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two

“DRISCOLL’S DEAD,” Mike Hawker explained, “killed by a native.”

Stark thoughtfully eyed the beefy superintendent of Sumatra Independent across the scarred desk in the latter’s office, which in reality was a side room of his house. His florid face dripped sweat, and a soiled white shirt clung to his barrel-shaped chest. Dark stubble masked his face, broken by a livid scar across one cheek. He reeked of tobacco.

Hawker was his contact, just as he had been Driscoll’s. Stark had covered his scant file briefly: American, age forty, native wife, twelve years on Sumatra during which he’d risen from driller to his present position. Thoroughly dependable. Nothing extraordinary in the record. He dismissed the knowledge.

“Catch the killer?” he asked.

Hawker shrugged. “No clues—didn’t see it. Just found the body.”

“Where?”

“On the veranda outside.” He gestured toward the door.

“How did you know it was a native?”

“Blowgun,” Hawker replied imperturbably. “On this island that spells Malay.” A slightly contemptuous note had crept into his voice. Stark disregarded it.

“Can you assign any possible motive?”

“No, none at all, unless he stepped on someone’s toes.”

“Hardly a reason for murder,” Stark commented wryly. “Did anyone know he was ONI?”

“No—except me, of course. I was passing him off as a wheel from the main office,” Hawker explained.

“Now I’m the wheel,” Stark observed absently. “Mind briefing me on his moves while he was here—who he talked with and where he went?”

Hawker did, shortly, and when he finished Stark knew very little more than before. Driscoll had been on the island several weeks, had talked with a few people and had died. Nothing more.

Stark tried a different approach. “How many white men have been killed by blowguns around here lately?”

The superintendent looked startled. “Why, no one,” he finally admitted. “A Dutchman got picked off that way in town but that was a couple of years ago.”

“A bit unusual, eh?”

“You might say that.” Hawker smiled grimly. “Everything’s unusual in this country.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning nothing. This ain’t Tulsa, that’s all.”

“That your home?” Stark asked politely.

Hawker grunted. “It is, or was. Damned if I know after twelve years in this hellhole.” His lips formed a feeble grin. “I guess by now I’ve gone native.”

He watched the superintendent’s face and carefully asked, “Ever hear of a man named Saito?”

Hawker’s eyes grew curious. “Driscoll asked that same question,” he replied obliquely.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. The name didn’t ring a bell.” He smiled quizzically. “Especially that shadow part—he made the guy sound like something out of Scotland Yard.”

Stark dropped the subject and asked about the fields.

“We’re ready,” Hawker promised bluntly. “We’re planting dynamite under all the shops and heavy equipment and mining the tank areas with fire bombs. Sledge hammers and acetylene torches will take care of the rest. We plan to blast the main pipeline every couple of hundred yards.”

“Will you have time?”

“Sure.” Hawker’s voice was confident. “Those damned Japs won’t get up the Musi that quick. Not with the Dutch and English planted downstream. We’re at the end of the line, so to speak.”

“Could you blow the works today if you had to?”

Hawker looked startled. “Christ, no! It’s quite a job getting ready to demolish a fifty-million-buck plant that’s spread from here to hell-and-gone. The pipeline runs better than a hundred miles, and all swamp.”

“When will you be ready?”

“A week . . . maybe less.”

“How long will it take to destroy the works after you’re ready?” Stark pursued.

“An hour or two at the most,” Hawker promised. “We have a master ignition system laid out. One punch on the plunger and you’ll see more hell around here than you ever did at Pearl Harbor.”

Stark doubted that but didn’t say so. However, the words bolstered his confidence in the job that had to be done. He’d seen other men of the same breed; they usually produced.

Hawker continued, “Personally, I hate to see it happen. I’ve got a lot of my life tied up here—some pretty damned hard-working, sweaty years. I’ve watched this place grow from a hole in the jungles.” He flung his arm reminiscently toward the compound.

