered and hissed against the heat and began to set, and all at once the sizzle filled the hut. It filled the minds and filled the hearts and made the juices flow. But no one said anything or did anything. Except Tex. He forced himself up and walked out of the hut.

Many men who walked the path smelled the fragrance and hated the King anew. The smell swept down the slope and into the MP hut. Grey knew and Masters knew at once where it came from.

Grey got up, nauseated, and went to the doorway. He was going to walk around the camp to escape the aroma. Then he changed his mind and turned back.

"Come on, Sergeant," he said. "We'll pay a call on the American hut.

Now'd be a good time to check on Sellars' story!"

"All right," Masters said, almost ruptured by the smell. "The bloody bastard could at least cook before lunch — not just after — not when supper's five hours away."

"The Americans are the second shift today. They haven't eaten yet."

Within the American hut, the men picked up the strings of time. Dino tried to go back to sleep and Kurt continued sewing and the poker game resumed and Miller and Byron Jones III resumed their interminable chess.

But the sizzle destroyed the drama of an inside straight and Kurt stuck the needle in his finger and swore obscenely, and Dino's sleep-urge left him and Byron Jones III watched appalled as Miller took his queen with a lousy stinking pawn.

"Jesus H. Christ," Byron Jones III said to no one, choked. "I wish it would rain."

No one answered. For no one heard anything except the crackle and the hiss.

The King too was concentrating. Over the frypan. He prided himself that no one could cook an egg better then he. To him a fried egg had to be cooked with an artist's eye, and quickly — yet not too fast.

The King glanced up and smiled at Peter Marlowe, but Marlowe's eyes were on the eggs.

"Christ," he said softly, and it was a benediction, not a curse. "That smells so good."

The King was pleased. "You wait till I've finished. Then you'll see the goddamnedest egg you've ever seen." He powdered the eggs delicately with pepper, then added the salt. "You like cooking?" he asked.

"Yes," said Peter Marlowe. His voice sounded unlike his real voice to him.

"I do most of the cooking for my unit."

"What do you like to be called? Pete? Peter?"

Peter Marlowe covered his surprise. Only tried and trusted friends called you by your Christian name — how else can you tell friends from acquaintances? He glanced at the King and saw only friendliness, so, in spite of himself, he said, "Peter."

"Where do you come from? Where's your home?"

Questions, questions, thought Peter Marlowe. Next he'll want to know if I'm married or how much I have in the bank. His curiosity had prompted him to accept the King's summons, and he almost cursed himself for being so curious. But he was pacified by the glory of the sizzling eggs.

"Portchester," he answered. "That's a little hamlet on the south coast. In Hampshire."

"You married, Peter?"

"Are you?"

"No." The King would have continued but the eggs were done. He slipped the frypan off the stove and nodded to Peter Marlowe. "Plates're in back of you," he said. Then he added not a little proudly, "Lookee here!"

They were the best fried eggs Peter Marlowe had ever seen, so he paid the King the greatest compliment in the English world. "Not bad," he said flatly. "Not too bad, I suppose," and he looked up at the King and kept his face as impassive as his voice and thereby added to the compliment.

"What the hell are you talking about, you son of a bitch?" the King said furiously. "They're the best goddam eggs you've seen in your life!"

Peter Marlowe was shocked, and there was a death-silence in the hut.

Then a sudden whistle broke the spell. Instantly Dino and Miller were on their feet and rushing towards the King, and Max was guarding the doorway. Miller and Dino shoved the King's bed into the corner and took up the carpets and stuffed them under the mattress. Then they took other beds and shoved them close to the King so that now, like everyone else in Changi, the King had only four feet of space by six feet of space.

Lieutenant Grey stood in the doorway. Behind him a nervous pace was Sergeant Masters.

The Americans stared at Grey, and after just enough of a pause to make their point they all got up. After an equally insulting pause Grey saluted briefly and said, "Stand easy." Peter Marlowe alone had not moved and still sat in his chair.

"Get up," hissed the King, "he'll throw the book at you. Get up!" He knew from long experience that Grey was hopped up now. For once Grey's eyes were not probing him, they were just fixed on Peter Marlowe, and even the King winced.

Grey walked, the length of the hut, taking his time, until he stood over Peter Marlowe. He took his eyes off Peter Marlowe and stared at the eggs for a long moment. Then he glanced at the King and back to Peter Marlowe.

