over, there won’t be a place in the sun for us any longer,” he observed thoughtfully.
Stark bridled. “The Japanese won’t win,” he snapped.
“No, of course not.”
“Then why—?”
“The Malays,” Ebell cut in. “When this thing’s over you’ll find a new nation here. You can hear the stirrings now. It’s only a muted sound but it’ll rise to a thunder someday. When it does, it’ll sweep through the East Indies like a typhoon. Independence—it’s a magic word, Mr. Stark.”
“Maybe, if they’re ready,” he replied, realizing the doctor probably was right.
“They’re ready.”
“Any leaders?” Stark asked conversationally.
“Here and there. I’ll have to admit there are more and more signs of unrest—even occasional rebellion.” He smiled whimsically. “We like to blame it on the Japanese.”
“Why not? It’s to their advantage,” he said softly.
“The Malay is not looking to the Jap,” Ebell countered. “He doesn’t want another master, white or yellow. All he wants is his own land, and I think he’s getting pretty damned tired of bowing and scraping to outsiders.”
“You sympathize with them, Doctor?”
“Yes, I do.” His voice held a defiant edge. “I sympathize with the underdog everywhere.”
“Yet you work for the company.”
“As a doctor,” Ebell corrected. “I can do some good here.”
Stark changed the conversation. “What do you know about Driscoll?”
The doctor’s eyes sharpened as he studied the younger man curiously before answering. “He was murdered, if that’s what you mean.”
“By a native?”
“We have only the evidence of the method,” Ebell carefully pointed out. “Certainly a blowgun points to a native, but who can say for sure? We all have lungs.” He smiled faintly. The point wasn’t lost to Stark.
“Do you have any suspicions?” he queried.
“No, of course not. Driscoll was a thoroughly likable young man—I was quite shocked.”
“Do you know of any enemies he made?”
“I can’t imagine any.”
“Or any reason for his murder?”
“That neither, Mr. Stark. I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.” He held the agent’s eyes. “The company generally isn’t this interested.”
“This was murder,” Stark pointed out.
“I’ve seen other murders,” Ebell observed. “They usually check them with native constabulary, then dump them in a hole and forget about them.”
“Even Europeans?”
“Even Europeans,” he agreed.
“Do you mind if I ask some questions?”
“Certainly not. Go ahead.” Ebell eyed him thoughtfully.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Saito?”
“Driscoll asked that same question,” he replied, his voice curious. “I take it the man’s an agent provocateur of some sort.”
“Did Driscoll say that?”
“No, but I sort of get the idea.” 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.
