Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 8

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was fantasy. How the facts affected him and where, if there were

any,

the profits to himself might lie.

He had almost decided not to involve himself in the deal there were too

many thorns along that path and to go ahead with his original

intentions, selling the engines as cane-crushing units when he was made

the victim of one of those coincidences which were too neat not to be

one of the sardonic jokes of fate.

Beside him at the bar were two young men in the sober dress of clerks

or accountants. Each of them had a girl tucked under his arm and they

fondled them absentmindedly as they talked in loud assertive voices.

Jake had been too busy making his decision to follow this conversation

until a name caught his attention.

"By the way, did you hear that Anglo Sugar has gone bang?"

"No, I

don't believe it."

"It's true. Heard it from the Master of the Court himself.

They say they've gone bust for half a million."

"Good God that's the third big company this month."

"It's hard times we live in. This will bring down a lot of little men

with it." Jake agreed silently. He poured the beer into his glass,

tossed a coin on the counter and headed back for the private lounge.

They were hard times indeed, Jake thought. This was the second time in

as many months that he had been caught up in them.

The freighter on which he had arrived in Dares Salaam as chief engineer

had been seized by the sheriff of the court as surety in a bankruptcy

action. The owners had gone bust in London, and the ship had been

unable to pay off.

Jake had walked down the gang-plank with all his worldly possessions in

the kit-bag over his shoulder abandoning his claim to almost six

months" back wages, together with all his savings in the bankrupt

company's pension fund.

He had just started to shape up with the cane-crusher contract,

when once again the tidal waves of depression sweeping across the world

had swamped him. They were all going bang the big ones and the small,

and Jake Barton now found himself the owner of five armoured cars for

which there remained but a single buyer in the market.

Gareth was standing by the window, looking down to the harbor where the

lights of the anchored ships flickered across the dark waters. He

turned to face Jake and went on as though there had been no break in

the conversation.

"While we are still being disgustingly honest with each other, let me

estimate that the Ethiopians would pay as much as a thousand pounds

each for those vehicles. Of course, they would have to be spruced

up.

A coat of paint, and a machine gun in the turret."

"I'm still listening. "Jake sank back on the couch.

"I have the buyer lined up and the Vickers machine without which the

cars have no value. You have the guns, vehicles themselves and the

technical know-how to get them working." Jake was seeing a different

man in Gareth Swales now.

The lazy drawling voice and foppish manner were gone. He spoke crisply

and once again there was the piratical blue sparkle in his eyes.

"I have never worked with a partner before. I always knew I could do

it better on my own but I've had a chance to get a good look at you.

This could be the first time. What do you think?"

"If you cross me, Gareth I will truly roast your chestnuts for you."

Gareth threw back his head and laughed delightedly. "I believe you

really would,

Jake!" He crossed the room and offered his hand.

"Equal partners. You put in the cars, and I'll throw in my pile of

goodies everything down the middle?" he asked, and Jake took the

hand.

"Right down the middle he agreed.

"That's enough business for tonight let's meet the ladies." Jake

suggested that Gareth as a full partner might like to assist in

refitting the engines and painting the body work of the cars, and

Gareth blanched and lit a cheroot.

"Look here, old chap. Don't let's take this equal partners lark too

far. Manual labour isn't really my style at all."

"I'll have to hire a gang, then."

"Please don't stint yourself Hire what and who you need." Gareth waved

the cheroot magnanimously. "I've got to get down to the docks, grease

a few palms and that sort of thing. Then I'm dining at Government

House this evening, making the contacts that may be useful to us, you

understand?" In a ricksha, bearing the silver champagne bucket full of

Tusker, Gareth appeared at the camp under the mahogany trees the

following morning to find half a dozen blacks labouring under Jake's

supervision. The colour Jake had chosen was a businesslike battleship

grey, and one of the cars had received its first coat. The effect was

miraculous.

The vehicle had been transformed from a slovenly wreck into a

formidable-looking war machine.

"By Jove," Gareth enthused. "Even I am impressed. The old

Ethiops will go wild." He walked along the line of cars, and stopped

at the end. "Only three being painted. What about these two?"

"I

explained to you. There are only three runners." lOok, old chap.

Don't let's be too fussy. Slap paint on all of them and I'll put them

into the package. We aren't selling with a guarantee, what?"

Gareth smiled brilliantly and winked at Jake. "By the time the

complaints come in, you and I will have moved on and no forwarding

address." He did not realize that the suggestion was trampling rudely

on Jake's craftsman's pride, until he saw the now familiar stiffening

of the wide shoulders and the colour coming up Jake's neck.

Half an hour later they were still arguing.

"I've got a reputation on three oceans and across seven seas that

I'm not likely to pass up for a couple of pox-ridden old bangers like

these," shouted Jake, and he kicked the wheel of one of the condemned

vehicles. "Nobody's ever going to say that Jake Barton sold a bum."

Gareth had swiftly gained a working knowledge of his man's temper. He

knew instinctively that they were on the very brink of physical

violence and quite suddenly he changed his attitude.

"Listen, old chap. There's no point in shouting at each other-2

"I am not shouting-" roared Jake.

"No, of course not, "Gareth soothed him. "I see your point entirely.

Quite right too. I'd feel exactly the same way." Only slightly

mollified, Jake opened his mouth to protest further, but before sound

passed his lips, Gareth had pressed a long black cheroot between them

and lit it.

"Now let's use what brains God gave us, shall we? Tell me why these

two won't run and what we need to make them do so." Fifteen minutes

later they were sitting under the sun-flap of Jake's old tent,

drinking iced Tusker, and under Gareth's skilful soothing the

atmosphere was once more one of friendly co-operation.

"A Smith-Bentley carburettor?" Gareth repeated thoughtfully.

"I've tried every possible supplier. The local agent even cabled

Cape Town and Nairobi. We'd have to order one from England eight weeks

delivery, if we are lucky."

"Look here, old son. I don't mind telling you that this means facing a

fate worse than death but for the good of our mutual venture, I'll do

it." The Governor of Tanganyika had a daughter who was a spinster of

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