Pagoda by Philip Atlee

Author:Philip Atlee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2020-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Alone, Gall flopped on the couch, a hand over his eyes. Fatigue, and the strain of willing McCarl home safe, had beat him down. The curved fan blades hanging from the ceiling turned sluggishly, ladling the warm evening air. I’m getting a bug, he thought: malaria or dengue. Or maybe I’m just wearing out. He was pondering the wisdom, without much conviction, of having a dozen drinks when he remembered the Kokine Club.

Before his death, Nash had gotten Gall a temporary membership, but he had never used it. The Kokine Club, a restricted clubhouse and swimming pool at the outskirts of Rangoon, was built on perfectly terraced levels. Most of the British colony spent their waking hours under its bright awnings. Thinking of the pool, Gall walked into the bedroom and pawed his swimming trunks out of the bottom of his bag.

Half an hour later his car drew up before the Kokine gates, and a uniformed servant in a wide scarlet sash opened the door for him. He went down the stairs toward the main building. The place was very beautiful, a tropical acre blazing with lights. The long pool was blue, and the submerged illumination gave it the look of a lagoon. People in formal dress were swarming over the terraces. Must be a party, thought Gall. He had hoped there would not be many people around.

“Good evening.” A short, bald-headed man approached him. A Scottish burr lodged in his throat, and the face looked familiar. Then he remembered; it was MacLendon, the automobile dealer who had refused to sell the cars to him.

“Evening,” said Gall. “I’m new here, and just wanted a quick swim. Is it a private party?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.” MacLendon was a trifle oiled; he teetered on his toes. “You’re the American chap, aren’t you?”

“I’m one of them.” Gall started to leave. “I’d better come back another time.”

“Not necess’ry,” said the Scot. “You’re a member of the ruddy club. Sure nobody would mind if you’d just have a dip.”

“Very kind, if you’re sure.” Gall hesitated.

“Certain, old boy. Dressing bungalow over there, you know.” MacLendon waved at a white cottage beyond the trees and tacked on down the walk.

Still a trifle uneasy about his welcome, Gall went into the cottage and put on his trunks. The water was icy cold; he plunged into it and came up gasping, thinking that the pool must be spring-fed. After a few seconds it felt fine, and he did a slow crawl to the far end. Stretching out on the cement walk, he shivered and rubbed his arms. He was lying flat when someone said, “Bit of a swim, eh?”

Twisting around, Gall saw Marino’s hulk, dressed in tropical formais, looming a few feet away. As always, the involuntary spasm of rage hit him, and he did not reply until he was sure his voice would be steady. “Feeling kind of lousy,” he said. “Thought the water might help.”

“Only decent place in Rangoon,” answered the fat man. He waggled his right hand, and servants hastened up with a small woven table and two chairs.

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