“Rough,” Stark murmured.

“Hell, yes, it’s rough, but I suppose it can’t be helped. From what I hear, we haven’t the chance of a virgin in sailor town. They say the main Jap fleet is streaming down from the Philippines like sardines.” He stared tentatively at the ONI man.

“Maybe so, but the orders are to wait until the last possible moment.” Stark smiled grimly. “How would you like to destroy a fifty-million-dollar plant and then have the island hold?”

Hawker laughed boisterously. “Damned if I wouldn’t have to get another job.”

“Uh-huh, me too.”

Hawker banged the desk and bellowed, “Boy . . . beer!”

A scurrying came from the other side of the door and a barefooted Javanese servant clad in a sarong carried in a tray containing the beer and glasses. He placed it on the desk and waited respectfully.

“Get out,” Hawker thundered. As the servant wheeled and disappeared, he winked. “You’ve got to talk that way.” he explained. “Treat ’em polite and your name’s mud.”

“Has he been listening all the time?” Stark asked casually.

“Hell, yes, he has. Them gooks are all ears,” he replied. “Obak—that’s my houseboy there—knows more about what’s going on than I do.”

“Maybe too much,” Stark suggested gently.

The superintendent smiled meaningfully. “I get the low-down, Mr. Stark, and that’s what it takes to run this business. I know every fact from the details about Hodges’ nympho wife to exactly how many drops of oil come from each well and, believe me, that’s important.”

“Who’s Hodges?”

“My assistant . . . a damned drunk,” he complained. “I would’ve replaced him a long time ago except the next one probably wouldn’t be any better. White men don’t last long out here. White women neither.” He gulped the beer and continued: “This war’s scared him silly. He’d take off now if he could, only he can’t. Not till I give the word, and that won’t happen till we blow the works.”

“How about the natives—any trouble there?”

“None to speak of.” He didn’t explain the statement.

“Much white help?” Stark asked.

“A few Texans and Oklahomans as field supervisors. They’re about the only people who know anything about oil,” he explained. Stark nodded politely, thinking the beer tasted good. “We’ve also got a white doctor, fellow named Ebell,” Hawker added.

“American?”

Hawker nodded. “From ’Frisco. He came out here six or eight years ago after his wife died. His daughter’s with him now. She came last year.”

“How old?”

“Old enough.” Hawker smiled evilly. “Don’t get your hopes up. We’ve all tried and failed—she’s colder than an iceberg.”

Stark thought he could see why but refrained from saying so. He’d seen other so-called icebergs—had watched them melt. Like Elena, whom he’d met in London a few years before while a junior member of a military mission. Tall and cool and composed, she, too, had been an iceberg, or so several of his fellow officers had informed him. He had probed the iceberg, read its message. Tall and cool and composed, but the thaw had been something to remember.

The superintendent gulped the last of his beer. “You might as well meet the wife, then we’ll have a look around.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “You’d better not ask too many questions. You’re supposed to be an oil man.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not sinkeh,” Stark answered. The native word for “newcomer” brought a startled glance.

“You’ve been in this neighborhood before,” Hawker accused.

“Some.” The ONI man’s face remained blank.

Hawker grunted, then led him through a door into the main part of the house. A number of rattan long chairs were casually grouped near several couches placed to catch any stray breezes from a large overhead fan which, at the moment, Obak was operating by means of a pull rope. A variety of woven mats and Oriental rugs covered the hardwood flooring. Four swinging copper lamps, each of a different size and shape, hung in the corners. He traced the pungent odor of incense to some green candles burning atop a writing desk in one corner.

A stir came from one end of the room and a native woman arose from a couch to meet them. Stark caught the impression of a slender figure clad in white; smooth, even Oriental features framed by a net of abundant black hair before Hawker said, “Selinda, my wife.” Hawker glanced at the ONI man, nodding. “This is Mr. Stark . . . of the head office.”

