King Rat (18 page)

He leaned forward and offered Peter Marlowe a choice piece of pig. “Perhaps this would tempt thy appetite?”

“I thank thee.”

“You may leave, Sulina.”

Peter Marlowe detected the note of finality in the old man’s voice and noticed the shadow of dismay that painted the girl’s face. But she bowed low and took her leave. The old wife remained to serve the men.

Sulina, thought Peter Marlowe, feeling a long-forgotten urge. She’s not as pretty as N’ai, who was without blemish, but she is the same age and pretty. Fourteen perhaps and ripe. My God, how ripe.

“The food is not to thy taste?” Cheng San asked, amused by Peter Marlowe’s obvious attraction to the girl. Perhaps this could be used to advantage.

“On the contrary. It is perhaps too good, for my palate is not used to fine food, eating as we do.” Peter Marlowe remembered that for the protection of good taste, the Javanese spoke only in parables about women. He turned to Sutra. “Once upon a time a wise guru said that there are many kinds of food. Some for the stomach, some for the eye and some for the spirit. Tonight, I have had food for the stomach. And the sayings of thee and Tuan Cheng San have been food for the spirit. I am replete. Even so, I have also — we have also — been offered food for the eye. How can I thank thee for thy hospitality?”

Sutra’s face wrinkled. Well put. So he bowed to the compliment and said simply, “It was a wise saying. Perhaps, in time, the eye may be hungry again. We must discuss the wisdom of the ancient another time.”

“What’re you looking so smug about, Peter?”

“I’m not looking smug, just pleased with myself. I was just telling him we thought his girl was pretty.”

“Yes! She’s a doll! How about asking her to join us for coffee?”

“For the love of God.” Peter tried to keep his voice calm. “You don’t come out and make a date just like that. You’ve got to take time, build up to it.”

“Hell, that’s not the American way. You meet a broad, you like her and she likes you, you hit the sack.”

“You’ve no finesse.”

“Maybe. But I’ve a lot of broads.”

They laughed and Cheng San asked what the joke was and Peter Marlowe told them that the King had said, “We should set up shop in the village and not bother to go back to camp.”

After they had drunk their coffee, Cheng San made the first overture.

“I would have thought it risky to come from the camp by night. Riskier than my coming here to the village.”

First round to us, thought Peter Marlowe. Now, Oriental style, Cheng San was at a disadvantage, for he had lost face by making the opening. He turned to the King. “All right, Rajah. You can start. We’ve made a point so far.”

“We have?”

“Yes. What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him I’ve a big deal. A diamond. Four carats. Set in platinum. Flawless, blue-white. I want thirty-five thousand dollars for it. Five thousand British Malay Straits dollars, the rest in Jap counterfeit money.”

Peter Marlowe’s eyes widened. He was facing the King, so his surprise was hidden from the Chinese. But Sutra marked it. Since he was no part of the deal, but merely collected a percentage as a go-between, he settled back to enjoy the parry and thrust. No need to worry about Cheng San — Sutra knew to his cost that the Chinese could handle himself as well as anyone.

Peter Marlowe translated. The enormousness of the deal would cover any lapse of manners. And he wanted to rock the Chinese.

Cheng San brightened palpably, caught off his guard. He asked to see the diamond.

“Tell him I haven’t got it with me. Tell him I’ll make delivery in ten days. Tell him I have to have the money three days before I make delivery because the owner won’t let it out of his possession until he has the money.”

Cheng San knew that the King was an honest trader. If he said he had the ring and would hand it over, then he would. He always had. But to get such an amount of money and pass it into the camp, where he could never keep track of the King — well, that was quite a risk.

“When can I see the ring?” he asked.

“Tell him if he likes he can come into the camp, in seven days.”

So I must hand over the money before I even see the diamond! thought Cheng San. Impossible, and Tuan Rajah knows it. Very bad business. If it really is four carats, I can get fifty — a hundred thousand dollars for it. After all, I know the Chinese who owns the machine that prints the money. But the five thousand in Malay Straits dollars — that is another thing. This he would have to buy black-market. And what rate? Six to one would be expensive, twenty to one cheap.

“Tell my friend the Rajah,” he said, “that this is a strange business arrangement. Consequently I must think, longer than a man of business should need to think.”

