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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
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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?"
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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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]