King Rat

Chapter 3

The two men sat for a moment, gathering themselves. Then Peter Marlowe said shakily, "God, that was close!"

"Yes," the King said after an unhurried pause. Involuntarily, he shuddered again, then found his wallet and took out two ten-dollar bills and put them on the table. "Here," he said, "this'll do for now. But you're on the payroll from here on in. Twenty a week."

"What?"

"I'll give you twenty a week." The King thought a moment. "Guess you're right," he said agreeably and smiled. "It is worth more. We'll make it thirty."

Then his eyes noticed the armband, so he added, "Sir."

"You can still call me Peter," Peter Marlowe said, his voice edged. "And just for the books — I don't want your money." He got up and began to leave. "Thanks for the cigarette."

"Hey, wait a minute," the King said, astonished. "What the hell's gotten into you?"

Peter Marlowe stared down at the King and the anger flickered his eyes.

"What the hell do you think I am? Take your money, and shove it."

"Something wrong with my money?"

"No. Only your manners!"

"Since when has manners got anything to do with money?"

Peter Marlowe abruptly turned to go. The King jumped up and stood between Peter Marlowe and the door.

"Just a minute," he said and his voice was taut. "I want to know something. Why did you cover up for me?"

"Well, that's obvious, isn't it? I dropped you in the creek. I couldn't leave you holding the baby. What do you think I am?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to find out."

"It was my mistake. I'm sorry."

"You got nothing to be sorry about," the King said sharply. "It was my mistake. I got stupid. Nothing to do with you."

"It makes no difference." Peter Marlowe's face was granite like his eyes.

"But you must think me a complete shit if you expect me to let you be crucified. And a bigger one if you think I want money from you — when I'd been careless. I'm not taking that from anyone!"

"Sit down a minute. Please."

"Why?"

"Goddammit, because I want to talk to you."

Max hesitated at the door with the King's mess cans.

"Excuse me," he said cautiously, "here's your chow. You want some tea?"

"No. And Tex gets my soup today." He took the mess can of rice and put it on the table.

"Okay," said Max, still hesitating, wondering if the King wanted a hand to beat hell out of the son of a bitch.

"Beat it, Max. And tell the others to leave us alone for a minute."

"Sure." Max went out agreeably. He thought the King was very wise to have no witnesses, not when you clobber an officer.

The King looked back at Peter Marlowe. "I'm asking you. Will you sit down a minute? Please."

"All right," said Peter Marlowe stiffly.

"Look," the King began patiently. "You got me out of the noose. You helped me — it's only right I help you. I offered you the dough because I wanted to thank you. If you don't want it, fine — but I didn't mean to insult you. If I did, I apologize."

"Sorry," Peter Marlowe said, softening. "I've got a bad temper. I didn't understand."

The King stuck out his hand. "Shake on it."

Peter Marlowe shook hands.

"You don't like Grey, do you?" the King said carefully.

"No."

"Why?"

Peter Marlowe shrugged. The King divided the rice carelessly and handed him the larger portion. "Let's eat."

"But what about you?" said Peter Marlowe, gaping at the bigger helping.

"I'm not hungry. My appetite went with the birds. Jesus, that was close. I thought we'd both had it."

"Yes," Peter Marlowe said, with the beginning of a smile. "It was a lot of fun, wasn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, the excitement. Haven't enjoyed anything so much in years, I suppose. The danger — excitement."

"There are a lot of things I don't understand about you," the King said weakly. "You mean to say you enjoyed it?"

"Certainly — didn't you? I thought it was almost as good as flying a Spit.

You know, at the time it frightens you, but at the same time doesn't — and during and after you feel sort of lightheaded."

"I think you're just out of your head."

"If you weren't enjoying it then why the hell did you try to throw me with

'stud'? I bloody nearly died."

"I didn't try to throw you. Why the hell would I want to throw you?"

"To make it more exciting and to test me."

The King bleakly wiped his eyes and his face. "You mean to say you think I did that deliberately?"

"Of course. I did the same to you when I passed the questioning to you."

