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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