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three

THE HAWKER house was gaily lit.

Colored Chinese lanterns glowed like giant fireflies in the garden and on the veranda, and the yellow light from the four copper ceiling lamps gave the main room a festive air. Selinda Hawker, with the aplomb of a good wife entertaining a VIP from the head office, had quickly arranged a small party in Stark’s honor, apologizing for the few guests present.

“Mike couldn’t bring everyone we’d like to have meet you. The demolition job,” she added, with a touch of regret.

“I understand,” he assured her.

“But we have invited a couple from the Royal Dutch.” Her dark eyes twinkled. “We also have some pretty girls.”

He looked at her steadily. “So I see.”

“Unattached,” she added. They laughed.

Turning at sight of some newly arrived guests, she casually tucked his arm through hers and steered him toward the newcomers. She explained they were two of her husband’s field supervisors, Texas Smith and Pete Holden. After the introductions, she left him stuck with a woman presented to him as Martha Hodges.

“. . . So when Jasper talked me into coming out here, he promised it would be only for two years,” she was telling him. “That was eight years ago.”

“I’m sure he had good reason for staying,” he answered politely.

“And what would that be?” Her voice was shrewd.

“Why, you’re here,” he explained. “That makes it home.”

“Blarney, Mr. Stark. She smiled engagingly. Tall and beginning to gray, she had nevertheless managed to retain her youthful figure to an astonishing degree and he found her not unattractive. He guessed her age at a shade over forty. He stared across the room at her husband, a man of middle height, going to fat, with a broad, flushed face and heavy jowls—a man given to excesses, if he guessed right.

She took a sip from her glass and added, “Jasper’s just interested in the money. They all are. A man wouldn’t stay here otherwise.”

“It must have its attractions,” he protested.

“The trouble is, by the time he makes it there won’t be any time left to enjoy it,” she continued wistfully.

“You’ll have plenty of time,” he answered.

“Can you honestly say that with this war going on?”

“Well, it won’t last forever.”

“Neither will we, I’m afraid. We’re probably too late now.” Her voice had become edgy.

“No, I don’t think so,” he encouraged, his eyes resting momentarily on Gurko Singh. The giant Bengali, standing stiffly near the front door, wore a citron-yellow turban. Obak, his yellow face gleaming, was pulling the fan rope while Tombuk, another Malay brought in for the occasion, dashed around supplying drinks. “If the worst comes to the worst, Hawker has an escape route laid out,” he added.

“Oh, sure, up river to Telukbetang, then down to Sunda Strait and across to Java, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to take it, Mr. Stark.”

“Rough, eh?”

“Very rough,” she emphatically agreed. “Let’s get another drink.”

Later he found himself closeted with Texas Smith and Jasper Hodges. When they began talking shop, Stark let his attention wander, feeling all at once bored. Irritably he thought that aside from a brief introduction to Suzanne Ebell, the doctor’s daughter, he’d scarcely exchanged a dozen words with her.

He watched her over Hodges’ shoulder—a graceful brunette who wore a stunning white evening gown shorn of ornaments, and at the moment was talking animatedly with her father and a tubby, gray-haired merchant from Palembang whom Stark had met earlier.

The first thing that struck him was her height. She was unusually tall for a woman, with a curvesome body under the white sheath that met his full approval. Her clear complexion and even features added up to perfection, or as near to it as he could desire. Although he couldn’t see her eyes, he knew they were gray, very large, calm and lovely and utterly passionless.

Watching her now he decided she was no product of make-up or lotions or artificial props. Suzanne Ebell was the real McCoy. He found himself wondering which was the more beautiful, Hawker’s graceful Oriental wife or the tall brunette American girl. East or West?

He again became aware of Smith’s voice, this time explaining how the destruction system would work. Thin, wiry, of medium height, his narrow face was dominated by a huge beaked nose which made his eyes appear even smaller than they actually were. As Stark got it, valves would allow the oil to flow into the huge earthen fire walls that surrounded each tank; in turn the floors of these were being mined with fire bombs connected to a central switch in the powerhouse.

“She’ll go like a goddamned torch,” Smith promised. As someone turned on a phonograph and a wailing song of Hindustan filled the room, Smith grimaced and talked louder.

Over his shoulder Stark saw Mike Hawker and Yoshi talking in a corner. The Japanese girl wore a simple, soft green dress and he thought she appeared quite sophisticated. She held her cocktail glass with just the right negligent air, appearing intent on what her burly companion was saying. Someone moved between them, then Hodges’ grating voice broke into his ear.

“I say we ought to blow this thing now and get out while we can. Hawker’s plumb crazy. He doesn’t know how close the Japs are.”

Stark switched his attention back to the assistant superintendent. The latter’s speech had become thick, slurred, and his small, piggish eyes danced curiously, as if out of focus. Swilled to the gills, he thought. Hawker was right; the man was a drunk. He wondered if Hawker was also right about Martha Hodges.

“Maybe the Japs can’t take the island,” Texas Smith cut in.

“Bushwah. What’s to stop ’em? A couple of Limey flak guns, a handful of Colonial troops and nothing else. They’ll breeze in.” Hodges eyed Stark belligerently. “What about it?”

