Shan, in his elaborately embroidered coat of office, his small turban and his silk britches, sat where he always sat when not specifically employed, occasionally glancing up at the crystal dome of the roof, cocking an ear if he detected some slight difference in the sound of a fountain.
“It looks as if you’ll soon be able to say goodbye to Borneo.” Jerry squatted on the mosaic tiles at the edge of the pool. “Una. There’s a ship turned up.”
“British?”
“It might as well be. Beesley’s tracked me down. I knew I hadn’t really shaken him off in the States. He’s been to Sumatra and picked up the steam yacht.”
Her head came sliding over the surface to stare into his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. I recognised his daughter’s butt.”
“That he’s come for you?”
“I suppose there’s a slight chance he’s run out of provisions and is hoping I’ve got the odd Tootsie Roll stashed away, but however you look at it the holiday’s definitely coming to an end.”
“I didn’t want to go back to
work
.” She pouted. “I’m far too tired. Besides, I’d do no good.” She squeezed water from her eyes.
“You could always sing for the troops.”
“Don’t be vulgar, darling.” Her head sought the depths.
“By and large,” Jerry reflected, dabbling his fingers in the water, “I prefer a post-war situation to a pre-war one. But I was hoping to miss the current conflict altogether.” He stared wistfully at Dassim Shan. The major-domo seemed to have found a solution.
She was on the other side of the pool now, shaking liquid from her short hair. “What will you do?” she called.
“I’m a fatalist, these days. I’ll play it by ear.” He realised that his silk trousers were becoming damp. He rose. “What will you do?”
She wiped her mouth. “Look up Lobkowitz, I suppose. He usually has a fair idea of what’s going on. This must mean the peace talks have broken down, eh?” Already she was beginning to sound like her old self.
“I don’t think they’ve got to that stage yet.” Jerry took a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, removed one of the last of his Shermans and lit it with a brass Dunhill lighter.
She clung to the side. “Beesley has some kind of official backing, you think?”
He drew on the brown cigarettello. “He’s definitely not alone.”
From far away there came the sound of a ship’s siren.
Una pulled herself from the pool and wrapped a thick brocade robe about her. It was Chinese, in blue and gold. Dragons embraced her.
They waited for some time at the bronze doors of the palace before they saw Bishop Beesley marching through the gates towards them. He was at the head of a small party of marines in blancoed webbing, belts and puttees. Recognising Jerry and Una, Beesley stopped, signalling to his men who came immediately to attention, presenting arms. From behind them all Mitzi Beesley peeped out, waving the fingers of a malevolent imp.
Bishop Beesley was in full kit. His white-and-gold mitre, his bone-and-silver robes, were evidently fresh on, perhaps to impress any natives he might encounter. He held a rococo crook in one plump hand, a half-eaten bar of Zaanland Coffee Brandy Chocolate in the other.
“Still crawling away from the gibbering darkness are we, Mr C? You should relax. Nothing’s as bad as it seems.” Bishop Beesley began a portly approach.
“Afternoon, bishop,” Jerry fell back on old dodges. “What brings you to the Islands?”
“Missionary work, my boy. We got your message and came as soon as we could. You wouldn’t, by any chance, be able to offer us some refreshment?” He swallowed the remains of the Zaanland.
“We’re a bit short-staffed, just now. More primitive than I care for myself.” Jerry offered his arm to Una who took it. Together they led the way back into the palace.
“I thought you enjoyed living amongst the headhunters, Mr Cornelius. After all, you and they have so much in
“It looks as if you’ll soon be able to say goodbye to Borneo.” Jerry squatted on the mosaic tiles at the edge of the pool. “Una. There’s a ship turned up.”
“British?”
“It might as well be. Beesley’s tracked me down. I knew I hadn’t really shaken him off in the States. He’s been to Sumatra and picked up the steam yacht.”
Her head came sliding over the surface to stare into his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. I recognised his daughter’s butt.”
“That he’s come for you?”
“I suppose there’s a slight chance he’s run out of provisions and is hoping I’ve got the odd Tootsie Roll stashed away, but however you look at it the holiday’s definitely coming to an end.”
“I didn’t want to go back to
work
.” She pouted. “I’m far too tired. Besides, I’d do no good.” She squeezed water from her eyes.
“You could always sing for the troops.”
“Don’t be vulgar, darling.” Her head sought the depths.
“By and large,” Jerry reflected, dabbling his fingers in the water, “I prefer a post-war situation to a pre-war one. But I was hoping to miss the current conflict altogether.” He stared wistfully at Dassim Shan. The major-domo seemed to have found a solution.
She was on the other side of the pool now, shaking liquid from her short hair. “What will you do?” she called.
“I’m a fatalist, these days. I’ll play it by ear.” He realised that his silk trousers were becoming damp. He rose. “What will you do?”
She wiped her mouth. “Look up Lobkowitz, I suppose. He usually has a fair idea of what’s going on. This must mean the peace talks have broken down, eh?” Already she was beginning to sound like her old self.
“I don’t think they’ve got to that stage yet.” Jerry took a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, removed one of the last of his Shermans and lit it with a brass Dunhill lighter.
She clung to the side. “Beesley has some kind of official backing, you think?”
He drew on the brown cigarettello. “He’s definitely not alone.”
From far away there came the sound of a ship’s siren.
Una pulled herself from the pool and wrapped a thick brocade robe about her. It was Chinese, in blue and gold. Dragons embraced her.
They waited for some time at the bronze doors of the palace before they saw Bishop Beesley marching through the gates towards them. He was at the head of a small party of marines in blancoed webbing, belts and puttees. Recognising Jerry and Una, Beesley stopped, signalling to his men who came immediately to attention, presenting arms. From behind them all Mitzi Beesley peeped out, waving the fingers of a malevolent imp.
Bishop Beesley was in full kit. His white-and-gold mitre, his bone-and-silver robes, were evidently fresh on, perhaps to impress any natives he might encounter. He held a rococo crook in one plump hand, a half-eaten bar of Zaanland Coffee Brandy Chocolate in the other.
“Still crawling away from the gibbering darkness are we, Mr C? You should relax. Nothing’s as bad as it seems.” Bishop Beesley began a portly approach.
“Afternoon, bishop,” Jerry fell back on old dodges. “What brings you to the Islands?”
“Missionary work, my boy. We got your message and came as soon as we could. You wouldn’t, by any chance, be able to offer us some refreshment?” He swallowed the remains of the Zaanland.
“We’re a bit short-staffed, just now. More primitive than I care for myself.” Jerry offered his arm to Una who took it. Together they led the way back into the palace.
“I thought you enjoyed living amongst the headhunters, Mr Cornelius. After all, you and they have so much in
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