paused. “You haven’t seen anyone in Colombo who might look like me, have you? A man of my height, dark hair, similar features. Not a double, of course. But someone who might pass for me, at a glance, at a distance.”
“No, Sam. No one like that.”
He listened to the faint scuff of a footstep on the veranda and stood up. There was a"creak of porch steps, a crunch of gravel going toward the garage shed. “Excuse me,” he said. He moved fast toward the back door. The light outside was still dazzling. The outrigger fishing boats, with their square sails, were all drawn up on the edge of 52 the beach. A tree toad croaked in the branches overhead. The garden, with its jacaranda. Vesak orchids, and cabbage palms, was in sharp shadows. He drew his gun.
“George!” he called.
The sudden roar of a car engine in the thatched shed turned him that way. He was aware of Aspara behind him, her saree whispering. He jumped down the steps and ran toward the shed. Polished metal flared in a slash of sunlight. It was the old Rolls-Royce. It swung toward 'him as he jumped for the vintage running-board and grabbed at the wheel. The boy grimaced, tried to shove him off, screaming at him. The heavy old car rumbled off the drive, slammed into thick shrubbery between the garden and the beach. Durell leaned far in and twisted the ignition key, heedless of the boy’s clubbing hands.
“Oh, you bastard of a pig! You mother—”
Durell hit him, not heard enough to break anything, but enough to slam George’s head back. He pulled open the door and dragged the boy from behind the wheel and dumped him without ceremony under a hibiscus shrub.
Aspara called, “Sam, please—”
“He was going for the cops. He listened to everything. I don’t know why. He’s here to make trouble. I smelled it in him the moment we met.”
“You can’t judge my son—”
Durell straightened. Aspara’s normally calm face was indignant, and he wondered if he had lost the only possible ally he could count on. Then her shoulders relaxed, and she knelt beside the sprawled young man, whose bare feet were blackened with dirt, whose hair was a wild mop over his face.
“Poor George. It is not his fault that he does not know where he belongs,” she said. “His father was ineffectual with him. He is neither American nor Sinhalese. What a torment it must be for him.”
“George or no George, I need your help,” Durell said.
She looked at him. “What can I do?”
“I can’t get into the hills alone. I have to start at Kandy. Can I have your Rolls? They might not suspect, if I’m driving it.”
She shook her head. “Dear Sam, I’ll go with you. And we’ll take George too. We must. Otherwise, he will do you harm. I agree with you. I can feel his hostility too.”
He thought about it for only a moment.
“All right. Let’s go.”
seven
There were still two hours before sunset, but there would be a full moon that night. Durell agreed with Aspara; he had to take George with them. Alone in the bungalow, he would find some way to reveal Durell’s presence to the police. The boy was deliberately antagonistic. Durell wished he could simply knock him out, tie him up, put him out of action for a time. But needing Aspara’s help, he could not attempt that.
Aspara drove the heavy, powerful Rolls. There was not too much traffic on the road to Kandy, that reminder of ancient kingdoms and crumbled glories. They did not return to the Victoria Bridge to pick up the main highway into the hills, but took a smaller road, paralleling the old Dutch canal. Traffic kept to the left, in British style. They passed bullock carts, a few venturesome farmers oh motorcycles rigged to carry passengers on either side of the rear wheel. Rice paddies, gleaming wetly in the lowering sun, stretched out on either hand. Coconut palms leaned over the road and made swift, flickering shadows, sometimes tunnels, through which they passed.
It would take two hours to cover the climb
“No, Sam. No one like that.”
He listened to the faint scuff of a footstep on the veranda and stood up. There was a"creak of porch steps, a crunch of gravel going toward the garage shed. “Excuse me,” he said. He moved fast toward the back door. The light outside was still dazzling. The outrigger fishing boats, with their square sails, were all drawn up on the edge of 52 the beach. A tree toad croaked in the branches overhead. The garden, with its jacaranda. Vesak orchids, and cabbage palms, was in sharp shadows. He drew his gun.
“George!” he called.
The sudden roar of a car engine in the thatched shed turned him that way. He was aware of Aspara behind him, her saree whispering. He jumped down the steps and ran toward the shed. Polished metal flared in a slash of sunlight. It was the old Rolls-Royce. It swung toward 'him as he jumped for the vintage running-board and grabbed at the wheel. The boy grimaced, tried to shove him off, screaming at him. The heavy old car rumbled off the drive, slammed into thick shrubbery between the garden and the beach. Durell leaned far in and twisted the ignition key, heedless of the boy’s clubbing hands.
“Oh, you bastard of a pig! You mother—”
Durell hit him, not heard enough to break anything, but enough to slam George’s head back. He pulled open the door and dragged the boy from behind the wheel and dumped him without ceremony under a hibiscus shrub.
Aspara called, “Sam, please—”
“He was going for the cops. He listened to everything. I don’t know why. He’s here to make trouble. I smelled it in him the moment we met.”
“You can’t judge my son—”
Durell straightened. Aspara’s normally calm face was indignant, and he wondered if he had lost the only possible ally he could count on. Then her shoulders relaxed, and she knelt beside the sprawled young man, whose bare feet were blackened with dirt, whose hair was a wild mop over his face.
“Poor George. It is not his fault that he does not know where he belongs,” she said. “His father was ineffectual with him. He is neither American nor Sinhalese. What a torment it must be for him.”
“George or no George, I need your help,” Durell said.
She looked at him. “What can I do?”
“I can’t get into the hills alone. I have to start at Kandy. Can I have your Rolls? They might not suspect, if I’m driving it.”
She shook her head. “Dear Sam, I’ll go with you. And we’ll take George too. We must. Otherwise, he will do you harm. I agree with you. I can feel his hostility too.”
He thought about it for only a moment.
“All right. Let’s go.”
seven
There were still two hours before sunset, but there would be a full moon that night. Durell agreed with Aspara; he had to take George with them. Alone in the bungalow, he would find some way to reveal Durell’s presence to the police. The boy was deliberately antagonistic. Durell wished he could simply knock him out, tie him up, put him out of action for a time. But needing Aspara’s help, he could not attempt that.
Aspara drove the heavy, powerful Rolls. There was not too much traffic on the road to Kandy, that reminder of ancient kingdoms and crumbled glories. They did not return to the Victoria Bridge to pick up the main highway into the hills, but took a smaller road, paralleling the old Dutch canal. Traffic kept to the left, in British style. They passed bullock carts, a few venturesome farmers oh motorcycles rigged to carry passengers on either side of the rear wheel. Rice paddies, gleaming wetly in the lowering sun, stretched out on either hand. Coconut palms leaned over the road and made swift, flickering shadows, sometimes tunnels, through which they passed.
It would take two hours to cover the climb
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