“Hard to say,” he replied evasively.

“Let ’em come,” Texas Smith snorted. “We’ll make this the Alamo in reverse.”

Hodges snickered. “Listen to him. He thinks he’s Davy Crockett.” He gulped the last of his drink and yelled: “Boy, an Irish whiskey.”

A moment later Smith excused himself and Hodges turned belligerently to Stark, saying loudly, “I hear you’ve been making inquiries about Driscoll, the guy that got killed.”

Stark stared at the red face. “The company’s interested,” he replied.

“Hell, people are dying all the time,” Hodges retorted callously.

“But not by murder.” He coldly watched the other for reaction.

“There’s plenty of that, too. Most of these gooks would just as soon slip a knife between your ribs as look at you.”

“How about poisoned darts?” Stark demanded, his voice sharp and intent.

“That, too. It’s these damned Bataks,” Hodges growled.

“Much trouble?” he casually asked.

“Trouble?” Hodges’ eyes seemed to dance again. “Of course there’s trouble. If it ain’t one thing it’s another—these damned gooks will knock us all off before they’re through.”

“Still, there’d have to be a reason . . .”

“Reason, hell. Anything serves as a reason in this country. I could tell you plenty—” Whatever he started to say was broken by Selinda’s sudden appearance.

“The guest of honor . . . I’m afraid we’re neglecting you.” She made a mock bow at Hodges. “Mike promised we wouldn’t talk business tonight, remember?”

“We were just gossiping,” Stark commented.

“And neglecting the girls,” she finished.

“Not by choice. Besides—” he smiled—“the prettiest ones are married.”

“You, too, Mr. Stark,” she demurred severely. “I seem to have heard that line before.”

He laughed, at the same time seeing Hodges sneer.

“I have no doubt of that, Mrs. Hawker,” he gallantly declared.

“For heaven’s sake, call me Selinda.”

“And I’m Joe.”

Hodges turned abruptly away, and her eyes followed him musingly before turning back.

“All right, Joe.” She slipped her arm through his and swung him toward a corner where Tombuk was mixing drinks. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Chatting for a while over a couple of gin slings, he idly asked how long she’d lived in Palembang, noting her hesitancy before answering.

“A little over a year,” she confessed.

“Oh?” He arched his eyes. “Then you haven’t been married long.” He made it a statement.

“The same length of time,” she admitted. “I met Mike in Singapore. Well . . .” She shrugged.

“And he swept you off your feet,” he interjected.

“Something like that.” A distant look clouded her face. “I miss it sometimes.”

“Singapore?”

“Of course.”

“But you’re not sorry?” This time she looked gravely at him while he waited, sensing she was considering her answer.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “At times I think Palembang’s at the end of the world.”

“It pratically is,” he conceded.

She swung toward him and touched his hand. “Anyway, I’m glad you came.”

“Why?” he asked, sensing he already knew the answer.

“Because of this.” She gestured toward the room. “It’s not often we have an excuse for a party, even a quiet one like this.”

“Quiet?” he politely asked. Hodges was talking with Pete Holden, one of the field supervisors, and his voice had risen above the sound of the phonograph. She laughed as she caught his meaning.

“You’ll have to forgive Jasper,” she explained. “Everyone out here has to have an escape. His is drink.”

“And his wife’s?”

She didn’t answer immediately. The suggestion of amusement touched her lips, slowly breaking into a mischievous smile.

“Why don’t you ask her?” she challenged.

“I’d rather ask you,” Stark told her deliberately.

“About Martha?” Mockery filled her face.

“About you,” he pursued. The look left her face.

“I escape, too,” she answered simply.

“That sounds interesting.”

“Mmmmm . . .” She looked deliciously at him and he was surprised to find himself faintly disturbed and a bit puzzled over the turn the conversation had taken.

He regarded her with new insight; she returned his stare, open-faced, her dark eyes curiously somnolent. When two late guests arrived, a shade of disappointment flicked across her countenance.

She said tonelessly, “The Vandervoorts . . . from the Plaju plant. I’ll introduce you.”

Stark found himself shaking hands with a portly, middle-aged man who spoke with a thick Dutch accent. The fat woman with him was his wife. Releasing Stark’s hand he began apologizing to Selinda for their tardiness, explaining it was due to the preparations for demolishing the plant.

“Poof, the same old excuse,” Selinda facetiously exclaimed.

When the Dutchman stopped laughing, Stark asked how the work was progressing. He began explaining that all the plants on the lower Plaju were being mined for simultaneous destruction, but in the middle of the conversation Hawker broke in and called for drinks.

Stark noticed Selinda had withdrawn to talk with Mrs. Vandervoort and Texas Smith at the other side of the room. She glanced toward him and their eyes met briefly before she turned away. Hawker switched the conversation to tiger hunting, a favorite and necessary pastime. Stark listened a few minutes, then excused himself and wandered off, thinking he’d like to get drunk.

The evening had almost passed before he managed to corner Suzanne Ebell alone. Despite Hawker’s assertion of her coldness, she’d been the undisputed belle of the ball, seldom without a group of people around her.