“How do you do, Mr. Stark.” He acknowledged her greeting with a smile, momentarily speechless and feeling a trifle gauche. Her body might be Oriental, he reflected, but her manner and speech were very much European.

“We weren’t expecting you,” she was saying.

“The war . . . schedules,” he murmured.

“Oh, I know.” Her face was slender, almost doll-like, and he found himself thinking she was very beautiful.

“You have a pleasant home,” he added.

“But not as nice as home.” She smiled demurely. “Care for a drink?”

“No, thank you. Just had one,” he replied gravely.

They chatted for a few minutes before Hawker said, “Have a seat; I’ll be right back.”

He walked toward a kitchen visible in the rear and Stark glanced around, waiting until she settled into a long chair before sitting on one of the couches.

“Will you be here long?” she asked.

A closer glance told him she was not a full-blooded Malay. Although face and figure were Oriental, she had the unmistakable impression of European.

Weighing his answer, he decided to take a plunge. “I don’t know. I’m really trying to get some information.” He stopped, waiting, watching her face.

“About the field? I think it’s terrible it has to go,” she said. “Mike has worked so hard to build it up.”

“I’m sure he has.” The use of her husband’s given name did not escape him, reinforcing his belief she was not entirely Malay. He added slowly, “Yes, of course, I’m interested in the preparations being made in case the Japanese land. Your husband tells me he has that well in hand.”

“He’s been working around the clock,” she answered. “All the men have.”

He watched her levelly. “I’m also trying to run down a little information on Driscoll—find out what happened. The company’s interested.”

“It was a terrible thing,” she murmured. “So young, too.”

“Would you know any reason for it?”

“For his death?”

“His murder,” he corrected bluntly.

“No, of course not.”

“I thought you might have heard rumors,” he amended.

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just something that none of us could understand.”

His eyes searched her face. “Have you ever heard of man named Saito, Mrs. Hawker?”

“Saito . . . it’s quite a common Japanese name.”

“Saito the Shadow,” he pursued deliberately, his senses alert for the slightest change of expression, tone or body reaction.

“Shadow?” She raised her eyes questioningly. “No, I can’t say that I have, but it sounds intriguing.”

He thought it curious Driscoll should have questioned Hawker on the point and not his wife. She watched him through half-veiled eyes. A girl in Shanghai named Anna Sing Kai had the same smoldering glance; he wondered if Hawker’s wife had the same passion. He masked his thoughts.

“Have you ever heard of anyone around Palembang by that name?” he asked.

“No, I really haven’t.” Her face lit up in a smile. “It sounds dreadfully important.” Suddenly he became aware Hawker had re-entered the room.

“What the hell would she know about that cloak-and-dagger stuff?” the superintendent snapped. Irked, Stark decided. He filed the information.

“Cloak - and - dagger—it sounds exciting,” Selinda Hawker declared. “And I always thought the company such a dull place.” He caught the amusement in her voice.

“Let’s take a look around,” Hawker interrupted. “I’ve got some work to clean up but you might like to talk to the Doc in the meantime.”

“Happy to.” Stark arose as the superintendent turned to his wife.

“Have Obak prepare the guest room.”

She nodded without taking her eyes from Stark’s face and declared, “We’ll do our best to make you feel at home, Mr. Stark.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hawker.” He cast another glance at her, then followed her husband from the house. A giant black-bearded Bengali got up from the stairs, waiting respectfully while they descended. He stood a good four inches over Stark’s six-foot-plus height.

“Who’s he?” Stark asked after they were past.

“Gurko Singh, one of the servants,” Hawker replied disinterestedly.

“House servant?”

“Sort of, but I generally use him to chauffeur me around the field.” Hawker grinned. “He also makes a pretty good bodyguard.”

“I can see that,” Stark wryly admitted.

