When Grey came to, he was lying on a stretcher being carried by two MP's. Dr. Kennedy was clomping ahead. Grey knew that he was dying but he did not care. Then he saw the King standing beside the path, looking down at him.
Grey noticed the neat polished shoes, the trousers' crease, the tailor-made Kooa, the well-fed countenance. And he remembered that he had a job'to do. He could not die yet. Not yet, Not while the King was well-creased and polished and well fed. Not with the diamond in the offing. By God, no!
"We'd better make this the last game," Colonel Smedly-Taylor was saying.
"Mustn't miss the show."
"Can't wait to get an eyeful of Sean," Jones said, sorting his cards. "Two diamonds." He opened smugly.
"You've the luck of the devil," Sellars said sharply. "Two spades."
"Pass."
"Not always the luck of the devil, partner," Smedly-Taylor said with a thin smile. His granite eyes looked at Jones. "You were pretty stupid today."
"It was just bad luck."
"There's no excuse for bad luck," Smedly-Taylor said, studying his cards.
"You should have checked. You were incompetent not to check."
"I've said I'm sorry. You think I don't realize that it was stupid? I'll never do that again. Never. I never knew what it was like to be panicked."
"Two no trumps." Smedly-Taylor smiled at Sellars. "This'll make it rubber, partner." Then he turned to Jones again. "I've recommended that Samson take over from you — you need a 'rest.' That'll take Grey off the scent - oh yes, and Sergeant Donovan'll be Samson's Quartermaster Sergeant." He laughed shortly. "It's a pity we have to change the system, but it doesn't matter. We'll just have to make sure that Grey's busy on the days the false weights are used." He looked back at Sellars. "That'll be your job."
"Very good."
"Oh, by the way, I fined Marlowe a month's pay. He's in one of your huts, isn't he?"
"Yes," Sellars said.
"I was soft on him, but he's a good man, comes from a good family — not like that lower-class sod Grey. My God, what a bloody nerve — to think I'd recommend him for a permanent commission. That's just the sort of guttersnipe we don't need in the Regular Army. My God, no! If he gets a permanent commission it'll be over my dead body."
"I quite agree," Sellars said with distaste. "But with Marlowe you should have made it three months' pay. He can afford it. That damned American's got the whole camp tied up."
"He has for the time being." Smedly-Taylor grunted and re-examined his cards once more, trying to cover his slip.
"You've something on him?" Jones asked tentatively. Then he added,
"Three diamonds."
"Blast you," Sellar said. "Four spades."
"Pass."
"Six spades," Smedly-Taylor said.
"Do you really have something on the American?" Jones asked again.
Colonel Smedly-Taylor kept his face blank. He knew about the diamond ring and he'd heard that a deal had been made, that the ring would change hands soon. And when the money was in the camp, well, a plan had been thought of — a good plan, a safe plan, a private plan — to get the money. So he just grunted and smiled his thin smile and said offhand,
"If I have, I'm certainly not going to tell you about it. You're not to be trusted." When Smedly-Taylor smiled, they all smiled, relieved.
Peter Marlowe and Larkin joined the stream of men going into the open-air theater.
The stage lights were already on and the moon beamed down. At capacity the theater could hold two thousand. The seats, which fanned out from the stage, were planks set on coconut stumps. Each show was repeated for five nights, so that everyone in the camp could see it at least once. Seats were allocated by lot and were always at a premium.
Most of the rows were already crammed. Except the front rows where the officers sat. Officers always sat in front of the enlisted men and came later.
Only the Americans did not follow the custom.
"Hey, you two," the King called out. "You want to sit with us?" He had the favored seat on the aisle.
"Well, I'd like to, but you know —" Peter Marlowe said uncomfortably.
"Yeah. Well, see you later."
Peter Marlowe glanced at Larkin and knew he was thinking too that it was wrong not to sit with your friends if you wanted — and at the same time it was wrong to sit there.
"You, er, want to sit here, Colonel?" he asked, passing the buck and hating himself for passing the buck.
"Why not?" Larkin said.
They sat down, acutely embarrassed, aware of their defection and aware of the astonished eyes.
"Hey, Colonel!" Brough leaned over, a smile creasing his face. "You'll get handed your head. Bad for discipline and all that jazz."
"If I want to sit here, I'll sit here." But Larkin wished he hadn't agreed so readily.
"How're things, Peter?" the King asked.
"Fine, thanks." Peter Marlowe tried to overcome his discomfort. He felt everyone was looking at him. He had not yet told the King about the sale of the pen, what with being on the carpet in front of Smedly-Taylor, and the brawl he had almost had with Grey…
"Evening, Marlowe."
He glanced up and winced as he saw Smedly-Taylor passing. Flint eyes.
"Evening, sir," he replied weakly. Oh my God, he thought, that's torn it There was a sudden quickening of excitement as the Camp Commandant walked down the aisle and sat down in the very front row. The lights dimmed. The curtain parted. On the stage was the five-piece camp band, and standing in the center of the stage was Phil, the band leader.
Applause.
"Good evening," Phil began. "Tonight we're presenting a new play by Frank Parrish called Triangle, which takes place in London before the war.
It stars Frank Parrish, Brod Rodrick, and the one and only Sean Jennison . . ."
Tumultuous cheers. Catcalls. Whistles. Shouts of "Where's Sean?" and
"What war?" and "Good old Blighty" and "Get on with it" and "We want Sean!"
Phil gave the downbeat with a flourish and the overture began.
Now that the show was on, Peter Marlowe relaxed a little.
Then it happened.
Dino was abruptly at the King's side and whispering urgently in his ear.
"Where?" Peter Marlowe heard the King say. Then, "Okay, Dino. You beat it back to the hut."
The King leaned across. "We gotta go, Peter." His face was taut, his voice barely a whisper. "A certain guy wants to see us."
Oh my God! Shagata! Now what? "We can't just get up and leave now,"
Peter Marlowe said uneasily.
"The hell we can't. We both got a touch of dysentery. C'mon." The King was already walking up the aisle.
Nakedly aware of the astonished eyes, Peter Marlowe hurried after him.
They found Shagata in the shadows behind the stage. He was nervous too. "I beg thee forgive my bad manners in sending for thee suddenly, but there is trouble. One of the junks of our mutual friend was intercepted and he is presently being questioned for smuggling by the pestilential police."