Tropic Fury. Jeff Sutton
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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.”
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