Peter Marlowe lifted the cup to his lips and drank the coffee and his eyes were locked on Grey and then Grey disappeared into the night.
Peter Marlowe got up exhaustedly. “Think I’ll turn in now.”
“I’m proud of you, Peter.”
“You meant what you said, didn’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
That night the King was worrying about a new problem. How in the hell could he do what he had said he would do?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Larkin was deeply troubled as he strode up the path towards the Aussie hut. He was worried about Peter Marlowe — his arm seemed to be troubling him more than somewhat, hurting too much to be brushed off as just a flesh wound. He was worried too about old Mac. Last night Mac’d been talking and screaming in his sleep. And he was worried about Betty. Had bad dreams himself last few nights, all twisted up, Betty and him, with other men in bed with her, and him watching and her laughing at him.
Larkin entered the hut and went over to Townsend, who was lying in his bunk.
Townsend’s eyes were puffed and closed and his face was scratched and his arms and chest were bruised and scratched. When he opened his mouth to answer, Larkin saw the bloody gap where teeth should have been.
“Who did it, Townsend?”
“Don’t know,” Townsend whimpered. “I wuz bushwhacked.”
“Why?”
Tears welled and dirtied the bruises. “I’d — I’d a — nothing — nothing. I don’t — know.”
“We’re alone, Townsend. Who did it?”
“I don’t know.” A sobbing moan burst from Townsend’s lips. “Oh Christ, they hurt me, hurt me.”
“Why were you bushwhacked?”
“I–I — ” Townsend wanted to shout, “The diamond, I had the diamond,” and he wanted the colonel’s help to get the bastards who’d stolen it from him. But he couldn’t tell about the diamond, for then the colonel’d want to know where he’d got it and then he’d have to say from Gurble. An’ then there’d be questions about Gurble, where had he got it from — Gurble? The suicide? Then maybe they’d say that it wasn’t suicide, it were murder, but it weren’t, least he, Townsend, didn’t think so, but who knows, maybe someone did Gurble in for the diamond. But that particular night Gurble was away from his bunk and I’d felt the outline of the diamond ring in his mattress and slipped it out and took off into the night and who could prove anythin’—and Gurble happened to suicide that night so there weren’t no harm. Except that maybe I murdered Gurble, murdered him by stealing the stone, maybe that was the final straw for Gurble, being kicked out of the unit for stealing rations and then having the diamond stole. Maybe that’d put him off his head, poor bastard, an’ made him jump into the borehole! But stealing rations didn’t make sense, not when a man’s a diamond to sell. No sense. No sense at all. Except that maybe I was the cause of Gurble’s death and I curse myself, again and again, for stealing the diamond. Since I become a thief I got no peace, no peace, no peace. An’ now, now I’m glad, glad that it’s gone from me, stolen from me.
“I don’t know,” Townsend sobbed.
Larkin saw that it was no use and left Townsend to his pain.
“Oh, sorry, Father,” Larkin said, as he almost bumped Father Donovan down the hut steps.
“Hello, old friend.” Father Donovan was wraithlike, impossibly emaciated, his eyes deepset and strangely peaceful. “How are you? And Mac? And young Peter?”
“Fine, thanks.” Larkin nodded back towards Townsend. “Do you know anything about this?”
Donovan looked at Townsend and replied gently, “I see a man in pain.”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Larkin thought a moment, smiled. “Would you like a game of bridge? Tonight? After supper?”
“Yes. Thank you. I’d like that.”
“Good. After supper.”
Father Donovan watched Larkin walk away and then went over to Townsend’s bed. Townsend was not a Catholic. But Father Donovan gave of himself to all, for he knew that all men are children of God. But are they, all of them? he asked himself in wonder. Could children of God do such things?
At noon the wind and the rain came together. Soon everything and everyone was drenched. Then the rain stopped and the wind continued. Pieces of thatch ripped away and whirled across the camp, mixing with loose fronds and rags and coolie hats. Then the wind stopped and the camp was normal with sun and heat and flies. Water in the storm channels gushed for half an hour, then began to sink into the earth and stagnate. More flies gathered.
Peter Marlowe wandered up the hill listlessly. His feet were mud-stained like his legs, for he had let the tempest surround him, hoping that the wind and the rain would take away the brooding hurt. But they had not touched him.
He stood outside the King’s window and peered in.
“How do you feel, Peter, buddy?” the King asked as he got up from his bed and found a pack of Kooas.
“Awful.” Peter Marlowe sat on the bench under the overhang, nauseated from the pain. “My arm’s killing me.” His laugh was brittle. “Joke!”
The King jumped down and forced a smile. “Forget it — ”
“How the hell can I forget it?” Immediately Peter Marlowe regretted the outburst. “Sorry. I’m jumpy. Don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”
“Have a cigarette.” The King lit it for him. Yep, the King told himself, you’re in a spot. The Limey learns fast, very fast. At least I think so. Let’s see. “We’ll complete the deal tomorrow. You can get the money tonight. I’ll cover for you.”
But Peter Marlowe didn’t hear him. His arm was burning a word into his brain. Amputate! And he could hear the saw shrieking and feel it cutting, grinding bone-dust, his bone-dust. A shudder racked him. “What — about this?” he muttered and looked up from his arm. “Can you really do something?”
The King nodded and told himself, There, you see. You were right. Only Pete knows where the money is, but Pete won’t get the money until you’ve set up the cure. No cure, no dough. No dough, no sale. No sale, no loot. So he sighed and said to himself, Yes, you’re a pretty smart cookie to know men so well. But when you figure it right, like you did last night, it wasn’t a bad trade. If Pete hadn’t taken the chance we’d both be in jail with no money and no nothing. And Pete had brought them luck. The deal was better than ever. And apart from that, Pete’s all right. A good guy. And hell, who wants to lose an arm anyway. Pete’s got a right to put the pressure on. I’m glad he’s learned.
“Leave it to Uncle Sam!”
“Who?”
“Uncle Sam?” The King stared at him blankly. “The American symbol. You know,” he said exasperatedly, “like John Bull.”
“Oh, sorry. I’m just — today — I’m just — ” A wave of nausea surged over Peter Marlowe.
“You beat it back to your bunk and relax. I’ll take care of it.”
Peter Marlowe got up unsteadily. He wanted to smile and thank the King and shake his hand and bless him, but he remembered the word, and he felt only the saw, so he half nodded and walked out of the hut.
For Chrissake, the King told himself bitterly. He thinks I’d let him down, that I wouldn’t do nothin’, unless he had the screws on me. Chrissake, Peter, I would help. Sure. Even though you didn’t have me by the shorts. Hell. You’re my friend.
“Hey, Max.”
“Yeah.”