"You're a long way from home, aren't you, Marlowe?"

Peter Marlowe's fingers took out his cigarette box and put a little tobacco in a slip of rattan grass. He rolled a funnel-cigarette and carried it to his lips. The length of his pause was a slap in Grey's face. "Oh, I don't know, old boy," he said softly. "An Englishman's at home wherever he is, don't you think?"

"Where's your armband?"

"In my belt."

"It's supposed to be on your arm. Those are orders."

"They're Jap orders. I don't like Jap orders," said Peter Marlowe.

"They are also camp orders," Grey said.

Their voices were quite calm and only a trifle irritated to American ears, but Grey knew and Peter Marlowe knew. And there was a sudden declaration of war between them. Peter Marlowe hated the Japanese and Grey represented the Japanese to him, for Grey enforced camp orders which were also Japanese orders. Relentlessly. Between them there was the deeper hate, the inbred hate of class. Peter Marlowe knew that Grey despised him for his birth and his accent, what Grey wanted beyond all things and could never have.

"Put it on!" Grey was within his right to order it.

Peter Marlowe shrugged and pulled out the band and slipped it about his left elbow. On the band was his rank. Flight Lieutenant, RAF.

The King's eyes widened. Jesus, an officer, he thought, and I was going to ask him to —

"So sorry to interrupt your lunch," Grey was saying. "But it seems that someone has lost something."

"Lost something?" Jesus Christ, the King almost shouted. The Ronson!

Oh my God, his fear screamed. Get rid of the goddam lighter!

"What's the matter, Corporal," Grey said narrowly, noticing the sweat which pearled the King's face.

"It's hot, isn't it?" the King said limply. He could feel his starched shirt wilting from the sweat. He knew he had been framed. And he knew that Grey was playing with him. He wondered quickly if he dared to make a run for it, but Peter Marlowe was between him and the window and Grey could easily catch him. And to run would be to admit guilt.

He saw Grey say something and he was poised between life and death.

"What did you say, sir?" and the "sir" was not an insult, for the King was staring at Grey incredulously.

"I said that Colonel Sellars has reported the theft of a gold ring!" Grey repeated balefully.

For a moment the King felt lightheaded. Not the Ronson at all! Panic for nothing! Just Sellars' goddam ring. He had sold it three weeks ago for Sellars at at a tidy profit. So Sellars has just reported a theft, has he?

Lying son of a bitch. "Gee," he said, a thread of laughter in his voice, "gee, that's tough. Stolen. Can you imagine that!"

"Yes I can," said Grey harshly. "Can you?"

The King did not answer. But he wanted to smile. Not the lighter! Safe!

"Do you know Colonel Sellars?" Grey was asking.

"Slightly, sir. I've played bridge with him, once or twice." The King was quite calm now.

"Did he ever show the ring to you?" Grey said relentlessly.

The King double-checked his memory. Colonel Sellars had shown him the ring twice. Once when he had asked the King to sell it for him, and the second time when he had gone to weigh the ring. "Oh no, sir," he said innocently. The King knew he was safe. There were no witnesses.

"You're sure you never saw it?" Grey said.

"Oh no, sir."

Grey was suddenly sick of the cat-and-mouse game and he was nauseated with hunger for the eggs. He would have done anything, anything for one of them.

"Have you got a light, Grey, old boy?" Peter Marlowe said. He had not brought his native lighter with him. And he needed a smoke. Badly. His dislike of Grey had dried his lips.

"No." Get your own light, Grey thought angrily, turning to go. Then he heard Peter Marlowe say to the King, "Could I borrow your Ronson please?" And slowly he turned back. Peter Marlowe was smiling up at the King.

The words seemed etched upon the air. Then they sped into all corners of the hut.

Appalled, groping for time, the King started to find some matches.

"It's in your left pocket," Peter Marlowe said.

And in that moment the King lived and died and was born again. The men in the hut did not breathe. For they were to see the King chopped. They were to see the King caught and taken and put away, a thing which beyond all things was an impossibility. Yet here was Grey and here was the King and here was the man who had fingered the King — and laid him like a lamb on Grey's altar. Some of the men were horrified and some were gloating and some were sorry and Dino thought angrily, Jesus, and it was my day to guard the box tomorrow!

"Why don't you light it for him?" Grey said. The hunger had left him and in its place was only warmth. Grey knew that there was no Ronson lighter on the list.

