John D. MacDonald
Muddy Gun
Captain Booter of the British Colonial Service sat at ease behind his desk, his pale blue eyes filled with an expression of doubt. Before him, in a position of rigid attention, stood Jayasata, owner and operator of a rickshaw in the port city of Colombo, Ceylon. In deference to the captain he had loosened the tucked up folds of his plaid sarong so that it hung shabbily to his ankles. He held his head high, his thin bony chest stuck out, the stringy arms that looked as though they were woven of leather hung rigidly at his sides.
“Needless to say, you are a man of much honor and discretion, Jayasata.” Captain Booter was proud of his command of Singhalese, but less confident of his ability to read the minds of these unpredictable natives.
“For one year now Booter Master has used my conveyance. Never has he been charged too much. Even through the heavy rains I have waited for him.” The heavy bones of Jayasata’s cheeks and jaw showed that some of the wild Vedda blood of a hill village flowed in his veins.
For almost a minute there was silence in the little office. Then Captain Booter made up his mind.
“I wish to entrust you with a dangerous mission. I understand you are a man who is without fear.”
“I am honored. I have fear but I am its master. I have great respect for Booter Master and will do his bidding.”
“On this mission it must be understood that if you come to trouble, you cannot expect my help. Should you call on me for help, I must say that I know nothing of your trouble, only that I use your rickshaw. If your mission is completed to my satisfaction I will make you a gift of one hundred rupees.”
A smile which showed the gaps of several missing teeth split the impassive face of Jayasata. An eager light came into his eyes. One hundred rupees would buy a fine new bell for the rickshaw. The other rickshaw men would hear it and realize that a man of consequence was coming down the road. Then there would be money left for new clothes and many feasts with bottles of honey and wine.
“The privilege of serving Booter Master is worth more than many hundred rupees to a humble man. What is the mission?”
“It is said that Anazhan, the Malay man of politics has in his bungalow a gun which was stolen many months ago from the Americans. It is of this size.” He fumbled in the desk drawer, and then held up a forty-five automatic. “It is a gun of much power. Would you recognize a twin of this gun?”
“I would.”
“It is further said that men in the small group of political persons who are in sympathy with Anazhan are planning to kill a Singhalese man of much power in politics with the gun which is now in the bungalow of Anazhan. That has been told to me by a Malay man who is not pleased that such a killing should happen.”
“It is true that any killing for politics is bad.”
“Are you familiar with the ways of the thief in Ceylon?”
“Yes, Booter Master. I have heard much talk of their methods.”
“I desire you to steal the gun from the bungalow of Anazhan. It is in a locked desk which stands beneath the second window from the street on the left side of the bungalow of Anazhan. It is in the top drawer of that desk. The desk is weak. Here is a small tool with which it can be pried open.” He slid a small steel bar with a chisel end across the desk. Jayasata picked it up and looked at it with curiosity. “All these things I have learned from the friendly Malay. You know the house of Anazhan?”
“Yes, Booter Master, it is one of the fine bungalows in Slave Island. But why could you not go by day and demand the gun? There is long imprisonment for the possession of such a gun.”
“To do so would cause suspicion to be directed to all men who knew of the location of the gun. Thus no information would be trusted in the minds of some of them in the future. We would lose our chance to know the future plans of this group. In truth, they are more like men of crime than men of politics. They seek only personal riches. The Malay men of honor are not their friends.”
“I will carry out the instructions of my master. Tonight I will steal the gun. Tomorrow morning I will bring it to this compound and give it to Booter Master.”
“Very well. May Buddha crown your efforts with success. Remember that if you are captured or hurt, I can do nothing for you.”
“I will remember. Good day, Master.”
During the long day the people who rode in Jayasata’s rickshaw became frequently angry at his absent-mindedness. No matter where the fare wanted to go, he kept turning the rickshaw toward Slave Island, until rudely awakened each time by the loud shouts of the passenger. But he did manage to take two fares past Anazhan’s bungalow. He noted with satisfaction the high thick bushes on the left side of the buff colored plaster house. He began to think about how he could get through the barred window, and cursed the prevalence of thieves which caused all bungalows to have barred windows throughout.
When night came after the short dusk he was at the Clock Tower in the heart of the business section. He lighted the two flickering lamps on his rickshaw, and then started padding along on his over-sized calloused feet toward Slave Island.
As he went by the bungalow he noticed that, as he had expected, it was brightly lighted. Another half mile and he turned down a dark alley. He parked the rickshaw and hurried into a little room with a dirt floor which he shared with two other rickshaw pullers. He took a key on a string from around his neck and then went back out to the rickshaw. In a moment he returned with one of the flickering lights which he had detached, and knelt down by a tin box that contained all of his possessions. He opened the box and brought out a heavy Indian padlock and a length of chain. He tied the key to the padlock onto the same string with the box key. Some more fumbling, and he brought out a small ball of newspaper. He partially unwrapped it and felt of the lump of heavy grease it contained, then nodded in satisfaction. He slipped out of his sarong and put on a shabbier one, being careful to transfer the tool Captain Booter had given him to the top folds of the sarong. He deposited the day’s earnings in the box, shut and locked the box, tucked the grease into a top fold of his sarong along with the tool, and went back out to the rickshaw. He tucked the lock and chain under the seat cushion. Then he blew out the lights, lay down on the ground with one arm thrown over a pole of the rickshaw, and went to sleep.
A long time later he awoke. He looked around him in the faint starlight and saw by the chained rickshaw nearby that one of his friends had turned in for the night. He listened to the muted street noises, and decided it was time.
Fifteen minutes later a dark figure dragged a rickshaw up close to a fence about two blocks from Anazhan’s bungalow. In a few seconds the wheel of the vehicle was securely chained to the fence. Like a shadow in his dark sarong, Jayasata drifted down the street toward the house of the gun. As he walked by Anazhan’s house he looked carefully for lights but saw none. A quick glance satisfied him that the street was deserted, so he slipped into the black cave between the bushes and the bungalow. He stopped and squatted on the ground beneath the second window, holding his breath while he listened for sounds of movement around him. There were none.
Unclasping his linked silver belt, he let belt and sarong drop noiselessly to the ground. Then he felt for the package of grease, found it and with long careful strokes spread a coating of grease over his entire body. He dropped the package and picked up the tool he had been given, placing it between his teeth like a pirate knife.
He reached up in the darkness and found the window ledge over his head. With fingertips on the window ledge and feet against the plaster wall, he climbed up quickly, and, in a moment, was crouched on the narrow ledge, holding onto the thin bars of the window. The branches of the tall bushes touched his back gently. He reached cautiously through the bars and found to his satisfaction that the window was open.