By now, Jake was almost totally submerged under a heaving mound of
black evening dress. There were three of them riding on his back, two
hanging around his legs, and one tucked under each of his arms.
"Not me, you fools. Not me him!" He tried to point to Gareth,
but both his arms were occupied.
"Quite right," Gareth agreed. "Dirty cheating dog!" and he wielded
the billiard cue with uncanny skill, holding it inverted and tapping
the thick end smartly against the skulls of the well-dressed gentlemen
riding on Jake's back. They dropped away, and freed of their weight
Jake turned to Gareth once more.
"Listen-!" he bellowed, advancing despite the bodies that clung to his
legs.
"Listen, indeed." Gareth cocked his head, and the sound of a police
whistle shrilled, and there was the glimpse of uniforms beyond double
doors. "Peelers, by Jove, Gareth announced. "Perhaps we should move
on. Follow me, old son." With a few expert swings of the billiard
cue, he knocked the glass from the window beside him, and stepped
lightly and unruffled into the darkened garden.
Jake strode along the unlit footpath under the dark jacaranda trees. He
followed the main road out towards his camp beside the stream. The
outraged cries and the sound of police whistles had long since died
away in the night behind.
Jake's anger had also died away, and he chuckled once as he thought of
the peer's purple face and his bulging affronted eyes. Then behind
him, following along the dark street, he heard the rhythmic squeak of
the springs of a ricksha, and the pad of bare feet.
Even before he looked back, he knew who was following.
"Thought I'd lost you," Gareth Swales remarked lightly, his handsome
noble features lit by the glow of the cheroot between his teeth as he
lolled against the cushions of the ricksha. "You took off like a long
dog after a bitch. fantastic turn of speed. I was very impressed."
Jake said nothing, but strode on towards his camp.
"You can't possibly be bound for bed." The ricksha kept station beside
Jake. "The night is still a pup and who can say what beautiful
thoughts and stirring deeds Care still to be thought and performed."
Jake tried not to grin, and kept going.
"Madame Cecile's?"Gareth wheedled.
"You really do want those cars don't you?"
"I am hurt,"
announced Gareth, "that you should imply gross materialism to my
friendly overtures."
"Who is paying? "demanded Jake.
"You are my guest."
"Well, I've drunk your beer, eaten your food why should I stop now?" He
stopped and walked to the ricksha. "Move over, then, he said.
The ricksha driver wheeled in a tight turn and trotted back into the
town, while Gareth pressed a cheroot between Jake's lips.
"What did you deal yourself?" Jake asked, between puffs of the
fragrant smoke. "Four aces? Straight flush?"
"I am appalled at the implied slur on my character, sir. I shall
ignore the question." They jogged a little farther in silence until it
was Gareth's turn to ask the next question.
"You didn't really roast that poor fellow's chestnuts, did you?"
No, "Jake admitted. "But it made a better story." They reached the
door of Madame Cecile's, discreetly set back in a walled garden, with a
lamp burning over the lintel.
Gareth paused with his hand on the brass knocker.
"You know damned if I don't owe you an apology. I've misjudged you all
along the line."
"It's been a lot of laughs."
"I think I'm going to have to be honest with you."
"I don't know if I can stand the shock." They grinned at each other
and Gareth punched his shoulder lightly.
"It's still my treat, what?" Madame Cecile was so tall and thin and
bosorriless that she seemed in danger of snapping off like a brittle
stick. She wore a severely cut dress of dark and indeterminate colour
which swept the ground and buttoned up under her chin and at the
wrists. Her hair was drawn back tightly into a large bun at the back
of her neck and her expression was prim and disapproving, but it
softened a little when she let them into the front room.
"Major Swales, it is always a pleasure. Mr. Barton, we haven't seen
you in a long while. I was afraid you'd left town."
"Let us have a bottle of Charlie Champers, my dear." Gareth handed his
silk scarf to the maid. "Have you run out of the Pal Roger 1923?"
"Indeed not,
Major."
"And we'd like to talk alone for a while before meeting any of the
young tallies. Is your private lounge vacant?" Gareth was settled
comfortably in one of the big leather armchairs with a glass of
champagne in one hand and a cheroot in the other.
Duce is about to put himself in to bat. Though God alone knows what he
hopes to gain by it. From all accounts, it's the most desolate stretch
of desert and mountain one could imagine. However,
Mussolini wants it perhaps he has visions of empire and glory. The old
Napoleonic itch, you know."
"How do you know this?" Jake was sprawled on the buttoned couch across
the room. He wasn't drinking the champagne. He didn't like the
taste.
"It's my business to know, old chap. I can smell out a barney before
the fellows themselves know they are going to fight. This one is a
racing certainty. Duce is going through all the classic stages of
protestations of peaceful intentions, combined with wholesale military
preparations.
The other big powers France, our chaps and yours have given him the
wink. Of course, they'll all squeal like blazes, and make all sorts of
protests at the League of Nations but nobody is about to stop old
Benito making a big grab for Ethiopia. hail Selassie, the king of
kings, knows it and so is princes and roses an c ieftains and merry
men.
And they are desperately trying to prepare some kind of defence.
That's where I come in, old boy."
"Why must they buy from you at the prices you say they are offering?
Surely they could get this sort of stuff direct from the
manufacturers?"
"Embargo, old chap. The
League of Nations have slapped an arms embargo on the whole of
Eritrea,
Somaliland and Ethiopia. No imports of war material into the area.
It's intended to reduce tension but of course it works out completely
one-sided. Mussolini doesn't have to go shopping for his armaments he
has all the guns, aircraft and armour that he needs already landed at
Eritrea. just ready to go and the jolly old Ethiopia has a few ancient
rifles and a lot of those long two-anded swords. It should be a close
match.
You aren't drinking your Charlie Champers?"
"I think I'll go get myself a Tusker. Back in a minute. "Jake rose
and moved to the door and
Gareth shook his head sadly.
"You've got taste buds like a crocodile's back. Tusker, forsooth,
when I'm offering you a vintage Charlie." It was more for a chance to
think out his position and plan his moves than desire for beer that
made Jake seek the bar in the front room. He leaned against the
counter in the crowded room, and his mind went swiftly over what
Gareth
Swales had told him. He tried to decide how much was fact and how much
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