“Get Timsen here on the double.”
“Sure,” Max said and left.
The King unlocked the black box and took out three eggs. “Tex. You like to cook yourself an egg? Along with these two?”
“Hell no,” Tex said, grinning, and he took the eggs. “Hey, I took a look at Eve. Swear to God she’s fatter today.”
“Impossible. She was only mated yesterday.”
Tex danced a little jig. “Twenty days an’ we’re all daddies again.” He accepted the oil and headed outside for the cooking area.
The King lay back on his bunk, scratching a mosquito bite thoughtfully and watching the lizards on the rafters hunt and fornicate. He closed his eyes and began to drowse contentedly. Here it was only twelve o’clock, and already he’d done a hard day’s work. Hell, everything’d been sewn up by six o’clock this morning.
He chuckled to himself as he remembered. Yes sir, it pays to have a good reputation and it pays to advertise …
It had happened just before dawn. He had been soft asleep. Then a cautious, muted voice had interrupted his dreams.
He awoke at once and looked out of the window and had seen a little weasel of a man staring at him in the shadowed contrails of the dawn. A man he had never seen before.
“Yeah?”
“I got somethin’ yer wanter buy.” The man’s voice had been expressionless and hoarse.
“Who’re you?”
In answer the little man had opened his grimy fist with its broken, dirt-flecked finger nails. The diamond ring was in his palm. “Price’s ten thousand. For a quick sale,” he added sardonically. Then the fingers had snapped tight as the King moved to pick the ring up, and the fist was withdrawn. “Tonight.” The man had smiled toothlessly. “It’s the right one, never fear.”
“Are you the owner?”
“It’s in me ’and, ain’t it?”
“It’s a deal. What time?”
“You wait in. I’ll see yer when there ain’t no narks abart.”
And the man had gone as suddenly as he had appeared.
The King settled more comfortably, gloating. Poor Timsen, he told himself, that poor son of a bitch’s got egg on his face! I get the ring for half price.
“Morning, cobber,” Timsen said. “You wanted me?”
The King opened his eyes and covered a yawn with his hand as Tiny Timsen walked up the hut.
“Hi.” The King swung his legs off the bed and stretched luxuriously. “Tired today. Too much excitement. You want an egg? Got a couple cooking.”
“Too right I’d like an egg.”
“Make yourself at home.” The King could afford to be hospitable. “Now let’s get down to business. We’ll close the deal this afternoon.”
“Na.” Timsen shook his head. “Not t’day. Tomorrer.”
The King was hard put not to beam.
“The heat’ll be off by then,” Timsen was saying. “Hear that Grey’s got himself out’ve hospital. He’ll be eyeing this place.” Timsen seemed gravely concerned. “We got to watch out. You an’ me. Don’t want anything to go wrong. I got to watch out for you, too. Don’t forget we’re cobbers.”
“To hell with tomorrow,” the King said, feigning disappointment. “Let’s do it this afternoon.”
And he listened, shouting with laughter inside, listened while Timsen said how important it was to be careful; the owner’s scared, why he even got beat up last night, and why, it wuz only me and my men what saved the poor bastard. So the King knew for sure then that Timsen was bleeding, that the diamond had slipped through his slimy mitts, that he was playing for time. Why, I’ll bet, the King told himself ecstatically, that the Aussies are going out of their skulls trying to find the hijacker. I wouldn’t like to be him — if they find him. So he allowed himself to be persuaded. Just in case Timsen did find the guy and the original deal stood.
“Well, okay,” the King said grudgingly. “I suppose you got a point. We’ll make it tomorrow.” He lit another cigarette and took a drag and passed it over and said sweetly, still playing the game: “On these hot nights few of my boys sleep. At least four of them are up. All night.”
Timsen understood the threat. But he had other things on his mind. Who, for the love uv God, who bushwhacked Townsend? He prayed that his men would find the buggers quick. He knew he had to find the bushwhackers before they got to the King with the diamond, for then he’d be out of luck. “I know how it is. Just the same with my boys — lucky they’re so close to my poor old pal Townsend.” Stupid bastard. How in the hell could a bugger be so weak as to allow himself to be jumped and not holler afore it was too late? “Man can’t be too careful these days, either.”
Tex brought in the eggs and the three men ate them with lunch-rice, and washed it all down with strong coffee. By the time Tex took out the dishes, the King had the conversation just where he wanted it.
“I know a guy who’s in the market for some drugs.”
Timsen shook his head. “He’s got an ’ope, poor bastard. Ain’t possible! Too right.” Ah, he thought. Drugs! Who’d that be for? Not the King, certainly. He looks healthy enough, an’ not for resale either. The King never deals in drugs, which is all right, for that leaves the market in my hands. Must be for someone close to the King, though. Otherwise he’d never get involved. Drug trade’s not his meat. Old McCoy! Of course. I heard he wasn’t so well these days. Maybe the colonel. He ain’t been lookin’ too well either. “I heard of a Limey who’s some quinine. But Jesus wept, he wants a bloody fortune for it.”
“I want some antitoxin. A bottle. And sulfonamide powder.”
Timsen let out a whistle. “Not an ’ope!” he said. Antitoxin and sulfa! Gangrene! The Pommy. Christ, gangrene! And the whole pattern fell neatly into place. Got to be the Pommy! Not through cunning alone had Timsen cornered the drug market. He knew enough about drugs from civvy street, where he had worked as an assistant druggist, which no bastard but him knew, because then the bastards would’ve put him in the Medical Corps, and that would’ve meant no fighting and no killing, and no self-respecting Aussie’d let his country down and dear old Blighty down by being just a stinking noncombatant medical orderly.
“Not an ’ope,” he said again, shaking his head.
“Listen,” the King said. “I’ll level with you.” Timsen was the only man who could get it in the whole world, so he had to get his help. “It’s for Peter.”
“Tough,” Timsen said. But inside he sympathized. Poor bugger. Gangrene. Good man, lot of guts. He still felt the smash the Pommy’d given him last night. When the four of them had fallen on the King and the Pommy.
Timsen had found out about Peter Marlowe when he had been taken up by the King. A man can’t be too careful and information’s alw’ys important. And Timsen knew about the four German planes and about the three Nips, and he knew about the village and how the Pommy’d tried to escape from Java, not like a lot who’d meekly sat and taken it. And yet, when you thought about it, it was pretty stupid to try. So far to go. Yes. Too far. Yes, this Pommy’s a beaut.
Timsen wondered if he could risk sending a man into the Japanese doctor’s quarters to get the drugs. It was risky, but the quarters and the route had been pegged. Poor bugger Marlowe, he must be sick with worry. Of course I’ll get the drugs — and it’ll be done for free, or just for expenses.
Timsen hated selling drugs, but someone had to, better him than someone else, for the cost was always reasonable, as reasonable as possible, and he knew he could make a fortune selling to the Japanese, but he never did, only to the camp and really only for a slight profit, when you thought of the risks involved.