"Let's get this straight. You did that just to test my nerves?" the King gasped.

"Of course, old boy," Peter Marlowe said. "I don't understand what's the matter."

"Jesus," said the King, a nervous sweat beginning again. "We're almost in the pokey and you play games!" The King paused for breath. "Crazy, just plain crazy, and when you hesitated after I'd fed you the 'hole' clue, I thought we were dead."

"Grey thought that too. I was just playing with him. I only finished it quickly because the eggs were getting cold. And you don't see a fried egg like that every day. My word on it."

"I thought you said it wasn't any good."

"I said it wasn't 'bad.'" Peter Marlowe hesitated. "Look. Saying it's 'not bad' means that it's exceptional. That's a way of paying a chap a compliment without embarrassing him."

"You're out of your skull! You risk my neck — and your own — to add to the danger, you blow your stack when I offer you some money with no strings attached, and you say something's 'not bad' when you mean it's great. Jesus," he added, stupefied, "I guess I'm simple or something."

He glanced up and saw the perplexed look on Peter Marlowe's face and he had to laugh. Peter Marlowe began laughing too, and soon the two men were hysterical.

Max peered into the hut and the other Americans were close behind.

"What the hell's gotten into him?" Max said gaping. "I thought by now he'd be beating his fucking head in."

"Madonna," gasped Dino. "First the King nearly gets chopped, and now he's laughing with the guy who fingered him."

"Don't make sense." Max's stomach had been flapping ever since the warning whistle.

The King looked up and saw the men staring at him. He pulled out the remains of the pack of cigarettes. "Here, Max. Pass these around.

Celebration!"

"Gee, thanks." Max took the pack. "Wow! That was a close one. We're all so happy for you."

The King read the grins. Some were good and he marked those. Some were false and he knew those anyway. The men echoed Max's thanks.

Max herded the men outside once more and began to divide the treasure.

"It's shock," he said quietly. "Must be. Like shell shock. Any moment he'll be tearing the Limey's head off." He stared off as another burst of laughter came from the hut, then shrugged.

"He's off his head — and no wonder."

"For God's sake," Peter Marlowe was saying, holding his stomach. "Let's eat. If I don't soon, I won't be able to."

So they began to eat. Between laughter spasms. Peter Marlowe regretted that the eggs were cold, but the laughter warmed the eggs and made them superb. "They need a little salt, don't you think?" he said, trying to keep his voice flat. "Gee, I guess so. I thought I'd used enough." The King frowned and turned for the salt and then he saw the crinkling eyes.

"What the hell's up now?" he asked, beginning to laugh in spite of himself.

"That was a joke, for God's sake. You Americans don't have much of a sense of humor, do you?"

"Go to hell! And for Chrissake stop laughing!"

When they had finished the eggs, the King put some coffee on the hot plate and searched for his cigarettes. Then he remembered he had given them away, so he reached down and unlocked the black box.

"Here, try some of this," Peter Marlowe said, offering his tobacco box.

"Thanks, but I can't stand the stuff. It plays hell with my throat."

"Try it. It's been treated. I learned how from some Javanese."

Dubiously the King took the cigarette box. The tobacco was the same cheap weed, but instead of being straw-yellow it was dark golden; instead of being dry it was moist and had a texture; instead of being odorless it smelled like tobacco, sweet-strong. He found his packet of rice papers and took an overgenerous amount of the treated weed. He rolled a sloppy tube and nipped off the protruding ends, dropping the excess tobacco carelessly on the floor.

Godalmighty, thought Peter Marlowe, I said try it, not take the bloody lot.

He knew he should have picked up the shreds of tobacco and put them back in the box, but he did not. Some things a chap can't do, he thought again.

The King snapped the lighter and they grinned together at the sight of it.

The King took a careful puff, then another. Then a deep inhale. "But it's great," he said astonished. "Not as good as a Kooa - but this's —" He stopped and corrected himself. "I mean it's not bad."

"It's not bad at all." Peter Marlowe laughed.

"How the hell do you do it?"

"Trade secret."

