Cry Wolf

Three, then, he could reckon on with certainty. At one hundred and ten
pounds apiece, that was 030. Less an estimated outlay of one hundred,
it gave him a clear profit of two hundred and thirty pounds for surely
he would not have to bid more than twenty pounds each for these
wrecks.
Jake felt a warm spreading glow of satisfaction as he tossed his
African helper the promised shilling. Two hundred and thirty pounds
was a great deal of money in these lean and hungry times.
A quick glance at the fob-watch he hauled from his back pocket showed
him there was still over two hours before the advertised time of the
commencement of the sale. He was impatient to begin work on those
Bentleys not only for the money. For Jake it would be a labour of
love.
The one in the centre of the line seemed the best bet for quick
results. He placed his carpet bag on the armoured wing of the mudguard
and selected a Yth-inch spanner.
Immediately he was totally absorbed.
After half an hour he pulled his head out of the engine, wiped his
hands on a handful of cotton waste and hurried around to the front of
the car.
The big muscles in his right arm bunched and rippled as he swung the
crank handle, spinning the heavy engine easily with a steady whirring
rhythm. After a minute of this, he released the handle and wiped off
his sweat with the cotton waste that left grease marks down his cheeks.
He was breathing quickly but lightly.
"I knew you for a temperamental bitch the moment I laid eyes on you,"
he muttered. "But you are going to do it my way, darling. You really
are." Once more his head and shoulders disappeared under the engine
cowling and there was the clink of the spanner against metal and the
monotonous repetition of "Tiger Rag" in a low off-key whistle for
another ten minutes, then again Jake went to the crank handle.
"You are going to do it my way, baby and what's more you're going to
like it." He spun the handle and the engine kicked viciously,
back-fired like a rifle shot, and the crank handle snapped out of
Jake's hand with enough force to have taken his thumb off if he had
been holding it with an opposed grip.
"Jesus," whispered Jake, "a real little hell catV He scrambled up into
the turret and reached down to the controls and reset the ignition.
At the next swing of the crank handle she bucked and fired, caught and
surged, then fell back into a steady beat, quivering slightly on her
rigid suspension, but come alive.
Jake stepped back, sweating, flushed, but with his dark green eyes
shining with delight.
"Oh you beauty, "he said. "You bloody little beauty."
"Bravo,"
said a voice behind him, and Jake started and turned quickly. He had
forgotten that he was not the only person left on earth, in his
complete absorption with the machine, and now he felt embarrassed, as
though he had been observed in some intimate and private bodily
function.
He glowered at the figure that was leaning elegantly against the hole
of the mango tree.
"Jolly good show," said the stranger, and the voice was sufficient to
stir the hair upon the nape of Jake's neck. It was one of those pricey
Limey accents.
The man was dressed in a cream suit of expensive tropical linen and
two-tone shoes of white and brown. On his head he wore a white straw
hat with a wide brim that cast a shadow over his face. But Jake could
see the man had a friendly smile and an easy engaging manner. He was
handsome in a conventional manner, with noble and regular features,
a face that had flustered many a female's emotions and that fitted well
with the voice. He would he a ranking government official probably, or
an officer in one of the regular regiments stationed in Dares Salaam.
Upper class establishment, even to the necktie with its narrow diagonal
stripes by which the British advertised at which seat of learning they
had obtained their education and their place in the social order.
"It didn't take you long to get her going." The man lolled gracefully
against the mango, his ankles crossed and one hand thrust into his coat
pocket. He smiled again, and this time Jake saw the mockery and
challenge in the eyes more clearly. He had judged him wrongly. This
was not one of those cardboard men. They were pirate eyes, mocking and
wolfish, dangerous as the glint of a knife in the shadows.
"I have no doubt the others are in as good a state of repair." It was
an enquiry, not a statement.
"Well, you're wrong, friend. "Jake felt a pang of dismay. It was
absurd that this fancy lad could have a real interest in the five
vehicles but if he did, then Jake had just given him a generous
demonstration of their value. "This is the only one that will run, and
even her guts are blown. Listen to her knock. Sounds like a mad
carpenter." He reached under the cowling and earthed the magneto.
In the sudden silence as the engine died, he said loudly, "Junk!"
and spat on the ground near the front wheel but not on it. He couldn't
bring himself to do that. Then he gathered his tools, flung his jacket
over his shoulder, hefted the carpet bag and, without another glance at
the Englishman, ambled off towards the gates of the works yard.
"You not bidding then, old chap?" The stranger had left his post at
the mango and fallen into step beside him.
"God, no." Jake tried to fill his voice with disdain. "Are you?"
"Now what would I do with five broken-down armoured cars?" The man
laughed silently, and then went on, "Yankee, are you? Texas, what?"
"You've been reading my mail." Engineer?" :1 try, I try."
"Buy you a drink?"
"Give me the money. instead. I've got a train to catch." The elegant
stranger laughed again, a light friendly laugh.
"God speed, then, old chap," he said, and Jake hurried out through the
gates into the dusty heat-dazed streets of noonday Dares Salaam and
walked away without a backward glance, trying to convey with his
determined stride and the set of his shoulders that his departure was
final.
Jake found a canteen around the first corner and within five minutes"
walk of the works yard, where he went into hiding. The Tusker beer he
ordered was blood warm, but he drank it while he worried. The
English, man gave him a very queasy feeling, his interest was too
bright to be mere curiosity. On the other hand, however, Jake might
have to go over the twenty pounds bid that he had calculated and he
took from the inside pocket of his jacket the worn pigskin wallet that
contained his entire worldly wealth and, prudently using the table top
as a screen, he counted the wad of notes.
Five hundred and seventeen pounds in Bank of England notes, three
hundred and twenty-seven dollars in United States currency, and four
hundred and ninety East African shillings was not a great fortune with
which to take on the likes of the elegant Limey. However, Jake drained
his warm beer, set his jaw and inspected his watch once more. It gave
him five minutes to noon.
Major Gareth Swales was mildly dismayed, but not at all surprised to
see the big American entering the works yard gates once more in a
manner which was obviously intended to be unobtrusive but reminded him