The King took out the lighter and snapped it for Peter Marlowe. The flame that was to burn him was straight and clean.

"Thanks." Peter Marlowe smiled, and only then did he realize the enormity of his deed.

"So," said Grey as he took the lighter. The word sounded majestic and final and violent.

The King did not answer, for there was no answer. He merely waited, and now that he was committed, he felt no fear, he only cursed his own stupidity. A man who fails through his own stupidity has no right to be called a man. And no right to be the King, for the strongest is always the King, not by strength alone, but King by cunning and strength and luck together.

"Where did this come from, Corporal?" Grey's question was a caress.

Peter Marlowe's stomach turned over and his mind worked frantically and then he said, "It's mine." He knew that it sounded like the lie it was, so he added quickly, "We were playing poker. I lost it. Just before lunch."

Grey and the King and all the men stared at him stunned.

"You what?" said Grey.

"Lost it," repeated Peter Marlowe. "We were playing poker. I had a straight. You tell him," he added abruptly to the King, tossing the ball to him to test him.

The King's mind was still in shock but his reflexes were good. His mouth opened and he said, "We were playing stud. I had a full, and . . ."

"What were the cards'?"

"Aces on twos." Peter Marlowe interrupted without hesitation. What the hell is stud? he asked himself.

The King winced. In spite of magnificent control. He had been about to say kings on queens, and he knew that Grey had seen the shudder.

"You're lying, Marlowe!"

"Why, Grey, old chap, what a thing to say!" Peter Marlowe was playing for time. What the bloody hell is stud? "It was pathetic," he said, feeling the horror-pleasure of great danger. "I thought I had him. I had a straight.

That's why I bet my lighter. You tell him," he said abruptly to the King.

"How do you play stud, Marlowe?"

Thunder broke the silence, grumbling on the horizon, and the King opened his mouth but Grey stopped him.

"I asked Marlowe," he said threateningly.

Peter Marlowe was helpless. He looked at the King and though his eyes said nothing, the King knew. "Come on," Peter Marlowe said quickly, "let's show him."

The King immediately turned for the cards and said without hesitation, "It was my hole card —"

Grey whirled furiously. "I said I wanted Marlowe to tell me. One more word out of you and I'll put you under arrest for interfering with justice."

The King said nothing. He only prayed that the clue had been sufficient.

"Hole card" registered in the distance of Peter Marlowe's memory. And he remembered. And now that he knew the game, he began to play with Grey.

"Well," he said worriedly, "it's like any other poker game, Grey."

"Just explain how you play the game!" Grey thought that he had them in the lie.

Peter Marlowe looked at him, his eyes flinty. The eggs were getting cold.

"What are you trying to prove, Grey? Any fool knows that it's four cards face up and one down — one in the hole."

A sigh fled through the room. Grey knew there was nothing he could do now. It would be his word against Marlowe's, and he knew that even here in Changi he would have to do better than that. "That's right," he said grimly, looking from the King to Peter Marlowe. "Any fool knows that." He handed the lighter back to the King. "See it's put on the list."

"Yes, sir." Now that it was over, the King allowed some of his relief to show.

Grey looked at Peter Marlowe a last time, and the look was both a promise and a threat. "The old school tie would be very proud of you today," he said with contempt, and he started out of the hut, Masters shuffling after him.

Peter Marlowe stared after Grey, and when Grey had reached the door, he said just a little louder than was necessary to the King, still watching Grey, "Can I use your lighter - my fag's out." But Grey's stride did not falter, nor did he look back. Good man, thought Peter Marlowe grimly, good nerves - good man to have on your side in a death battle. And an enemy to cherish.

The King sat weakly in the electric silence and Peter Marlowe took the lighter from his slack hand and lit his cigarette. The King automatically found his packet of Kooas and stuck one in his lips and held it there, not feeling it. Peter Marlowe leaned across and snapped the lighter for the King. The King took a long time to focus on the flame and then he saw that Peter Marlowe's hand was as unsteady as his own. He looked down the length of the hut where the men were like statues, staring back at him.

He could feel the sweat-chill on his shoulders and the wetness of his shirt.

There was a clattering of cans outside. Dino got up and looked out expectantly.

"Chow," he called out happily. The spell shattered and the men left the hut with their eating utensils. And Peter Marlowe and the King were quite alone.