The King knew he had a gold mine in his hands. "I guess it's a long and involved process," he said delicately.

"Oh, actually it's quite easy. You just soak the raw weed in tea, then squeeze it out. Then you sprinkle a little white sugar over it and knead it in, and when it's all absorbed, cook it gently in a frying pan over a low heat.

Keep turning it over or it'll spoil. You've got to get it just right. Not too dry and not too moist."

The King was surprised that Peter Marlowe had told him the process so easily without making a deal first. Of course, he thought, he's just whetting my appetite. Can't be that easy or everyone'd be doing it. And he probably knows I'm the only one who could handle the deal.

"Just like that?" the King said smiling.

"Yes. Nothing to it really."

The King could see a thriving business. Legitimate too. "I suppose everyone in your hut cures their tobacco the same way."

Peter Marlowe shook his head. "I just do it for my unit. I've been teasing them for months, telling them all sorts of stories, but they've never worked out the exact way."

The King's smile was huge. "Then you're the only one who knows how to do it!"

"Oh no," said Peter Marlowe and the King's heart sank. "It's a native custom. They do it all over Java."

The King brightened. "But no one here knows about it, do they?"

"I don't know. I've really never thought about it."

The King let the smoke dribble out of his nostrils and his mind worked rapidly. Oh yes, he told himself, this is my lucky day.

"Tell you what, Peter. I got a business proposition for you. You show me exactly how to do it, and I'll cut you in for —" He hesitated. "Ten percent."

"What?"

"All right. Twenty-five."

"Twenty-five?"

"All right," the King said, looking at Peter Marlowe with new respect.

"You're a hard trader and that's great. I'll organize the whole deal. We'll buy in bulk. We'll have to set up a factory. You can oversee production and I'll look after sales." He stuck out his hand. "We'll be partners — split right down the middle, fifty-fifty. It's a deal."

Peter Marlowe stared down at the King's hand. Then he looked into his face. "Oh no it's not!" he said decisively.

"Goddammit," the King exploded. "That's the fairest offer you'll ever get.

What could be fairer? I'm putting up the dough. I'll have to —" A sudden thought stopped him. "Peter," he said after a moment, hurt but not showing it, "no one has to know we're partners. You just show me how to do it, and I'll see you get your share. You can trust me."

"I know that," Peter Marlowe said.

"Then we'll split fifty-fifty." The King beamed.

"No we won't."

"Jesus Christ," the King said as he felt the screws applied. But he held his temper and thought about the deal. And the more he thought — he looked around to make sure that no one was listening. Then he dropped his voice and said hoarsely, "Sixty-forty, and I've never offered that to anyone in my life. Sixty-forty it is."

"No it isn't."

"Isn't?" the King burst out, shocked. "I've got to get something out of the deal. What the hell do you want for the process? Cash on the line?"

"I don't want anything," said Peter Marlowe.

"Nothing?" The King sat down feebly, wrecked.

Peter Marlowe was bewildered. "You know," he said hesitantly, "I don't understand why you get so excited about certain things. The process isn't mine to sell. It's a simple native custom. I couldn't possibly take anything from you. That wouldn't be right. Not at all. And anyway, I —" Peter Marlowe stopped and said quickly, "Would you like me to show you now?"

"Just a minute. You mean to tell me you want nothing for showing me the process? When I've offered to split sixty-forty with you? When I tell you I can make money out of the deal?" Peter Marlowe nodded. "That's crazy,"

the King said helplessly. "It's wrong. I don't understand."

"Nothing to understand," Peter Marlowe said, smiling faintly. "Put it down to sunstroke."

The King studied him a long moment. "Will you give me a straight answer to a straight question?"

"Yes. Of course."

"It's because of me, isn't it?"

The words hung in the heat between them.

"No," said Peter Marlowe, breaking the silence.

And there was truth between them.

An hour later Peter Marlowe was watching Tex cook the second batch of tobacco. This time Tex was doing it without help, and the King was clucking around like an old hen.

"You sure he put in the right amount of sugar?" the King asked Peter Marlowe anxiously.

