The servants’ houses were among some palm trees on the far side of a rough track that led from a gateway on to the lane. It was wide enough for a bullock cart and had probably been used as a sort of tradesmen’s entrance. The houses were built on teak piles, and the frames were substantial enough, but the attap walls had suffered in the monsoons and both places looked derelict. The light, which looked as if it came from a kerosene vapour lamp, was in the house farthest away from the track, and it shone through the tattered walls. A low murmur of men’s voices came from within. There seemed to be four of them. By the steps up to the verandah of the nearer house stood a jeep.
Jeeps are common enough in that part of the world. It was a bracket welded on to the side that made me stop and look at it. Quite a number of the ex-army jeeps had that bracket; it had been fitted originally to support a vertical exhaust pipe when the jeep was water-proofed for driving out of a landing-craft; but this one was bent in a vaguely familiar way. I glanced down at the number.
In a place where you depend on mechanical transport for practically every move you make, even a highly standardised vehicle like a jeep acquires character, has its own subtle peculiarities, its special feel. You prefer some to others, and because they all look the same you learn to differentiate between them by their numbers.
I knew the number of this one only too well. I had already seen it once that day. It had been standing outside Gedge’s office.
I must have made a startled movement, for Rosalie looked up at me quickly.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Wait here a moment.”
The house with the light was about twenty yards away. I walked towards it. At that moment my intention was to go in and ask what the hell a jeep from the Tangga Valley project was doing down in Selampang. Luckily, by the time I had covered half the distance, I had come to my senses and stopped. It had been about eleven a.m. when I had last seen the jeep in Tangga, and yet here it was just over twelve hours later in Selampang. It could not have come by sea in that time. It could not have come by air. That meant that it had been driven down two hundred miles by road. Which meant, in turn, that it had been passed quickly and safely through every road block manned by the insurgents in Sanusi’s area, as well as the outposts manned by the Selampang garrison. That meant that the person who had been in it was someone to stay well away from at that moment; and that applied to his friends, too.
I stood there for a second or two with my heart thumping very unpleasantly. I could distinguish the voices inside now. They were speaking Malay. One man was repeating something emphatically. His voice was light and ugly and sounded as if he were trying to speak and swallow at the same time.
“All of them. We must have all,” he was saying.
The voice that replied was certainly Major Suparto’s. It was very calm and controlled. “Then it must be delayed until the second day,” he said. “There must be patience, General.”
I turned quietly and went back to Rosalie. She said nothing and took my arm again as we walked back towards the club.
When we had gone a little way she said: “Is there something wrong?”
I hesitated. I thought she might think that I was being stupid. “That jeep back there,” I said at last. “It was in Tangga this morning. A Sundanese army officer drove it here today-by road. A major. He’s in there now.”
I need not have worried. The implication, when she saw it, made her draw in her breath.
“With Lim Mor Sai?” she said quickly.
“I suppose so. There were others there, one of them a general. I think we’d better forget about it.”
“Yes, we must forget.”
We went on back to the terrace. Mina and Jebb were in the bar and the floor was fairly clear, so we decided to have one more dance before I went.
3
Jebb wakened me at seven o’clock the next morning to say goodbye and to introduce me to the cleaning woman, Mrs. Choong.
“There’s a fair amount of stuff in the Frigidaire,” he said; “but if there’s anything else you want, just write out a list and she’ll do the marketing. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Choong?”
Mrs. Choong nodded. “I buy for good prices. I cook, too, if you like. You want eggs for breakfast, mister?”
“Yes, please.”
She was a ball of fat and the seams of her black trousers stretched almost to bursting-point as she bent down to pick up Jebb’s breakfast tray. As she waddled away into the kitchen, Jebb said: “I told her you’d be sleeping in the bedroom. There are two beds there. Tell her to make both of them up if you want to. Liberty Hall, this is.”
“And I’m very grateful. I can’t tell you.”
“Forget it, sport. Like I said, you’re doing me a favour. Let’s see. It’s Tuesday today. I should be back Thursday night or Friday morning. When exactly do you reckon on getting away, Steve?”
“I’m hoping to get the Friday plane to Djakarta.”
“Well, if they try and twist your arm too much over your exit papers, you see Lim Mor Sai and ask him to talk to his pals in the police department.”
“I’ll do that.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the police department was not the only place where Lim Mor Sai had pals. Then, I decided not to. No doubt there were hundreds of people in Selampang who were secretly in touch with the insurgents in the north. If Lim were one of them, Jebb, as a Government employee, would probably rather not know about it. I said instead: “If you’re not back before I leave, what would you like me to do about the key you lent me?”
“Leave it with Mrs. Choong. You can trust her. She’s got her own anyway. But I hope I’ll see you.”
“So do I.”
He hesitated. “She’s a classy kid, Rosalie, you know,” he said awkwardly.
“Don’t worry. I’ll do right by her. Mina’s not going to be waiting for you with a hatchet.”
He laughed. “Okay, sport. Sorry I spoke. By the way, if you see Lim Mor Sai, tell him I’ll be bringing him some cheroots back with me. He usually asks me when I go Makassar way. He must have forgotten this time.”
“I’ll tell him. And thanks again.”
“If you’re still here Friday, you can buy me a drink.”
When he had gone, Mrs. Choong brought me a breakfast of fried eggs, coffee and papaya. Later, when I had bathed and shaved, I considered my clothes. Up in Tangga, I had seen myself making do with what I had until I reached Singapore. Now, the situation was different. My ridiculous suit did not matter; I would not be needing a jacket while I was in Selampang; but I would certainly need some more slacks and shirts. I consulted Mrs. Choong. She told me that she could get shirts dobi-ed for me in a few hours, but that if I wanted them properly laundered I would have to wait twenty-four. She also gave me the address of a good Chinese tailor.
I went to the tailor first and ordered two pairs of slacks and four shirts for delivery late that afternoon. Then, I paid my first call on the police department.
Sundanese officials are peculiarly difficult to deal with, especially if you are an English-speaking European. The first thing you have to realise is that, although they look very spruce and alert and although their shirt pockets glitter with rows of fancy ball-point pens, they have only the haziest notions of their duties. The language problem is also important. All the forms you have to fill up are printed in English as well as Malay, because English is an official language and the officials are supposed to be bi-lingual. The trouble is that they will never admit that they are not. If you speak in Malay they feel bound to reply in English. Unfortunately, the few words they have soon run out, and although they may continue to look as if they understand what you have said, they are in fact hopelessly at sea. Their technique for dealing with the resulting impasse is to pretend that they have to consult a colleague, and then go away and forget about you. The form you have completed gets lost. Your only chance is to say and write everything very distinctly both in English and Malay, and to keep fingering your wallet as if you are getting ready to pay. You are, indeed, going to have to pay eventually; and not merely the legal fee for the service in question. When the formalities are almost completed, it will suddenly be discovered that you ought to have produced another “clearance,” and that without it you cannot have whatever it is you want. A Kafka-like scene ensues. Nobody can tell you precisely what this mysterious clearance is or how you set about obtaining it. The shifty brown eyes peer at you. It is your move now. You ask what the fee for the clearance would be if one knew where to obtain it. A figure is named. You ask if, as a special favour, you may deposit this sum so that when more is known about it, the clearance may be obtained for you. There is a shrug, then a grudging assent. The eyes watch sullenly as you count the money out. You agreed too quickly. He is wishing he had asked for more and wondering if it is too late. No, it is not. He made a mistake. He forgot the price of the Government stamp. You smile politely and pay that, too. There is no answering smile. Other brown eyes have observed the transaction and there will be a share-out when you have gone. To get out again into the open air is like emerging from a depression.