King Rat Page 9

  “Business?”

  “Yes,” said Molly proudly. “It’s like this. I work at the factory from six until six. Then I gets my supper. And then I’ve got the washing. You see, ma’am,”—Molly sat down and her eyes were lighted with the inner fire—“me neighbor looks after Tommy while I’m out. He’s three and an’ arf, now, you know. Well, she takes in all the washing for me and I does it at night and she hangs it out in the yard during the day. We split fifty-fifty. Why, you know, ma’am, I make near thirty bob extra every week. ’Course, it’s not good on me back, but I can manage.” Her face lit up in a huge smile, and for a moment she was almost pretty. “My, won’t my Tom be proud of me when ’e gets out. I got near a hundred and ninety pounds saved up. It’s for my Tom, to start himself up in his own business, like a toff. So as when my little Tommy’s ready, why well, it’ll be Tom Masters and son over the grocery store.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Masters.” Betty was suddenly ashamed of herself for disliking the woman all these years. She remembered that Tom Masters had been a clerk in Grant’s accounting office. A nice boy really, and she had never been able to understand what it was that Tom had seen in this flat-chested, dirty little woman. Never. “I’m sorry, about the—illness. I’ll make an appointment with the doctor for you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. ’Course, I’d like the army to look after me, if it will, ’cause then I won’t have to spend any of my Tom’s money. ’E wanted a shop of ’is own, bad. A’ we almost got enough, if we’re lucky.”

  Betty Larkin pondered for a moment, then changed her mind about asking Molly “if anything should happen what would you like … do you have any relations … what about the body…”

  Oh God, she said to herself, sick with pity and misery, how awful. Say that was me, and Molly was me. Would I be able to say, so firmly, so believably, “I ain’t a going to die, not till my Grant gets home”?

  So, Betty made the note and then Molly Masters was swallowed up by the night on Bligh Street and Betty made her way to the car that waited for her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said hurriedly as she slipped into the front seat.

  “That’s okay, Betty. Gee, you smell pretty. I like your dress.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled. “You’re a tonic for me. You always make me feel so good.”

  “All part of the service, Mrs. Colonel. How’d it go tonight?”

  “Oh, all right. Just like every time, I suppose.” Sadly, Betty told him about Molly Masters as the little Hillman weaved thru the dark streets, passed trams, and buses, and then was on the outskirts of the city, heading up the hill where her home was. When she had finished they were silent and Betty was happy to be with him. Comfortable.

  Mike Wallis was a Colonel in the USAF. He had been stationed in Australia for eight months. He was tall, boyish, exuberant. Betty had met him four months ago at a Regimental party, one of those dull, usual do’s the Regiment arranged from time to time for the women of the Regiment. They had been out together half a dozen times and they enjoyed each other’s company. He was married, happily so. His wife and two children lived in Seattle and before the war he was in real estate. Now he had a staff job. He was charming and good company.

  “Here,” he said. “Present!”

  He handed it to her. She unwrapped the gift. It was two pairs of nylons.

  “Oh Mike, how kind you are! I haven’t a decent pair to my name.”

  “Any time, lady, any time. How about a bite to eat?”

  “There’s nowhere open at this time of night.”

  “Wrong again.” He jerked a thumb at the back of the car. “Got a lot of canned goods, and a bottle of scotch. You in a cooking mood?”

  “Oh yes. We’ll have a cookup. What a wonderful idea!”

  Betty liked Mike very much. He was very kind and not on the make. It was nice to flirt just a little with him, for he was safe and happily married. It was good to have a man to talk to now and then. With just Mother and little Jean in the house, well, everyone has to have a little laughter from time to time. Oh how I wish, she said to herself, that Grant was back and this awful war was over and then the three of us—perhaps Mike’s wife Gill would be here then—then the four of us could have picnics and bathing parties and play bridge and live, live, live.

  Betty Larkin’s house was on a quiet street. It was a medium-sized house, three bedrooms. Her mother lived with them now that Grant was away. Mother was all right really, and it was good to have someone in the house that you could trust. Someone to look after Jean when Betty took turns at the hospital war work. Five shifts a week, nursing. Days and nights alternate weeks. Then there were the Regimental committees. It was good to have something to do and it took your mind off—well, Grant.