He wandered over to the window and gazed out.

Cheng San was tired of the war and tired of the undercover machinations that a businessman had to endure to make a profit. He thought of the night and the stars and the stupidity of man, fighting and dying for things which would have no lasting value. At the same time, he knew that the strong survive and the weak perish. He thought of his wife and his children, three sons and a daughter, and the things he would like to buy them to make them comfortable. He thought also of the second wife he would like to buy. Somehow or another he must make this deal. And it was worth the risk to trust the King.

The price is fair, he reasoned. But how to safeguard the money? Find a go-between whom he could trust. It would have to be one of the guards. The guard could see the ring. He could hand over the money if the ring was real and the weight right. Then the Tuan Rajah could make delivery, here at the village. No need to trust the guard to take the ring and turn it over. How to trust a guard?

Perhaps we could concoct a story — that the money was a loan to the camp from Chinese in Singapore — no, that would be no good, for the guard would have to see the ring. So the guard would have to be completely in the know. And would expect a substantial fee.

Cheng San turned back to the King. He noticed how the King was sweating. Ah, he thought, you want to sell badly! But perhaps you know I want to buy badly. You and I are the only ones who can handle such a deal. No one has the honest name for trading like you — and no one but I, of all the Chinese who deal with the camp, is capable of delivering so much money.

“So, Tuan Marlowe. I have a plan which perhaps would cover both my friend the Rajah and myself. First, we agree to a price. The price mentioned is too high, but unimportant at the moment. Second, we agree to a go-between, a guard whom we both can trust. In ten days I will give half the money to the guard. The guard can examine the ring. If it is truly as the owner claims, he can pass over the money to my friend the Rajah. The Rajah will make delivery here to me. I will bring an expert to weigh the stone. Then I will pay the other half of the money and take the stone.”

The King listened intently as Peter Marlowe translated.

“Tell him it’s okay. But I’ve got to have the full price. The guy won’t turn it over without the dough in his hands.”

“Then tell my friend the Rajah I will give the guard three-quarters of the agreed price to help him negotiate with the owner.”

Cheng San felt that seveny-five percent would certainly cover the amount of money paid to the owner. The King would merely be gambling his profit, for surely he was a good enough businessman to obtain a twenty-five percent fee!

The King had figured on three-quarters. That gave him plenty to maneuver with. Maybe he could knock a few bucks off the owner’s asking price, nineteen-five. Yep, so far so good. Now we get down to the meat.

“Tell him okay. Who does he suggest as the go-between?”

“Torusumi.”

The King shook his head. He thought a moment, then said direct to Cheng San, “How ‘bout Immuri?”

“Tell my friend that I would prefer another. Perhaps Kimina?”

The King whistled. A corporal yet! He had never done business with him. Too dangerous. Got to be someone I know. “Shagata-san?”

Cheng San nodded in agreement. This was the man he wanted, but he did not want to suggest it. He wanted to see who the King wanted — a last check on the King’s honesty.

Yes, Shagata was a good choice. Not too bright, but bright enough. He had dealt with bun before. Good.

“Now, about the price,” said Cheng San. “I suggest we discuss this. Per carat four thousand counterfeit dollars. Total sixteen thousand. Four thousand in Malay dollars at the rate of fifteen to one.”

The King shook his head blandly, then said to Peter Marlowe, “Tell him I’m not going to crap around bargaining. The price is thirty thousand, five in Straits dollars at eight to one, all in small notes. My final price.”

“You’ll have to bargain a bit more,” said Peter Marlowe. “How about saying thirty-three, then—“

The King shook his head. “No. And when you translate use a word like ‘crap’”

Reluctantly Peter Marlowe turned back to Cheng San. “My friend says thus: He is not going to mess around with the niceties of bargaining. His final price is thirty thousand - five thousand in Straits dollars at a rate of eight to one. All in small denomination notes.”

To his astonishment Cheng San said immediately, “I agree!” for he too didn’t want to fool with bargaining. The price was fair and he had sensed that the King was adamant. There comes a time in all deals when a man must decide, yea or nay. The Rajah was a good trader.

They shook hands. Sutra smiled and brought forth a bottle of sake. They drank each other’s health until the bottle was gone. Then they fixed the details.