"Exactly right."

"How long will it be now?"

"How long do you think, Tex?"

Tex smiled back at Peter Marlowe and stretched his gangling six-foot three. "Five, maybe six minutes, thereabouts."

Peter Marlowe got up. "Where's the place? The loo?"

"The John? Around the back." The King pointed. "But can't you wait till Tex's finished? I want to make sure he's got it right."

"Tex's doing fine," Peter Marlowe said and walked out.

When he came back Tex took the frypan off the stove. "Now," he said nervously and glanced at Peter Marlowe to check if his timing was right.

"Just right," said Peter Marlowe, examining the treated tobacco.

Excitedly the King rolled a cigarette in rice paper. So did Tex and Peter Marlowe. They lit up. With the Ronson. Another delighted laugh. Then silence as each man became a connoisseur.

"Jolly good," said Peter Marlowe decisively. "I told you it was quite simple, Tex."

Tex breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's not bad," said the King thoughtfully.

"What the hell're you talking about," Tex said, flaring. "It's goddam good!"

Peter Marlowe and the King were convulsed. They explained why and then Tex too was laughing.

"We got to have a brand name." The King thought a moment. "I got it.

How about Three Kings? One for King Royal Air Force, one for King Texas an' one for me."

"Not bad," Tex said.

"We'll start the factory tomorrow."

Tex shook his head. "I'm on a work party."

"The hell with it! I'll get Dino to sub for you."

"No. I'll ask him." Tex got up and smiled at Peter Marlowe. "Happy to know you, sir."

"Forget the sir, will you?" Peter Marlowe said.

"Sure. Thanks."

Peter Marlowe watched him go. "Funny," he said quietly to the King. "I've never seen so many smiles in one hut before."

"There's no point in not smiling, is there? Things could be a lot worse.

You get shot down flying the hump?"

"You mean the Calcutta-Chungking route? Over the Himalayas?"

"Yeah." The King nodded at the tobacco. "Fill your box."

"Thanks. I will if you don't mind."

"Anytime you're short, come and help yourself."

"Thanks, I'll do that. You're very kind." Peter Marlowe wanted another cigarette but he knew that he was smoking too much. If he smoked another now, then the hunger would hurt more. Better go easy. He glanced at the sun-shadow and promised that he would not smoke again until the shadow had moved two inches. "I wasn't shot down at all. My kite

— my plane got hit in an air raid in Java. I couldn't get it up. Rather a bore," he added, and tried to hide the bitterness.

"That's not so bad," said the King. "You might've been in it. You're alive and that's what counts. What were you flying?"

"Hurricane. Single-seat fighter. But my regular plane's a Spit-Spitfire."

"I've heard about them — never seen one. You guys sure as hell made the Germans look sick."

"Yes," said Peter Marlowe softly. "We did, rather."

The King was surprised. "You weren't in the Battle of Britain, were you?"

"Yes. I got my wings in 1940 — just in time."

"How old were you?"

"Nineteen."

"Huh, I'd've thought, looking at your face, you'd be at least thirty-eight, not twenty-four!"

"Up yours, brother!" Peter Marlowe laughed. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five. Son of a bitch," the King said. "Best years of my life and I'm locked up in a stinking jail."

"You're hardly locked up. And it seems to me you're doing very well."

"We're still locked up, whichever way you figure it. How long you think it's going to last?"

"We've got the Germans on the run. That show should be over soon."

"You believe that?'"

Peter Marlowe shrugged. Careful, he told himself, you can never be too careful. "Yes, I think so. You can never tell about rumors."

"And our war. What about ours?"

Because the question had been asked by a friend, Peter Marlowe talked freely. "I think ours will last forever. Oh, we'll beat the Japs. I know that now. But for us, here? I don't think we'll get out."

"Why?"

"Well, I don't think the Japs'll ever give in. That means we'll have to land on the mainland. And when that happens, I think they'll eliminate us here, all of us. If disease and sickness haven't got us already."

"Why the hell should they do that?"