  Betty unlocked the door. “Is that you, dear?” she heard her mother call out.

  “Yes, Mother. Mike’s with me. Are you in bed?”

  “Yes, dear. I’ve just tucked up Jeannie and she’s all right. Don’t forget to lock up.”

  “Yes, Mother.” She turned to Mike and said softly, “I wish I had a shilling for every time I’ve been told to lock up!”

  She led the way to the kitchen. Mike put down the tins and looked around. This was the first time in the kitchen, the second time in the house, but a quick look around told him where everything was. In no time at all, the tin of ham was open and he was slicing it.

  Betty laughed. “I don’t understand how it is you Americans are so well trained.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re all so adept in the kitchen.”

  “Nothing to it. Where’s the ice?”

  “That’s at least something I’ve got.” She opened the small freezer and emptied the tray. “How would you like the ham? Grilled?”

  “Great. How about some hot cakes?”

  “What’re they?”

  “You got any flour?”

  “Oh yes.” She opened a cupboard. He nodded when he saw it was self-rising flour. “How about an egg?” He didn’t want to ask, for eggs were short.

  Betty smiled. “Lots. We’ve six beautiful hens in the back of the house.”

  “Then you just sit and watch. I’ll have us a meal before you’ve had two scotches.”

  Happily Mike turned toward the stove. He mixed the batter deftly, had two pans going, one for the hot cakes and one for the ham. And all the time he kept a running patter of what was new in the States, how he liked Australia, what was new with his kids, three new teeth yet! How Gill wanted to come over and how this stinking war wouldn’t last more than a few weeks. “The Japs have had it,” he said with finality, sliding the cakes and ham onto plates. “Now all we need is a little maple syrup.”

  Betty enjoyed the meal and enjoyed his company. He helped her with her chair and gave her the choicest of little pancakes. He got the coffee on the boil and cleared away the plates. “You’re remarkable,” she laughed. “Grant is useless in the kitchen. And you’re almost miraculous.”

  “Nothing to it.” He grinned. “Coffee on the terrace?”

  It was still hot outside, but it was less hot than inside the house. And the view from the veranda was wonderful.

  “Oh how I wish I was up in the Blue Mountains, right now. Have you been there, Mike?”

  “No.”

  “It’s wonderful. Like the Alps, I suppose, though,” she laughed, “I’ve never seen them. But it’s always cool and the mountains are a sort of hazy blue. We have a little cottage up there, but to save money, I rented it.”

  “You go up there summers? I mean in normal times?”

  “Yes. Grant built it on his weekends. It has just a wonderful view and there’s a little stream nearby. It’s a paradise. But, you have to be careful. There are a lot of black mambas around!” Her laugh was sweet and gay. “It’s a crazy life we lead down under. When we rent the place we rent Milly along with it. Milly’s our mongoose. That’s certainly the only way to be safe from snakes!”

  “I hate snakes.”


  “Me too.” She settled back happily in her long chair.

  He stretched out his legs and sighed. “Great. Say, thanks, thanks for making me feel at home. I haven’t felt so good for months. Home cooking does it.”

  “Just as well you cooked. Perhaps you wouldn’t say the same if I’d done it.”

  “It’s got to be better. Got to be.”

  They sat in comfort. then he broke the silence. “You’re very pretty, Elizabeth.”

  There was a touch in his voice and her genes registered it. But then, there was no harm, surely, in a man paying a little compliment. Or for a girl to accept it. Was there?

  “Thanks.” She looked at him and to hide that the touch had registered so hard, she got up. “Can I get you some more coffee?”

  “No, no, thanks. Sit down. If I want some, I’ll get it. You take it easy.”

  Betty sat down and looked out at the sprawling city beneath them. Pearls of light in a vastness of velvet.

