Grey spotted them tearing down the jail wall and blew his whistle, alerting the MP's already stationed. The MP's moved out into the open and guarded the area from jail wall to jail wall, and from jail wall to barbed fence.
"This way," the King said as he jumped through the window of Timsen's hut. No one in the hut paid any attention to them, but many saw the bulge in the King's shirt.
They raced through the hut and out the door. Another group of Aussies appeared and covered their retreat just as Grey panted up to the window and caught a fleeting glimpse of them. He rushed around the hut. The Aussies had covered their exit.
Grey called out abruptly, "Which way did they go? Come on! Which way?"
A chorus of "Who?" "Who, sir?"
Grey pushed his way through them and hurried into the open.
"Everyone's in position, sir," an MP said, running up to him.
"Good. They can't get far. And they won't dare dump the money. We'll start moving in on them. Tell the others."
The King and Peter Marlowe ran towards the north end of the jail and stopped.
"Goddam it to hell!" the King said.
Where there should have been a phalanx of Aussies to run interference for them, now there were only MP's. Five of them.
"What next?" Peter Marlowe said.
"We'll have to backtrack. C'mon!"
Moving quickly, the King asked himself, What the hell's gone wrong?
Then suddenly he found it. Four men blocked their run. They had handkerchiefs over their faces and heavy sticks in their hands.
"Better hand over the money, mate, if you don't want to get hurt."
The King feinted, then charged, with Peter Marlowe at his side. The King plowed into one man and kicked another in the groin. Peter Marlowe blocked a blow, biting back a scream as it glanced off his arm, and tore the stick out of the man's grasp. The other bushwhacker took to his heels and was swallowed by the darkness.
"Chrissake," the King panted, "let's get out of here."
Again they were off. They could feel eyes following them and any moment they expected another attack. The King skidded to a stop.
"Look out! Grey!"
They turned back, and keeping to the side of a hut, ducked underneath it.
They lay for a moment, their chests heaving. Feet ran past and they heard snatches of angry whispers —
"They went that way. Got t' get 'em before the stinking cops."
"The whole goddam camp's after us," the King said.
"Let's stick the money here," Peter Marlowe said helplessly. "We can bury it."
"Too risky. They'd find it in a minute. Goddammit, everything was going fine. Except that bastard Timsen let us down." The King wiped the dirt and sweat off his face. "Ready?"
"Which way?"
The King did not answer. He just crawled silently from under the hut and ran with the shadows, Peter Marlowe following close behind. He headed sure-footed across the path and jumped into the deep storm ditch beside the wire. He squirmed his way down it until they were almost opposite the American hut and stopped and leaned against the wall of the ditch, his breath fluttering. Around them was a whispered uproar and over them was a whispered uproar.
"What's up?"
"The King's on the run with Marlowe — they've got thousands of dollars with them."
"The hell they have! Quick, maybe we can catch them."
"Come on!"
"We'll get the money."
And Grey was getting reports and so was Smedly-Taylor and so was Timsen and the reports were confusing and Timsen was cursing and hissing at his men to find them before Grey or Smedly-Taylor's men found them.
"Get that money!"
Smedly-Taylor's men were waiting, watching Timsen's Aussies, and they were confused too. Which way did they go? Where to look?
And Grey was waiting. He knew that both escapes were blocked, north and south. It was only a question of time. And now the search was closing.
Grey knew he had them, and when he caught them they would have the money. They wouldn't dare to let go of it, not now. It was too much money.
But Grey didn't know about Smedly-Taylor's men or Timsen's Aussies.
"Look," Peter Marlowe said as he carefully lifted his head and peered around into the darkness.
The King's eyes narrowed, searching. Then he saw the MP's fifty yards away. He spun around. There were many other ghosts, hurrying, looking, searching. "We've had it," he said frantically.
Then the King looked out, over the wire. The jungle was dark. And there was a guard plodding along the other side of the wire. Okay, he told himself. The last plan. The shit-or-bust plan.
"Here," he said urgently, and he took out all the money and stuffed it into Peter Marlowe's pockets. "I'll cover for you. Go through the wire. It's our only chance."
"Christ, I'll never make it. The guard'll spot me —"
"Go on, it's our only chancel"
"I'll never make it. Never."
"When you get through, bury it and come back the same way. I'll cover for you. Goddammit, you've got to go."
"For God's sake, I'll get killed. He's not fifty feet away," Peter Marlowe said. "We'll have to give up!"
He looked around, wildly seeking another escape route, and the sudden careless movement slammed his forgotten arm against the wall of the drain and he groaned, agonized.
"You save the money, Peter," the King said desperately, "and I'll save your arm."
"You'll what?"
"You heard me! Beat it!"
"But how can you—"
"Beat it," the King interrupted harshly. "If you save the dough."
Peter Marlowe stared for an instant into the eyes of the King, then he slipped out of the trench and ran for the wire and slid under it, every moment expecting a bullet in his head. At the second of his dash, the King jumped out of the trench and whirled towards the path. He tripped deliberately and slammed down into the dust with a shout of rage. The guard glanced abruptly through the wire and laughed loudly, and when he turned back to his post he saw only a shadow which might have been anything. Certainly not a man.
Peter Marlowe was hugging the earth and he crawled like a thing of the jungle into the dank vegetation and held his breath and froze. The guard came closer and closer and then his foot was an inch away from Peter Marlowe's hand and then the other foot straddled it a pace away, and when the guard was five paces away, Peter Marlowe slithered deeper into the brush, into the darkness, five, ten, twenty, thirty, and when he was forty paces away and safe, his heart seemed to begin again and he had to stop, stop for breath, stop for his heart, stop for the hurt of his arm, the arm that was going to be his once more. If the King said — it was.
So he lay on the earth and prayed for breath and prayed for life and prayed for strength and prayed for the King.
The King breathed now that Peter Marlowe had made it to the jungle. He got up and began to brush himself down, and Grey with an MP, was beside him.