Send a Gunboat (1960) by Douglas Reeman Page A

the conversation in front of him.
    He had told neither of his officers about this new development,and he wondered if he had acted wisely. It was an unpleasant fact to face, but he knew that had his officers’ roles been reversed, he would not have hesitated to take Vincent into his confidence, for he, at least, would take the news calmly. But Fallow. He watched him from behind the safety of the dark lenses, noting the twitching fingers and anxious eyes. No, he decided, Fallow would be all right when he had something to do, but now he might as well try to enjoy himself.
    A long, white bungalow-type house loomed into view, and from its shaded veranda several figures watched the car’s approach. Laker was the first down the steps, accompanied by several khaki-clad servants, who with military precision removed the car, the officers’ caps, and then hovered respectfully in the rear.
    “Like the car, eh?” Laker boomed. “This year’s model. Had it shipped in from Formosa, y’know. Would have preferred a British one, of couse, but these Yankee jobs stand up to the appalling roads better.”
    He guided them into a wide, cool lounge which ran the whole width of the house, and Rolfe blinked to accustom his eyes to the seemingly dark interior.
    With the casual grandness of royalty, Laker introduced his other guests, who crowded round the newcomers with real enthusiasm. Mrs. Laker was surprisingly small and had, Rolfe thought, once been very beautiful. Now, her thin features bore the sheen of yellow parchment, part of the price she had paid for a lifetime overseas. She welcomed Rolfe warmly, but with several nervous glances at her beaming husband, who patted her with the affection of a master to his pet dog. Rolfe sympathized with her inwardly and turned to the others. There was Edgar Lane and his wife, Rolfe mentally ticked them off his list. He already knew that Lane was the other of Laker’s managers who handled the timber side of the estate. He was a slight, studious man with sad, watery eyes, and his wife, Melanie, looked to Rolfe like a faded chorus girl. He answered their friendly enquiries but was thankful when Laker tugged him on to the others. “Don’t listen to Lane,” he confided noisily. “Sticks with his damned trees so much he’s forgotten how to talk to real people!” He nudged Rolfe gleefully, and a strong aroma of whisky floated around them.
    “An’ this is Mrs. Grant, you’ve already met her old man.” Rolfe muttered something suitable to the cheerful, bronzed woman, and was thankful when he was introduced to the last bobbing faces. Charles and Anthea Masters were rather younger than the rest and had the appearance of nervousness. Laker announced that they were his “newest imports” to Santu, Masters being an engineer newly out from England. Anthea Masters had a shy, suburban smile which had already wilted under the glare of her new surroundings.
    “Well, that’s the lot, Captain! We’re not exactly a Crown Colony, but we’re pretty useful in our way, eh?” He laughed noisily.
    Rolfe frowned, mentally checking his list. “But isn’t there an English doctor here, too?”
    As he asked, he felt a slight tension in the air, but Laker seemed indifferent to atmosphere of any kind.
    “Oh, the Feltons? Well, they’re English by birth, I suppose. But that’s about as far as it goes, if you follow me, eh?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t.” Rolfe’s tone was deceptively mild and for a second a flicker of annoyance crossed the older man’s face.
    He rubbed his hands together irritably. “Not quite the right type, y’know. Live down in the town with the wogs!” He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Fact is, old boy, the feller’s a bloody red, no doubt about it!”
    Rolfe digested this information. “How come the General hasn’t asked them to leave, then?”
    Grant, who had quietly approached from the side, laughed shortly. “He needs a doctor for the natives, that’s the reason.