Tropic Fury. Jeff Sutton
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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.
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