"Oh, to save time, I suppose. I think as the net tightens on Japan, they'll start pulling in their tentacles. Why waste time over a few thousand prisoners? Japs think of life quite differently than we do. And the idea of our troops on their soil will drive them around the bend." His voice was quite flat and calm. "I think we've had it. Of course I hope I'm wrong. But that's what I think."

"You're a hopeful son of a bitch," the King said sourly, and when Peter Marlowe laughed he said, "What the hell are you laughing about? You always seem to laugh in the wrong places."

"Sorry, bad habit."

"Let's sit outside. The flies're getting bad. Hey Max," the King called out.

"You want to clean up?"

Max arrived and began tidying up and the King and Peter Marlowe slipped easily through the window. Just outside the King's window there was another small table and a bench under a canvas overhang. The King sat on the bench. Peter Marlowe squatted on his heels, native style.

"Never could do that," said the King.

"It's very comfortable. I learned it in Java."

"How come you speak Malay so well?"

"I lived in a village for a time."

"When?"

"In '42. After the cease-fire."

The King waited patiently for him to continue but nothing more came out.

He waited some more, then asked, "How come you lived in Java in a village after the cease-fire in 1942 when everyone was in a POW camp by then?"

Peter Marlowe's laugh was rich. "Sorry. Nothing much to tell. I didn't like the idea of being in a camp. Actually, when the war ended, I got lost in the jungle and eventually found this village. They took pity on me. I stayed for six months or so."

"What was it like?"

"Wonderful. They were very kind. I was just like one of them. Dressed like a Javanese, dyed my skin dark — you know, nonsense really, for my height and eyes would give me away — worked in the paddy fields."

"You on your own?"

After a pause Peter Marlowe said, "I was the only European there, if that's what you mean." He looked out at the camp, seeing the sun beat the dust and the wind pick up the dust and swirl it. The swirl reminded him of her.

He looked away towards the east, into a nervous sky. But she was part of the sky.

The wind gathered slightly and bent the heads of the coconut palms. But she was part of the wind and the palms and the clouds beyond.

Peter Marlowe tore his mind away and watched the Korean guard plodding along beyond the fence, sweating under the lowering heat. The guard's uniform was shabby and ill-kempt and his cap as crumpled as his face, his rifle askew on his shoulders. As graceless as she was graceful.

Once more Peter Marlowe looked up into the sky, seeking distance. Only then could he feel that he was not within a box — a box filled with men, and men's smells and men's dirt and men's noises. Without women, Peter Marlowe thought helplessly, men are only a cruel joke. And he bled in the starch of the sun.

"Hey Peter!" The King was looking up the slope, his mouth agape.

Peter Marlowe followed the King's gaze and his stomach turned over as he saw Sean approaching. "Christ!" He wanted to slip through the window out of sight, but he knew that that would make him more conspicuous. So he waited grimly, hardly breathing. He thought he had a good chance of not being seen, for Sean was deep in conversation with Squadron Leader Rodrick and Lieutenant Frank Parrish. Their heads were close together and their voices intent.

Then Sean glanced past Frank Parrish and saw Peter Marlowe and stopped.

Rodrick and Frank stopped also, surprised. When they saw Peter Marlowe they thought, Oh my God. But they concealed their anxiety.

"Hello, Peter," Rodrick called out. He was a tall neat man with a chiseled face, as tall and neat as Frank Parrish was tall and careless.

"Hello, Rod!" Peter Marlowe called back.

"I won't be a moment," Sean said quietly to Rodrick and walked towards Peter Marlowe and the King. Now that the first shock had worn off, Sean smiled a welcome.

Peter Marlowe felt the hackles on his neck begin to rise and he got up and waited. He could feel the King's eyes boring into him.

"Hello, Peter," Sean said.

"Hello, Sean."

"You're so thin, Peter."

"Oh I don't know. No more than anyone. I'm very fit, thanks."

"I haven't seen you for such a long time — why don't you come up to the theater sometime? There's always a little extra around somewhere — and you know me, I never did eat much." Sean smiled hopefully.