When Hawker paused to light his pipe, Stark studied his surroundings. The superintendent’s house had a high, steep roof of palm leaves with a surrounding veranda protected from the sun by thick bamboo laths, strung so close together they formed an almost solid screen. The latter interested him. If Driscoll had been murdered on the veranda, as claimed, the killer must have hidden on the porch. Whoever he was, he certainly wasn’t a stranger to the household, he decided. The yard was bordered by a bamboo hedge which gave the house an aura of privacy. Palms and senna trees provided shade for several swings set among them.

“That’s the infirmary across the way,” Hawker stated, motioning toward a long, thatch-roofed building set under some shade trees. “The Doc and his gal have quarters in the rear.

Stark asked her name.

“Suzanne . . . Suzanne Ebell, a real looker.”

“Any other help?”

“A nurse . . . Yoshi Kusaka, and a couple of cleanup boys.”

“Japanese?”

“Yoshi? Of course.” The superintendent cast a quick glance at him. “Just don’t get any ideas.”

“Because she’s Japanese?”

Hawker stopped and faced him squarely. “That’s about the size of it, but I can vouch for her. So can Dr. Ebell, or almost anyone else on the compound.” His voice softened. “Believe me, if you’d ever see her working through some of these fever sieges we get occasionally you would know what I mean. She’s kept that place open when me and the Doc and everyone else was flat on our backs. Yes, sir, I’ll vouch for her.”

“No need to,” Stark answered complacently. “Personally I don’t give a damn about her nationality.”

Hawker grunted before starting toward the infirmary again. A slender, graying man emerged from an adjoining room as they entered and looked quizzically at them. A quick smile creased his thin face.

“This is Dr. Ebell,” Hawker announced. He nodded toward his companion. “Mr. Stark, of the home office.” Stark placed the doctor’s age at around fifty as they shook hands.

“Glad to have you with us, Stark. Be here long?”

“I don’t know,” he replied truthfully.

“Neither do we.” The doctor laughed quickly.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you two together while I check with Hodges,” Hawker cut in. “He can fill you in.”

“Not at all,” Stark answered, grateful for a chance to talk alone with the man.

“I’ll be back pretty quick.” The superintendent nodded briefly and left.

Ebell’s eyes followed him down the walk. “Mike’s got a pretty nasty job on his hands,” he explained.

“Oh . . . ?”

“Destroying the plant. He’s spent twelve years watching it grow; now they’re asking him to blow it up. It’s like cutting off his arm.”

“It’s tough, but it has to be done,” Stark observed. “We can’t let the Japanese get the oil.”

“No, we can’t.” Ebell glanced around the room. “I feel the same about my little hospital here. It’s not much as hospitals go but I’ve gotten pretty fond of it.”

“It’ll be waiting, Doctor. This war won’t last forever,” Stark encouraged.

“No, I don’t believe that, Mr. Stark. Neither do you, I suspect.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“The day of the white man is past in this land. When the war’s over, there won’t be a place in the sun for us any longer,” he observed thoughtfully.

Stark bridled. “The Japanese won’t win,” he snapped.

“No, of course not.”

“Then why—?”

“The Malays,” Ebell cut in. “When this thing’s over you’ll find a new nation here. You can hear the stirrings now. It’s only a muted sound but it’ll rise to a thunder someday. When it does, it’ll sweep through the East Indies like a typhoon. Independence—it’s a magic word, Mr. Stark.”

“Maybe, if they’re ready,” he replied, realizing the doctor probably was right.

“They’re ready.”

“Any leaders?” Stark asked conversationally.

“Here and there. I’ll have to admit there are more and more signs of unrest—even occasional rebellion.” He smiled whimsically. “We like to blame it on the Japanese.”

“Why not? It’s to their advantage,” he said softly.

“The Malay is not looking to the Jap,” Ebell countered. “He doesn’t want another master, white or yellow. All he wants is his own land, and I think he’s getting pretty damned tired of bowing and scraping to outsiders.”

“You sympathize with them, Doctor?”

“Yes, I do.” His voice held a defiant edge. “I sympathize with the underdog everywhere.”

