tells me he has that well in hand.”
“He’s been working around the clock,” she answered. “All the men have.”
He watched her levelly. “I’m also trying to run down a little information on Driscoll—find out what happened. The company’s interested.”
“It was a terrible thing,” she murmured. “So young, too.”
“Would you know any reason for it?”
“For his death?”
“His murder,” he corrected bluntly.
“No, of course not.”
“I thought you might have heard rumors,” he amended.
“No, I’m sorry. It’s just something that none of us could understand.”
His eyes searched her face. “Have you ever heard of man named Saito, Mrs. Hawker?”
“Saito . . . it’s quite a common Japanese name.”
“Saito the Shadow,” he pursued deliberately, his senses alert for the slightest change of expression, tone or body reaction.
“Shadow?” She raised her eyes questioningly. “No, I can’t say that I have, but it sounds intriguing.”
He thought it curious Driscoll should have questioned Hawker on the point and not his wife. She watched him through half-veiled eyes. A girl in Shanghai named Anna Sing Kai had the same smoldering glance; he wondered if Hawker’s wife had the same passion. He masked his thoughts.
“Have you ever heard of anyone around Palembang by that name?” he asked.
“No, I really haven’t.” Her face lit up in a smile. “It sounds dreadfully important.” Suddenly he became aware Hawker had re-entered the room.
“What the hell would she know about that cloak-and-dagger stuff?” the superintendent snapped. Irked, Stark decided. He filed the information.
“Cloak - and - dagger—it sounds exciting,” Selinda Hawker declared. “And I always thought the company such a dull place.” He caught the amusement in her voice.
“Let’s take a look around,” Hawker interrupted. “I’ve got some work to clean up but you might like to talk to the Doc in the meantime.”
“Happy to.” Stark arose as the superintendent turned to his wife.
“Have Obak prepare the guest room.”
She nodded without taking her eyes from Stark’s face and declared, “We’ll do our best to make you feel at home, Mr. Stark.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hawker.” He cast another glance at her, then followed her husband from the house. A giant black-bearded Bengali got up from the stairs, waiting respectfully while they descended. He stood a good four inches over Stark’s six-foot-plus height.
“Who’s he?” Stark asked after they were past.
“Gurko Singh, one of the servants,” Hawker replied disinterestedly.
“House servant?”
“Sort of, but I generally use him to chauffeur me around the field.” Hawker grinned. “He also makes a pretty good bodyguard.”
“I can see that,” Stark wryly admitted.
When Hawker paused to light his pipe, Stark studied his surroundings. The superintendent’s house had a high, steep roof of palm leaves with a surrounding veranda protected from the sun by thick bamboo laths, strung so close together they formed an almost solid screen. The latter interested him. If Driscoll had been murdered on the veranda, as claimed, the killer must have hidden on the porch. Whoever he was, he certainly wasn’t a stranger to the household, he decided. The yard was bordered by a bamboo hedge which gave the house an aura of privacy. Palms and senna trees provided shade for several swings set among them.
“That’s the infirmary across the way,” Hawker stated, motioning toward a long, thatch-roofed building set under some shade trees. “The Doc and his gal have quarters in the rear.
Stark asked her name.
“Suzanne . . . Suzanne Ebell, a real looker.”
“Any other help?”
“A nurse . . . Yoshi Kusaka, and a couple of cleanup boys.”
“Japanese?”
“Yoshi? Of course.” The superintendent cast a quick glance at him. “Just don’t get any ideas.”
“Because she’s Japanese?”
Hawker stopped and faced him squarely. “That’s about the size of it, but I can vouch for her. So can Dr. Ebell, or almost anyone else on the compound.” His voice softened. “Believe me, if you’d ever see her working through some of these fever sieges we get occasionally you would know what I mean. She’s kept that place open when me and the Doc and everyone else was flat on our backs. Yes, sir, I’ll vouch for her.”
“No need to,” Stark answered complacently. “Personally I don’t give a damn about her nationality.”
Hawker grunted before starting toward the infirmary again. A slender, graying man emerged from an adjoining room as they entered and looked quizzically at them. A quick smile creased his thin face.
“This is Dr. Ebell,” Hawker announced. He nodded toward his companion. “Mr. Stark, of the home office.” Stark placed the doctor’s age at around fifty as they shook hands.
“Glad to have you with us, Stark. Be here long?”
“I don’t know,” he replied truthfully.
“Neither do we.” The doctor laughed quickly.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you two together while I check with Hodges,” Hawker cut in. “He can fill you in.”
“Not at all,” Stark answered, grateful for a chance to talk alone with the man.
“I’ll be back pretty quick.” The superintendent nodded briefly and left.
Ebell’s eyes followed him down the walk. “Mike’s got a pretty nasty job on his hands,” he explained.
“Oh . . . ?”
“Destroying the plant. He’s spent twelve years watching it grow; now they’re asking him to blow it up. It’s like cutting off his arm.”
“It’s tough, but it has to be done,” Stark observed. “We can’t let the Japanese get the oil.”
“No, we can’t.” Ebell glanced around the room. “I feel the same about my little hospital here. It’s not much as hospitals go but I’ve gotten pretty fond of it.”
“It’ll be waiting, Doctor. This war won’t last forever,”