"Thanks," Peter Marlowe said, raw with embarrassment.

"Well, I know you won't," Sean said unhappily, "but you're always welcome." There was a pause. "I never see you any more."

"Oh, you know how it is, Sean. You're doing all the shows and I'm, well, I'm on work parties and things."

Like Peter Marlowe, Sean was wearing a sarong, but unlike Peter Marlowe's, which was threadbare and multifaded color, Sean's was new and white and the border was embroidered with blue and silver. And Sean wore a short-sleeved native baju coat, ending above the waist, cut tight to allow for the swell of breasts. The King was staring fascinated at the half-opened neck of the baju.

Sean noticed the King and smiled faintly and brushed back some hair that the wind had caressed out of place and toyed with it until the King looked up. Sean smiled inside, warmed inside, as the King flushed.

"It's, er, it's getting hot, isn't it?" the King said uncomfortably.

"I suppose so," Sean said pleasantly, cool and sweatless, as always —however intense the heat.

There was a silence.

"Oh, sorry," Peter Marlowe said as he saw Sean looking at the King and waiting patiently. "Do you know —"

Sean laughed. "My God, Peter. You are in a state. Of course I know who your friend is, though we've never met." Sean put out a hand. "How are you? It's quite an honor to meet a King!"

"Er, thanks," the King said, hardly touching the hand, so small against his.

"You, er, like a smoke?"

"Thanks, but I don't. But if you don't mind I will take one. In fact two, if it's all right?" Sean nodded back towards the path. "Rod and Frank smoke and I know they'd appreciate one."

"Sure," the King said. "Sure."

"Thanks. That's very kind of you."

In spite of himself the King felt the warmth of Sean's smile. In spite of himself he said, meaning it, "You were great in Othello."

"Thank you," said Sean delightedly. "Did you like Hamlet?"

"Yes. And I never was much on Shakespeare."

Sean laughed. "That's praise indeed. We're doing a new play next. Frank has written it especially and it should be a lot of fun."

"If it's just ordinary, it'll be great," the King said, more at ease, "and you'll be great."

"How nice of you. Thanks." Sean glanced at Peter Marlowe and the eyes took on an added luster. "But I'm afraid Peter won't agree with you."

"Stop it, Sean," Peter Marlowe said.

Sean did not look at Peter Marlowe, only the King, and smiled, but fury lurked beneath the smile. "Peter doesn't approve of me."

"Stop it, Sean," Peter Marlowe said harshly.

"Why should I?" Sean lashed out. "You despise deviates — isn't that what you call queers? You made that perfectly clear. I haven't forgotten!"

"Nor have I!"

"Well, that's something! I don't like to be despised — least of all by you!"

"I said stop it! This isn't the time or the place. And we've been through this before and you've said it all before. I said I was sorry. I didn't mean any harm!"

"No. But you still hate me — why? Why?"

"I don't hate you."

"Then why do you always avoid me?"

"It's better. For God's sake, Sean, leave me be."

Sean stared at Peter Marlowe, and then as suddenly as it had flared, the anger melted. "Sorry, Peter. You're probably quite right. I'm the fool. It's just that I'm lonely from time to time. Lonely just for talk." Sean reached out and touched Peter Marlowe's arm. "Sorry. I just want to be friends again."

Peter Marlowe could say nothing.

Sean hesitated. "Well, I suppose I'd better be going."

"Sean," Rodrick called out from the path, "we're late already."

"I won't be a moment." Sean still looked at Peter Marlowe, then sighed and held out a hand to the King. "It was nice to meet you. Please forgive my bad manners."

The King couldn't avoid touching the hand again. "Happy to meet you," he said.

Sean hesitated, eyes grave and searching. "Are you Peter's friend?"

The King felt the whole world heard him when he said, stumbling, "Er, sure, yeah, I guess so."

"Strange, isn't it, how one word can mean so many different things. But if you are his friend, don't lead him astray, please. You've a reputation for danger, and I wouldn't like Peter hurt. I'm very fond of him."