In ten days Shagata would come to the American hut at the time of the night guard change. He would have the money and would see the ring before he handed over the money. Three days after, the King and Peter Marlowe would meet Cheng San at the village. If for some reason Shagata could not make the date, he would arrive the next day, or the next. Similarly, if the King couldn’t make their appointment at the village, they were to come the next day.

After paying and receiving the usual compliments, Cheng San said that he had to catch the tide. He bowed courteously and Sutra went out with him, escorting him to the shore. Beside the boat they began their polite quarrel about the fish business.

The King was triumphant. “Great, Peter. We’re in!”

“You’re terrific! When you said to give it to him in the teeth like that, well, old man, I thought you’d lost him. They just don’t do those things.”

“Had a hunch,” was all the King said. Then he added, chewing on a piece of meat, “You’re in for ten percent of the profit, of course. But you’ll have to work for it, you son of a bitch.”

“Like a horse! God! Just think of all that money. Thirty thousand dollars would be a stack of notes perhaps a foot high.”

“More,” the King said, infected by the excitement.

“My God, you’ve got nerve. How on earth did you arrive at the price? He agreed, boom, just like that. One moment’s talk, then boom, you’re rich!”

“Got a lot of worrying to do before it is a deal. Lot of things could go wrong. It ain’t a deal till the cash is delivered and in the bank.”

“Oh, I never thought of that.”

“Business axiom. You can’t bank talk. Only greenbacks!”

“I still can’t get over it. We’re outside the camp, we’ve more food inside us than we’ve had in weeks. And prospects look great. You’re a bloody genius.”

“We’ll wait and see, Peter.”

The King stood up. “You wait here. I’ll be back in an hour or so. Got another bit of business to attend to. So long as we’re out of here in a couple of hours, we’ll be okay. Then we’ll hit the camp just before dawn. Best time. That’s when the guards’ll be at their lowest mark. See you,” and he disappeared down the steps.

In spite of himself, Peter Marlowe felt alone, and quite a little afraid.

Christ, what’s he up to? Where’s he going? What if he’s late? What if he doesn’t come back? What if a Jap comes into the village? What if I’m left on my own? Shall I go looking for him? If we don’t make it back by dawn, Christ, we’ll be reported missing and we’ll have to run. Where? Maybe Cheng San’ll help? Too dangerous! Where does he live? Could we make the docks and get a boat? Maybe contact the guerrillas who’re supposed to be operating?

Get hold of yourself, Marlowe, you damn coward! You’re acting like a three-year-old!

Curbing his anxiety, he settled down to wait. Then suddenly he remembered the coupling condenser — three hundred microfarads.

“Tabe, Tuan,” Kasseh smiled as the King entered her hut.

“Tabe, Kasseh!”

“You like food, yes?”

He shook his head and held her close, his hands moving over her body. She stood on tiptoe to put her arms around his neck, her hair a plume of black gold falling to her waist.

“Long time,” she said, warmed by his touch.

“Long time,” he replied. “You miss me?”

“Uh-uh,” she laughed, aping his accent

“He arrived yet?”

She shook her head. “No like this thing, tuan. Has danger.”

“Everything has danger.”

They heard footsteps and soon a shadow splashed the door. It opened and a small dark Chinese walked in. He wore a sarong and Indian chappals on his feet. He smiled, showing broken mildewed teeth. On his back was a war parang in a scabbard. The King noticed that the scabbard was well oiled. Easy to jerk that parang out and cut a man’s head off — just like that. Tucked into the man’s belt was a revolver.

The King had asked Kasseh to get in touch with the guerrillas operating in Johore and this man was the result. Like most, they were converted bandits now fighting the Japanese under the banner of the Communists, who supplied them with arms.

“Tabe. You speak English?” the King asked, forcing a smile. He didn’t like the look of this Chinese.

“Why you want talk with us?”

“Thought we might be able to make a deal.”

The Chinese leered at Kasseh. She flinched.

“Beat it, Kasseh,” the King said.

Noiselessly she left, going through the bead curtain into the rear of the house.

The Chinese watched her go. “You lucky,” he said to the King. ‘Too lucky. I bet woman give good time two, three men one night. No?”