  Watch your step, Betty told herself. This is one awfully nice man and you could easily make a mistake. He’s married and you are married and though your husband is away, and has been away for three, four years, that is no excuse for you to tempt yourself to tempt him. And this is no time to flirt, and you have been flirting. Oh yes. That’s true. But I didn’t flirt to hurt. I didn’t. I only wanted to please him and make him want to see me again. My God, I’m so lonely. So lonely. What a curse loneliness is! Of all things in the world that starves a woman—the greatest is loneliness. And Mike is so nice, and so attentive. The little gifts, the thoughtfulness. Opening the car door, and the “I like the dress” even though he had seen it many times, and the flowers that he had brought me when we went to the flicks, and the way I feel safe when I’m with him, belonging. Oh my God! I know I want to go to bed with him. And that’s rotten. Rotten to think. What a bitch you’ve become! You wait and wait and wait and now you need to go to bed with a man. But not with any man—perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad—but you want to go to bed with Mike. What a rotten thing to do to his wife. She’s there, and he’s here, and you are tempting him. You know you are.

  Betty did not want to keep the thought pattern so she got up and said she’d heat the coffee and almost ran into the safety of the kitchen, away from his presence, the presence she suddenly felt so much. As the coffee heated she bathed her face with cold water yet still the chess game moved inexorably in her mind. Where—and how? The cottage. The Masons were leaving at the end of the month. Maybe there. Certainly it couldn’t be here, not in Grant’s house. Oh Grant, why in Christ’s name aren’t you here? So the cottage. But the neighbors would be bound to know if Mike stayed the week. Then they would tell Grant, certainly, and why shouldn’t they. When a man is forced to go to war he expects his woman to be virtuous. And she had been, all these years, but now there was this furnace in her.

  So not the cottage. The beach. A midnight swim. It would be easy, so easy. To tempt him. On the beach under the stars. There’s that cove that Grant took you to just after you were married…. Grant, always Grant. Dear, wonderful Grant.

  The coffee spilled over the stove and hissed and bubbled. She burned her hand taking it off, quickly mopping up the mess. The hurt of her hand gladdened her. That’ll teach you! That’ll teach you for thinking that way. You goddam bloody bitch.

  She carried the fresh coffee out onto the veranda. Mike got up and took the cups while she sat and curled her legs underneath her.

  “Nothing like a cup of Joe,” he said. “Um, that’s so good.”

  She was glad of the darkness, glad that she could hide, and hoped and prayed that he had not noticed. Then at length she broke the silence.

  “Mike, I think, I think it’s best that I don’t see you again.” Now that the words were out she felt better.

  Mike didn’t reply for a long time then he got up and stood over her. “Why?” he asked quietly. “What’s the matter?”

  It was difficult to find the words. “I just think it’s better, that’s all. Look. You’re married and so am I. My husband’s well, I think it’s best. Safer.”

  Oh Christ, he laughed to himself, they’re all alike. No matter what. A dame is a dame and you can get any dame if you’ve the right technique. And he knew his technique was perfect. Oh yes, Mike. You’re near perfect. The trick is to be patient. Very patient. Now tonight that broad was just about ready to tear your clothes off. Just about. And you haven’t even kissed her yet.

  Let’s see. I’ll give her a week. Then I’ll run into her. “Why, Betty,” I’ll say. “How nice to see you.” And then a little of the act. Set-faced, grave, and very patient. “I’ve missed you.” Then the clincher—“Maybe you’d like dinner sometime? When you’ve nothing better to do. Gets a bit lonely. You ever feel lonely?”

  A couple more dates, then she’ll be ripe. You won’t have to do a thing. She’ll fix it. Maybe the place in the mountains. Or on the beach. A broad like that’d be careful. But I’ll bet my last buck that I’ll make her inside four weeks. And once she’s going, why hell she’s the type to be the lay of lays. Let them seduce you—that’s the ticket! Yeah. You’ve never failed yet, and you never will, not while a dame’s a dame.

  Actually, he told himself, now that he was sure of her—it almost wasn’t worth the trouble. When they say, “We’d better not see each other,” well, that means hop into bed. The chase is over.

  Dames. All alike. Well, Betty Larkin, you’ll give me a time. Suppose I might as well. Chrissake, I got a few weeks invested and a couple of nylons. So I’ll lay you a couple of times, then the final clincher—I pretend to get posted to Brisbane.

  When he got back to his room he checked for messages. There was one. He dialed the number.

