A piece of newspaper was wrapped around the stone. Grey picked it up and darted to the window. But there was no one near. Grey sat down and smoothed out the paper. On the edge of it was written: Make you a deal.
I'll deliver the King on a plate — if you'll close your eyes when I trade a little in his place when you got him. If it's a deal, stand outside the hut for a minute with this stone in your left hand. Then get rid of the other cop.
Guys say you're an honest cop so I'll trust you.
'What's it say, sir?' Masters asked, staring rheumy-eyed at the paper.
Grey crumpled the paper into a ball. 'Someone thinks we work too hard for the Japs,' he said harshly.
'Bloody bastard.' Masters went to the window. 'What the hell they think'd happen if we didn't enforce discipline? The buggers'd be at each other's throats all day long.'
'That's right,' said Grey. The ball of paper felt animated in his hand. If this is a real offer, he thought, the King can be felled.
It was no easy decision to make. He would have to keep his side of the bargain. His word was his bond; he was an honest 'cop,' and not a little proud of his reputation. Grey knew that he would do anything to see the King behind the bamboo cage, stripped of his finery — even close his eyes a little to a breaking of the rules. He wondered which of the Americans could be the informer. All of them hated the King, envied him -
but who would play Judas, who would risk the consequences if he were to be discovered? Whoever the man was, he could never be such a menace as the King.
So he walked outside with the stone in his left hand and scrutinized the men who passed. But no one gave him a sign.
He threw the stone away and dismissed Masters. Then he sat in the hut and waited. He had given up hope when another rock sailed through the window with the second message attached: Check a can that's in the ditch by Hut Sixteen. Twice a day, mornings and after roll call. That'll be our go-between. He's trading with Turasan tonight.
Chapter 6
That night Larkin lay on his mattress under his mosquito net gravely concerned about Corporal Townsend and Private Gurble. He had seen them after roll call.
'What the hell were you two fighting about?' he had asked repeatedly, and each time they had both replied sullenly, 'Two-up.' But Larkin had known instinctively that they were lying.
'I want the truth,' he had said angrily. 'Come on, you two are cobbers.
Now why were you fighting?'
But the two men had kept their eyes obstinately on the ground. Larkin had questioned them individually, but each in his turn scowled and said, 'Two-up.'
'All right, you bastards,' Larkin had said finally, his voice harsh. 'I'll give you one last chance. If you don't tell me, then I'll transfer you both out of my regiment. And as far as I'm concerned you won't exist!'
'But Colonel,' Gurble gasped. 'You wouldn't do that!'
'I'll give you thirty seconds,' Larkin said venomously, meaning it. And the men knew that he meant it. And they knew that Larkin's word was law in his regiment, for Larkin was like their father. To get shipped out would mean that they would not exist to their cobbers, and without their cobbers, they'd die.
Larkin waited a minute. Then he said, 'All right. Tomorrow —'
'I'll tell you, Colonel,' Gurble blurted. 'This bloody sod accused me of stealing my cobbers' food. The bloody sod said I was stealing —'
'An' you were, you rotten bastard!'
Only Larkin's snarled 'Stand to attention' kept them from tearing each other's throats out.
Corporal Townsend told his side of the story first. 'It's my month on the cookhouse detail. Today we've a hundred and eighty-eight to cook for —'
'Who's missing?' Larkin asked.
'Billy Donahy, sir. He went to hospital this a'ernoon.'
'All right.'
'Well, sir. A hundred and eighty-eight men at a hundred and twenty-five grams of rice a day works out at twenty-three and a half kilos. I always go up to the storehouse myself with a cobber and see the rice weighed and then I carry it back to make sure we got our bloody share. Well, today I was watching the weighing when the gut rot hit me. So I asked Gurble here to carry it back to the cookhouse. He's my best cobber so I thought I could trust him —'
'I didn't touch a bloody grain, you bastard. I swear to God —'
'We were short when I got back!' Townsend shouted. 'Near half a pound short and that's two men's rations!'
'I know, but I didn't —'
'The weights weren't wrong. I checked 'em under your bloody nose!'
Larkin went with the men and checked the weights and found them true.
There was no doubt that the correct amount of rice had started down the hill, for the rations were weighed publicly every morning by Lieutenant Colonel Jones. There was only one answer.
'As far as I'm concerned, Gurble,' Larkin said, 'you're out of my regiment.
You're dead.'
Gurble stumbled away into the darkness, whimpering, and then Larkin said to Townsend, 'You keep your mouth shut about this.'