He finally caught her between partners, saying, “I’m lonesome.”

A brief smile lit her face. “I’m afraid we haven’t been taking very good care of you, Mr. Stark.” Her eyes appraised him without seeming to.

“Joe’s the name,” he informed her.

“I like that better,” she replied. “I’m Suzanne.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t appear neglected,” she accused. So she had noticed! He knew she made reference to the fact that Selinda had kept him in tow for much of the evening.

“Our hostess is too gracious,” he murmured. “She felt sorry for me.”

“I can’t believe that.”

He smiled, pleased with the subtle flattery. They made small talk for a while. Seeing her hands empty, he said, “A lost soul; a woman without a drink. Care for one?”

“I wouldn’t mind—a gin sling.”

He smiled slightly. “That seems to be the custom here. Excuse me a moment.”

He went to the corner where Tombuk was mixing the drinks, got two and returned. She took a glass from his hand, staring thoughtfully at him.

“You haven’t been in the islands long, have you?”

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Walking over to get the drinks. The other men would just scream for a boy.”

“Don’t you approve?”

“Yes, certainly. Personally I think our manners are abominable. I was just surprised.” She sipped from her glass and he glanced toward the veranda.

“It’s stuffy in here. Would you care to step outside?”

She watched him mischievously over the rim of her glass and murmured, “So soon?”

“We haven’t much time,” he responded gravely, thinking she was every bit as beautiful as he had conjectured.

The air of lightness left her face, as she answered. “No, we haven’t.”

He touched her elbow and they turned toward the veranda. Gurko Singh bowed solemnly as they passed through the door. “Let’s go into the garden. It’s more pleasant.”

They passed between a row of glowing Chinese lanterns to the border of flowering shrubs and sat on a lawn swing. The air was warm, still, and a half-moon, moltenly silver, hung in the eastern sky. From somewhere in the distance a tom-tom began thudding a slow, solemn beat, calling the graveyard shift to work. Stark was reminded of tropic nights everywhere—Manila, Palawan, Honolulu, Samoa; it was the same halfway around the world in Panama, Cuba, Bermuda. He was a tropics man, had been since almost the start of his naval career. He had been to a thousand strange places on assignments covering everything from theft of government property to espionage—and murder. Each assignment, each place had brought forth something new; and from each place he had retained a little something, though perhaps sometimes not more than a fleeting memory. He wondered what Sumatra held in store.

Suzanne stirred and he asked, “Cigarette?”

“Thanks, I will.” She took one, absently tapping it against her nail. Under the flare of the lighter her face appeared grave and thoughtful. She inhaled briefly, then stared into the eastern sky, murmuring, “It’s beautiful here.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t have admitted that unitl now,” he replied.

She turned toward him. “Sometimes I wonder why I stay, then at times like this I think it’s the most beautiful place in the world,” she confessed.

“I love the tropic nights,” he admitted. It’s about all that makes life tolerable.”

“You’ve been here before?” Her voice held faint surprise.

“Not in Palembang, but I’ve been around a bit.” When she didn’t answer, he pursued: “Why do you stay?”

“I’ve told you.”

He placed their empty glasses on a lawn table and said, “Not quite. You can fall in love with the tropic nights but there are lots of places better than this—places without poverty and disease.”

“I suppose so.”

“Then why do you stay?” he urged.

“I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that question . . . many times.” She faced him. “On the other hand, I have nothing to go back to—no other family or relatives.”

“A beautiful woman always has something to go back to,” he answered gruffly.

She didn’t reply immediately, but after a moment they began talking about the States, and then her background. He learned she had been raised in San Francisco, where her father had had a private practice until her mother’s death, after which he had come to Sumatra Independent to take charge of the company’s medical facilities. She had gone to college, had been married briefly—she didn’t enlarge on it nor did he ask.

In turn, he told her a bit about his early life—school and college in Los Angeles, the dances and beach parties, and of his parents, now dead. He skipped the part about the Naval Academy and glossed over his later life, feeling hypocritical about passing himself off as a company employee.

They were chatting about her father’s work when he heard movement and glanced around. A couple came down the walk between the rows of lanterns, cut across the lawn toward them, then halted. He recognized Martha Hodges and Pete Holden, the field supervisor. Their voices came as a low murmur and they moved closer together, locked in a tight embrace, kissing passionately. Suzanne glanced at them and Stark felt her stiffen.

“We’d better return to the veranda,” he murmured.

“Yes, it’s getting late.” They stopped on the veranda, lingering as if each were reluctant to rejoin the party. Stark looked down into her face.

“What do you do here for pastime?”

“Pastime?”

“The favorite sport—some way of having fun,” he explained.

“You mean like golf, or tennis?” She looked dubious.

“That’s it,” he replied enthusiastically.

“Well, this isn’t exactly Waikiki Beach,” she exclaimed. “Sometimes we row up the river.”

“Have you a boat?”

“My father has a small prau.”

Stark drew himself up stiffly and made a mock bow from the waist. “Miss Ebell,” he said formally, “would you condescend to go boating with me tomorrow? In your father’s prau, of course.”

She suppressed a giggle. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Stark.”

Tropic Fury

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