Chapter 1

The Coming of Abu-Samar

James Battiscombe--district officer at Rembakut--emerged from the
little courthouse that formed the ground floor of his bungalow,
directed his monocle upon a group of natives that still lingered in
the clearing, and, turning abruptly on his heel, negotiated the flight
of steps that led to the verandah.

He sat down somewhat heavily and touched the bell.

“Bring me a drink--a long drink,” he said to the _boy_ who appeared in
response to his summons.

At the sound of his voice Vera Battiscombe raised her head from the
cushion upon which it had reposed.

“That you, Jim?”

The magistrate stretched himself and crossed the floor. He selected a
portion of the wooden rail in the immediate vicinity of his wife’s
chair and leaned his broad back against it.

“Well?” he inquired.

She raised her finely marked brows.

“Well?” she echoed. “Had a busy morning?”

Battiscombe groaned.

“A confounded, interminable land dispute. The worst of native
witnesses is that they go such a devil of a long way round, and if you
attempt to interrupt ’em they never come to the point at all. Lord!
isn’t it hot!”

He mopped a large red face with a coloured handkerchief.

Vera had never been fearfully in love with James Battiscombe, but she
simulated an intense interest in his affairs to suit her own ends. Her
husband, on the contrary, still basked in the sunshine of fatuous
contentment at having by some miraculous means persuaded so beautiful
a creature to consent to share his existence. A devoted, uncomplaining
mountain of flesh, normally content with the smallest of favours, he
vaguely wondered why she stopped with him out there at all. These
Borneo wilds, he was wont to reason, were good enough in their way
where mere man was concerned, but for a woman--cultured and used to a
lot of amusement, well, hang it all----! He was oblivious of his
wife’s shortcomings to such an extent that his friends were constantly
divided between an anxious desire to kick him and an equally anxious
desire not to hurt his feelings--and consequently did nothing.

Whenever a particularly persistent rumour floated to Battiscombe’s
ears he would shrug his shoulders and explain with wide-open eyes that
anyway she was damn’ good to him, and, if he wasn’t complaining, what
the devil had it got to do with anybody else?

“And his excellency the _Tuan-Hakim_ gave his learned decision, I
suppose, and everybody went off very pleased with themselves?”

The magistrate laughed.

“Not the least bit like it. His excellency postponed the hearing of
the case until to-morrow, thereby neglecting his duty in the interests
of thirst.”

He took the glass from the _boy_ and winked broadly across it at his
wife.

“Well, here’s all the best! Are not the waters of Abana and
what’s-his-name greater than all the rivers of Israel, what?--Jove, I
wanted that!--Then, old thing, to cap it all, I was forced into an
unseemly dispute with a most extraordinary creature.” He drew a
crumpled visiting card from his pocket and read: “‘Dr. Abu-Samar’--and
a whole string of letters that I suppose stand for something or
other.”

Mrs. Battiscombe squirmed herself into a sitting position and rested
her chin on her hand.

“Dr. Abu-Samar!”

Her husband nodded.

“He pushed in just after I’d instructed Corporal Kuraman to clear the
court, and insisted on seeing me.”

“What was he like?”

“Oh, a tall thin chap with a blue serge suit and a red _fez_, a brown
face and an enormous pair of tortoise-shell spectacles. Apart from all
this, he had an extremely unpleasant way of looking at one. Just a
moment. I’ll ring the bell.”

Vera raised a hand.

“Not another one, dear! You know you don’t want it.”

Battiscombe grinned.

“I know I do!”

She shook her head.

“Not before lunch.”

He shrugged his shoulders and deposited the empty tumbler on a small
bamboo table.

“Right-oh, little woman; suppose you know best. Anyhow, about this
Abu-Samar feller; he told me that he was an expert in tropical
diseases and intended offering his services to the neighbouring
planters as such. I suggested that the planting syndicates were
already fully equipped with medicoes and that the Chartered Company
had a few others of its own knocking around looking after the general
health of the community--when they weren’t playing golf.”

“And----?”

“And, oh, he didn’t seem to think any of ’em counted for very much.
However, that’s his affair. He pitched the usual yarn of being the son
of a chief somewhere way-back, gave me to understand that he had pots
of money and had returned to his own country to reform the notions of
his fellow blacks as to the treatment of sickness. He indulged in a
long rigmarole about removing the film from their eyes and uplifting
the coloured inhabitants of Borneo until they were fit to rub
shoulders with the more cultured European, and somewhere about that
point I began to smell a rat. I was confoundedly hot and thirsty and I
just itched to boot the fellow into the clearing, when he capped
everything with a cool request that I should put him up for membership
of the club!”

A ripple of laughter escaped Mrs. Battiscombe.

“And then you _booted_ him!”

The magistrate set his jaw grimly.

“I booted him! I called upon the corporal first, but he didn’t seem
especially anxious--so I carried out the operation myself. He sat down
on the grass outside and became abusive and threatening. Began a long
preamble commencing with the statement that knowledge was power and
concluding with a veiled threat to employ his marvellous knowledge in
wiping out the entire white population of the island. I fancy he was
annoyed really because I tore his trousers.”