  “Hello, honey. Gee, how nice to hear your voice. Just got in. Been working late. I’ll bet you look pretty as a picture.”

  “Oh Mike, I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Where are you now, you sound so low?”

  “At home.”

  “Are you tired? I mean would you like to go out on the town or go for a drive? I can’t have a beautiful girl like you unhappy. That’d be terrible.”

  He waited for the inevitable pause, then the usual words—half hesitant, half shy, half bold, half hopeful—of rejection, half hateful lest he did reject. “If—if it isn’t too much trouble. I’d like that, very much, would you like to pick me up in half an hour?”

  “Be right there.” The pause, then firm and deep and resonant—tinged with just the right amount of gravity. “So glad you called, honey.”

  He card-indexed Mary Vickers. Oh yeah, the broad with the snotty kid. Husband’s also a POW. Let’s see. Yep, just about on the button. No, two days early, come to think of it. Yeah, it was only just four days ago, the “We’d better not see each other” routine. He laughed aloud. Mary should be quite a lay. They always are the first time, but then, hell, they’re all the same. Goddam broads! And it wasn’t as though he’d waste his time on anyone. Hell no. He was particular. Only the quote lady type unquote, and she had to be a looker with a body—and preferably married. Christ, what the “lady” will get up to when she’s hot.

  He sat down, pleased with himself. Then he plucked up his pen and finished the letter he was writing to Gill. It took him half an hour. As he licked the envelope, he glanced at his watch. Yeah, just about right. It’d take him another twenty minutes to get to her house, and by that time she’d be hotter’n a firecracker worrying that maybe he’d changed his mind.

  He made sure the prophylactic outfit was in his pocket. A guy can’t be too careful, not with these tramps.

  Grey walked quietly up the steps of Hut Sixteen like a thief in the night and headed for his bed. He stripped off his pants and slipped under the mosquito net and lay naked on his mattress, very pleased with himself. He had just seen Turasan, the Korean guard, sneak around the corner of the American hut and under the canvas overhang; he had seen the King stealthily jump out of the window to join Turasan. Grey
had waited only a moment in the shadows. He was checking the spy’s information, and there was no need to pounce on the King yet. No. Not yet, now that the informer was proved.

  Grey shifted on the bed, scratching his leg. His practiced fingers caught the bedbug and crushed it. He heard it plop as it burst and he smelled the sick sweet stench of the blood it contained—his own blood.

  Around his net, clouds of mosquitoes buzzed, seeking the inevitable hole. Unlike most of the officers, Grey had refused to convert his bed to a bunk, for he hated the idea of sleeping above or below someone else. Even though the added doubling up meant more space.

  The mosquito nets were hung from a wire which bisected the length of the hut. Even in sleep the men were attached to each other. When one man turned over or tugged at the net to tuck it more tightly under the soaking mattress, all the nets would jiggle a little, and each man knew he was surrounded.

  Grey crushed another bedbug, but his mind was not on it. Tonight he was filled with happiness—about the informer, about his commitment to get the King, about the diamond ring, about Marlowe. He was very pleased, for he had solved the riddle.

  It is simple, he told himself again. Larkin knows who has the diamond. The King is the only one in the camp who could arrange the sale. Only the King’s contacts are good enough. Larkin would not go himself directly to the King, so he sent Marlowe. Marlowe is to be the go-between.

  Grey’s bed shook as dead-sick Johnny Hawkins stumbled against it, half-awake, heading for the latrines. “Be careful, for God’s sake!” Grey said irritably.

  “Sorry,” Johnny said, groping for the door.

  In a few minutes Johnny stumbled back again. A few sleepy curses followed in his wake. As soon as Johnny had reached his bunk it was time to go again. This time Grey did not notice his bed shake, for he was locked in his mind, forecasting the probable moves of the enemy.

  Peter Marlowe was wide awake, sitting on the hard steps of Hut Sixteen under the moonless sky, his eyes and ears and mind searching the darkness. From where he sat he could watch the two roads—the one that bisected the camp and the other that skirted the walls of the jail. Japanese and Korean guards and prisoners alike used both roads. Peter Marlowe was the north sentry.