He waited, despising Grey. At just the correct time—for he was an expert—he said, “Do you want me to send your recommendation for captaincy to the Camp Commandant?”
Grey slowly turned to the paper, eyeing it with horror. He knew that the colonel could give or withhold, and where he could give or withhold, he could also slaughter. Grey knew he was beaten. Beaten. He tried to speak, but so vast was his misery that he could not speak. He nodded and he heard Smedly-Taylor say, “Good, you can take it as read that your captaincy is confirmed. I feel sure my recommendation and Colonel Samson’s will add tremendous weight to your being granted a permanent commission after the war,” and he felt himself go out of the room and up to the jail hut and dismiss the MP and he didn’t care that the man looked at him as though he were mad. Then he was alone inside the jail hut. He shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed within the cell and his misery erupted and he wept.
Broken.
Ripped apart.
Tears wet his hands and face. His spirit whirled in terror, teetering on the brink of the unknown, then fell into eternity…
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,” Sellars 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 off-hand, “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.
