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.
'Stand where you are.'
'Who, me?' The King pretended to peer into the darkness and recognize Grey. 'Oh, it's you. Good evening, Captain Grey.' He shoved the MP's restraining arm away. 'Take your hands off me!'
'You're under arrest,' said Grey, sweating and dirt-covered from the chase.
'For what? Captain.'
'Search him, Sergeant.'
The King submitted calmly. Now that the money wasn't on him there was nothing that Grey could do. Nothing.
'Nothing on him, sir,' the MP said.