Vera slipped from her chair and joined him at the rail.

She leaned over, peering in all directions, but could discover nothing
more unusual than a belt of mature cocopalms and a sky of infinite
azure.

“What happened to him?” she demanded.

“He cleared out in the end, with a little boy in white holding an
elaborate yellow umbrella over him and one hand wandering all round
his neck to see if his collar was still there. I threatened to arrest
him, and he ultimately realised that I meant it and was not at all
impressed with either his letters or his wardrobe.”

“Quite an exciting morning!”

“Oh, quite! My blood was up--and I let him have it hot.”

Mrs. Battiscombe smiled.

“My cave-man!” she murmured, and patted his sleeve with a
well-simulated affection that prompted the magistrate to squeeze her
arm to indicate that in him also the fires of romance were not
entirely burnt out.

He produced a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully on his thumb-nail.

“I’m running into Jesselton this afternoon,” he remarked suddenly.
“Coming?”

“No.”

He lit up and tossed the match into the clearing.

“Oh! why not?”

Mrs. Battiscombe coloured slightly.

“Because, my dear man, it happens to be Thursday, and you know I
promised to ride over to Dick Moberly’s to inspect the new clubhouse
he’s erected for his assistants. You’ve a terrible memory, Jim.”

“I must have, for to tell you the honest truth I can’t recall having
ever heard that Moberly had built a clubhouse for his men or that he
wanted you to inspect it.” A shadow crossed his face. “I say, Vera,
aren’t you seeing rather a lot of Dick Moberly?”

“Jim!”

It was the first sign the proverbial worm had ever shown of turning,
and--feeble as the effort was--it startled her.

“Well,” pursued the magistrate with dogged persistence, passing a
nervous finger round the inside of his collar, “you are, aren’t you?”

She came right up to him and, resting her hands lightly on his tunic,
gazed unflinchingly into his face.

“You’re not suggesting that there’s anything--_wrong_ between Dick and
me?”

A light flashed suddenly in his eyes and died down as quickly as it
had come.

“Good heavens, no! Only--well, people will keep talking. I suppose
it’s because they’ve nothing else to do. If I’d listened to a tithe of
the yarns that are going around about you, I’d have booked your
passage home long ago. Perhaps it’s a good thing I don’t jump at
conclusions.”

Vera Battiscombe suppressed a smile. She could not imagine her husband
jumping at anything.

She stared hard at a cluster of scraggy fowls picking for sustenance
in a scattered heap of straw.

“And what are they saying about us?” she demanded.

The magistrate cleared his throat.

“Oh, the usual things. Look here, Vera, don’t think I’m complaining,
because I’m not; but try and vary things a bit; you know what I mean.
People notice you; they can’t help it, because you’re so confoundedly
good-looking. I didn’t tell you at the time--I didn’t think it was
worth repeating--but over a week ago I overheard a scrap of
conversation in Sandakan--and knocked a man down for his share in it.”

Vera’s head came sharply round, and if he had looked he would have
seen that she was paler than usual.

“Well? What was it?”

“That you deliberately pushed in between Mrs. Moberly and Dick--and
that that was why she went home so suddenly.”

Her eyes flashed.

“How wicked!”

“Damnable!--Another planter feller picked my man up. He was drunk, but
he knew what he was saying: ‘I’m mighty sorry for you, old man, and if
I were in your place I’d do the same; but if that’s your line of
action you’ve got your work cut out. You’ll have to fight the whole
island!’”

“He didn’t say that!”

The D.O. nodded his head slowly.

“He did, old thing. To the best of my belief, those were his exact
words. Well, there you are, dear. I’ve given you the whole grim story
for what it is worth. I suppose the average man would have rowed you
about it; but I hate rows. It’s too hot, for one thing, and for
another, I’m confident in my own mind that you wouldn’t let me down.”

The cook-boy appeared at a doorway.

“_Makan_ is served, _Tuan_,” he announced.

Battiscombe nodded in his direction to indicate that he had heard. He
turned to find his wife the picture of injured innocence.

“I thought it was only women who talked scandal,” she declared with a
fine air of contempt.

The magistrate did not trouble to defend his sex.

“Well, it isn’t, you see, and under the present circumstances it’s up
to us to face facts. Cut down your visits to _Bukit-Serang_ to, say,
once a month, and blow in occasionally upon some of those faded women
who have possibly had a hand in setting these rumours in motion.”

She smiled feebly and spread out her hands.

“Must I?”

The magistrate patted her shoulder affectionately.

“It seems a rational sort of thing to do. Lord, Vera, if we could
afford it, I’d clear right out of here.”

Mrs. Battiscombe started.

“And that wouldn’t be rational at all. Everyone would think we’d made
things too hot for us and were afraid to stick to our guns.”

He held his head on one side.

“I’m not so certain about that. It’d show ’em, at least, that you
didn’t care a rap for Moberly and would leave Borneo with me as
readily as you came.”

“Would I?” she ventured.

Battiscombe slipped his arm round her and piloted her gently towards
the living-room, laughing to himself all the while at what he imagined
to be the finest joke he had heard for many a long day.