Cry Wolf

of Jack Dempsey sidling furtively into an old ladies" tea party.
Gareth Swales sat in the shade of the mangoes upon an upturned
wheelbarrow, over which he had spread a silk handkerchief to protect
the pristine linen of his suit. He had set aside his straw hat, and
his hair was meticulously trimmed and combed, shining softly in that
rare colour between golden blond and red, and there was just a sparkle
of silver in the wings at his temples. His mustache was the same
colour and carefully moulded to the curve of his upper lip. His face
was deeply tanned by the tropical sun to a dark chestnut brown, so that
the contrasting blue of his eyes was startlingly pale and
penetrating,
as he watched Jake Barton cross the yard to join the gathering of
buyers under the mango trees. He sighed with resignation and returned
his attention to the folded envelope on which he was making his
financial calculations.
He really was finely drawn out, the previous eighteen months had been
very unkind to him. The cargo that had been seized in the Liao
River by the Japanese gunboat when he was only hours away from
delivering it to the Chinese commander at Mukden and receiving payment
for it had wiped away the accumulated capital of ten years. It had
taken all his ingenuity and a deal of financial agility to assemble the
package that was stored at this moment in No.
4 warehouse down at the main docks of Dares Salaam port.
His buyers would be arriving to take delivery in twelve days and the
five armoured cars would have rounded out the package beautifully.
Armour, by God, he could fix his own price. Only aircraft would have
been more desirable from his client's point of view.
Gareth had first seen them that morning in their neglected and decrepit
state of repair, he had discounted them completely, and was on the
point of turning away when he had noticed the long muscular pair of
legs protruding from the engine of one of the vehicles and heard the
barely recognizable strains of "Tiger Rag'.
Now he knew that one of them at least was a runner. A few gallons of
paint, and a new Vickers machine gun set in the mountings, and the five
machines would look magnificent. Gareth would give one of his justly
famous sales routines. He would start the one good engine and fire the
machine gun by God, the jolly old prince would pull out his purse and
start spilling sovereigns all over the scenery.
There was only the damned Yankee to worry about, it might cost him a
few bob more than he had reckoned to edge him out, but Gareth was not
too worried. The man looked as though he would have difficulty raising
the price of a beer.
Gareth flicked at his sleeve where a speck of dust might have settled;
he placed the panama back on his golden head, adjusted the wide brim
carefully and removed the long slim cheroot from his lips to inspect
the ash, before he rose and sauntered across to the group.
The auctioneer was an elfin Sikh in a black silk suit with his beard
twisted up under his chin, and a large dazzling white turban wrapped
about his head.
He was perched like a little black bird on the turret of the nearest
armoured car, and his voice was plaintive as he pleaded with the
audience that stared up at him stolidly with expressionless faces and
glazed eyes.
"Come, gentle mens let me be hearing some mellifluous voice cry out
"ten pounds". Do I hear "ten pounds each" for these magnificent
conveyances?" He cocked his head and listened to the hot noon breeze
in the top branches of the mango. Nobody moved, nobody spoke.
"Five pounds, please? Will some wise gentle mens tell me five pounds?
Two pounds ten gentle mens for a mere fifty shillings these royal
machines, these fine, these beautiful-" He broke off, and lowered his
gaze, placed a delicate chocolate brown hand over his troubled brow. "A
price, gentle mens Please, start me with a price."
"One pound!" a voice called in the lilting accents of the Texan
ranges. For a moment the Sikh did not move, then raised his head with
dramatic slowness and stared at Jake who towered above the crowd around
him.
"A pound?" the Sikh whispered huskily. "Twenty shillings each for
these fine, these beautiful-" he broke off and shook his head
sorrowfully. Then abruptly his manner changed and became brisk and
businesslike. "One pound, I am bid.
40, I Do I hear two, two pounds? No advance on one pound?
Going for the first time at one pound!" Gareth Swales drifted forward,
and the crowd opened miraculously, drawing aside respectfully.
"Two pounds." He spoke softly, but his voice carried clearly in the
hush. Jake's long angular frame stiffened, and a dark wine-coloured
flush spread slowly up the back of his neck. Slowly, his head
swivelled and he stared across at the Englishman who had now reached
the front row.
Gareth smiled brilliantly and tipped the brim of his panama to
acknowledge Jake's glare. The Sikh's commercial instinct instantly
sensed the rivalry between them and his mood brightened.
"I have two--" he chirruped.
Five," snapped Jake.
"Ten," murmured Gareth, and Jake felt a hot uncontrollable anger come
seething up from his guts. He knew the feeling so well, and he tried
to control it, but it was no use.
It came up in a savage red tide to swamp his reason.
The crowd stirred with delight, and all their heads swung in unison
towards the tall American.
"Fifteen," said jake, "and every head swung back towards the slim
Englishman.
Gareth inclined his head gracefully.
"Twenty," piped the Sikh delightedly. "I have twenty."
"And five." Dimly through the mists of his anger, Jake knew that there
was no way that he would let the Limey have these ladies. If he
couldn't buy them, he would burn them.
The Sikh sparkled at Gareth with gazelle eyes.
"Thirty, sir?" he asked, and Gareth grinned easily and waved his
cheroot. He was experiencing a rising sense of alarm already they were
far past what he had calculated was the Yank's limit.
"And five more." Jake's voice was gravelly with the strength of his
outrage. They were his, even if he had to pay out every shilling in
his wallet, they had to be his.
Forty." Gareth Swales's smile was slightly strained now.
He was fast approaching his own limit. The terms of the sale were cash
or bank-guaranteed cheque. He had long ago milked every source of cash
that was available to him, and any bank manager who guaranteed a
Gareth Swales cheque was destined for a swift change of employment.
"Forty-five." Jake's voice was hard and uncompromising; he was fast
approaching the figure where he would be working for nothing but the
satisfaction of blocking out the Limey.
"Fifty."
"And five."
"Sixty."
"And another five." That was break-even price for Jake after this he
was tossing away bright shining shillings.
"Seventy," drawled Gareth Swales, and that
411 at was his limit.
With regret he discarded all hopes of an easy acquisition of the cars.
Three hundred and fifty pounds represented his entire liquid reserves
he could bid no further. All right, the easy way had not worked out.
There were a dozen other ways, and by one of them Gareth