“Yet you work for the company.”

“As a doctor,” Ebell corrected. “I can do some good here.”

Stark changed the conversation. “What do you know about Driscoll?”

The doctor’s eyes sharpened as he studied the younger man curiously before answering. “He was murdered, if that’s what you mean.”

“By a native?”

“We have only the evidence of the method,” Ebell carefully pointed out. “Certainly a blowgun points to a native, but who can say for sure? We all have lungs.” He smiled faintly. The point wasn’t lost to Stark.

“Do you have any suspicions?” he queried.

“No, of course not. Driscoll was a thoroughly likable young man—I was quite shocked.”

“Do you know of any enemies he made?”

“I can’t imagine any.”

“Or any reason for his murder?”

“That neither, Mr. Stark. I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.” He held the agent’s eyes. “The company generally isn’t this interested.”

“This was murder,” Stark pointed out.

“I’ve seen other murders,” Ebell observed. “They usually check them with native constabulary, then dump them in a hole and forget about them.”

“Even Europeans?”

“Even Europeans,” he agreed.

“Do you mind if I ask some questions?”

“Certainly not. Go ahead.” Ebell eyed him thoughtfully.

“Have you ever heard of a man named Saito?”

“Driscoll asked that same question,” he replied, his voice curious. “I take it the man’s an agent provocateur of some sort.”

“Did Driscoll say that?”

“No, but I sort of get the idea.” The doctor smiled faintly.

“What did you tell him?” Stark queried.

“Only that I never heard of the man, other than it’s not uncommon as a Japanese name.”

Stark said bluntly, “Would you mind if I asked your nurse?”

Ebell looked startled. “Because she’s Japanese?”

“Partly that, and also because she might be in a position to hear more from the natives.”

“There’s absolutely no suspicion attached to her,” he declared with conviction.

“I’m sure of that.”

The doctor hesitated, then turned and called sharply: “Yoshi!”

A slim Japanese girl in a white uniform glided through the door, pausing expectantly, her eyes going first to Stark, then to Ebell. Instead of a nurse’s cap she wore a white comb in her hair. Her dark eyes held a misty, fluid look.

“You called, Doctor?”

“Yes, this is Mr. Stark of our home office. He would like to ask you a few questions.” Ebell turned to him. “Miss Kusaka, Mr. Stark.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Stark apologized. “I’ll try to be brief.”

“That’s quite all right. I was just viewing some cultures.” Her voice had a lilt that somehow reminded him of small birds twittering in the morning air. Small and delicate like a statue, he thought, placing her age in the late twenties. Reluctantly he brought his attention back to the unpleasant task at hand.

“Have you ever heard of a man named Saito, Miss Kusaka?”

“Saito, why surely. It’s quite common among my people.” She watched him quizzically.

“I mean here, in Palembang?”

“No, not here. Should I?”

“Not necessarily. We’re just trying to get track of him,” Stark explained.

“Because he’s Japanese?” she asked softly.

He flushed. “Partly that.”

“I’m sure I can’t help you, Mr. Stark.”

“You have—by not knowing him,” he answered. She looked momentarily bewildered and Ebell frowned.

“Is that all?” she asked.

“Yes, and thank you, Miss Kusaka.”

“Dr. Ebell. . . .” She turned to the graying physician, her face troubled.

“You may go, Yoshi. I’m sure we won’t need you any longer.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” She inclined her head slightly toward Stark and retreated through the doorway.

“She’s got the wrong idea about me,” he said mournfully. Beneath the proper uniform he’d caught the rhythm of her body; it reminded him of the flow of water.

“Has she?” Ebell smiled stiffly. “What would you expect?”

A sudden rain blew in. Riding a howling wind, slanting, splashing against the earth, it met Stark just outside the door of the infirmary, drenching him to the skin before he reached Hawker’s house. It was not until Obak had shown him to the guest room and he was changing that he remembered—he hadn’t met the doctor’s daughter.