"Er, yes, sure." The King's knees jellied and his backbone melted. But the magnetism of Sean's smile pervaded him. It was unlike anything he had ever felt. "The shows are the best thing in the camp," he said. "Make life worth living. And you're the best thing in them."

"Thank you." And then, to Peter Marlowe: "It does make life worthwhile.

I'm very happy. And I like what I'm doing. It does make things worthwhile, Peter."

"Yes," Peter Marlowe said, tormented. "I'm glad all's well."

Sean smiled hesitantly a last time, then turned quickly and was suddenly gone.

The King sat down. "I'll be goddamned!"

Peter Marlowe sat down too. He opened his box and rolled a cigarette.

"If you didn't know he was a man, you'd swear to God that he was a woman," the King said. "A beautiful woman."

Peter Marlowe nodded bleakly.

"He's not like the other fags," the King said, "that's for sure. No sir. Not the same at all. Jesus, there's something about him that's not —" The King stopped and groped and continued helplessly, "Don't quite know how to put it. He's — he's a woman, goddammit! Remember when he was playing Desdemona? My God, the way he looked in the negligee, I'll bet there wasn't a man in Changi that didn't have a hard on. Don't blame a man for being tempted. I'm tempted, everyone is. Man's a liar if he says otherwise." Then he looked at Peter Marlowe and studied him carefully.

"Oh, for the love of God," Peter Marlowe said irritably. "Do you think I'm queer too?"

"No," the King said calmly. "I don't mind if you are. Just as long as I know."

"Well, I'm not."

"It sure as hell sounded like it," the King said with a grin. "Lovers'

quarrel?"

"Go to hell!"

After a minute the King said tentatively, "You known Sean long?"

"He was in my squadron," Peter Marlowe said at length. "Sean was the baby, and I was sort of detailed to look after him. Got to know him very well." He flicked the burning end off his cigarette and put the remains of tobacco back in his box. "In fact he was my best friend. He was a very good pilot - got three Zeros over Java." He looked at the King. "I liked him a lot."

"Was — was he like that before?"

"No."

"Oh, I know he didn't dress like a woman all the time, but hell, it must have been obvious he was that way."

"Sean was never that way. He was just a very handsome, gentle chap.

There was nothing effeminate about him, just a sort of… compassion."

"You ever seen him without clothes on?"

"No."

"That figures. No one else has either. Even half naked."

Sean was allowed a tiny little room up in the theater, a private room, which no one else in the whole of Changi had, not even the King. But Sean never slept in the room. The thought of Sean alone in a room with a lock on the door was too dangerous, because there were many in the camp whose lust swept out, and the rest were full of lust inside. So Sean always slept in one of the huts, but changed and showered in the private room.

"What's between you two?" the King asked.

"I nearly killed him once."

Suddenly the conversation ceased and both men listened intently. All they could hear was a sigh, an undercurrent. The King looked around quickly.

Seeing nothing extraordinary, he got up and climbed through the window, Peter Marlowe close behind. The men in the hut were listening too.

The King peered towards the corner of the jail. Nothing seemed to be wrong. Men still walked up and down.

"What do you think?" the King asked softly.

"Don't know," said Peter Marlowe, concentrating. Men were still walking by the jail, but now an almost imperceptible quickening had been added to their walk.

"Hey, look," Tex whispered.

Rounding the corner of the jail and heading up the slope towards them was Captain Brough. Then other officers began to appear behind him, all heading for various enlisted men's huts.

"Got to mean trouble," Tex said sourly.

"Maybe it's a search," Max said.

The King was on his knees in an instant, unlocking the black box. Peter Marlowe said hurriedly, "I'll see you later."

"Here," the King said, throwing him a pack of Kooas, "see you tonight if you like."

Peter Marlowe raced out of the hut and down the slope. The King jerked out the three watches that were buried in the coffee beans and got up. He thought a moment, then he stood on his chair and stuffed the three watches into the atap thatch. He knew that all the men had seen the new hiding place but he did not care, for that could not be helped now. Then he locked the black box and Brough was at the door.

"All right, you guys, outside."