Cry Wolf

Swales was going to have them. By God, the prince might go as high as
a thousand each and he was not going to pass by that sort of profit for
lack of a few lousy hundred quid.
"Seventy-five," said Jake, and the crowd murmured and every eye flew to
Major Gareth Swales.
"Ah, kind gentle mens do you speak of eighty?" enquired the Sikh
eagerly. His commission was five per cent.
Graciously, but regretfully, Gareth shook his head.
"No, my dear chap. It was a mere whim of mine." He smiled across at
Jake. "May they give you much joy," he said, and drifted away towards
the gates. There was clearly nothing to be gained in approaching the
American now.
The man was in a towering rage and Gareth had judged him as the type
who habitually gave expression to this emotion by swinging with his
fists. Long ago, Gareth Swales had reached the conclusion that only
fools fight, and wise men supply them with the means to do so at a
profit, naturally.
It was three days before Jake Barton saw the Englishman again and
during that time he had towed the five iron ladies to the outskirts of
the town where he had set up his camp on the banks of a small stream
among a stand of African mahogany trees.
With a block and tackle slung from the branch of a mahogany, he had
lifted out the engines and worked on them far into each night by the
smoky light of a hurricane lamp.
Coaxing and sweet-talking the machines, changing and juggling faulty
and worn parts, hand-forging others on the charcoal brazier,
whistling to himself endlessly, swearing and sweating and scheming, he
had three of the Bentleys running by the afternoon of the third day.
Set up on improvised timber blocks, they had regained something of
their former gleam and glory beneath his loving hands.
Gareth Swales arrived at Jake's camp in the somnolent heat of the third
afternoon. He arrived in a ricksha pulled by a half-naked and sweating
black man and he lolled with the grace of a resting leopard on the
padded seat, looking cool in beautifully cut and snowy crisp linen.
Jake straightened up from the engine which he was tuning. He was naked
to the waist and his arms were greased black to the elbows.
Sweat gleamed on his shoulders and chest, as though he had been
oiled.
"Don't even bother to stop," Jake said softly. "Just keep straight on
down the road, friend." Gareth grinned at him engagingly and from the
seat beside him he lifted a large silver champagne bucket,
frosted with dew, and tinkling with ice. Over the edge of the bucket
showed the necks of a dozen bottles of Tusker beer.
"Peace offering, old chap," said Gareth, and Jake's throat contracted
so violently with thirst that he couldn't speak for a moment.
"A free gift with no strings attached, what?" Even in this cloying
humid heat, Jake Barton had been so completely absorbed by his task
that he had taken little liquid in three days, and none of it was pale
golden, bubbling and iced. His eyes began to water with the strength
of his desire.
Gareth dismounted from the ricksha and came forward with the champagne
bucket under one arm.
"Swales," he said. "Major Gareth Swales," and held out his hand.
"Barton. Jake." Jake took the hand, but his eyes were still fixed on
the bucket.
Twenty minutes later, Jake sat waist-deep in a steaming galvanized iron
bath, set out alfresco under the mahogany trees. The bottle of
Tusker stood close at hand and he whistled happily as he worked up a
foaming lather in his armpits and across the dark hairy plain of his
chest.
"Trouble was, we got off on the wrong foot," explained Gareth, and
sipped at the neck of a Tusker bottle. He made it seem he was taking
Dam Nrignon from a crystal flute. He was lying back in Jake's single
canvas camp chair under the shade flap of the old sun-faded tent.
"Friend, you nearly got a wrong foot right up your backside." But
Jake's threat was without fire, marinated in Tusker.
I understand how you felt," said Gareth. "But then "I surely
understood you did tell me you weren't bidding. If only you had told
me the truth, we could have worked out an arrangement." Jake reached
out with a soap-frothed hand and lifted the Tusker bottle to his lips.
He swallowed twice, sighed and belched softly.
"Bless you," said Gareth, and then went on. "As soon as I "Ble
realized that you were bidding seriously, I backed out. I knew that
you and I could make a mutually beneficial deal later. And so here I
am now, drinking beer with you and talking a deal."
"You are talking I'm just listening, "Jake pointed out.
"Rite so." Gareth took out his cheroot case, carefully selected one
and leaned forward to place it tenderly between
Jake's willing lips. He struck a match off the sole of his boot and
cupped the match for Jake.
"It seems clear to me that you have a buyer for the cars, right?"
"I'm still listening." Jake exhaled a long feather of cheroot smoke
with evident pleasure.
"You must have a price already set, and I am prepared to better that
price." Jake took the cheroot out of his mouth and for the first time
regarded Gareth levelly.
"You want all five cars at that price in their present condition?"
"Right," said Gareth.
What if I tell you that only three are runners two are "shot all to
hell."
"That wouldn't affect my offer." Jake reached out and drained the
Tusker bottle. Gareth opened another for him and placed it in his
hand.
Swiftly Jake ran over the offer. He had an open contract with
Anglo-Tanganyika Sugar Company to supply gasoline powered sugar-cane
crushers at a fixed price of 110 pounds each.
From the three cars he could make up three units maximum of
330pounds.
The Limey's offer was for all five units, at a price to be
determined.
"I've done one hell of a lot of work on them," Jake softened him a
little.
"I can see that."
"One hundred and fifty pounds each for all five. That's seven hundred
and fifty."
"You would replace the engines and make them look all ship-shape."
"Sure."
"Done," said Gareth. "I
knew we could work something out," and they beamed at each other.
"I'll make out a deed of sale right away," Gareth produced a cheque
book, "and then I'll give you my cheque for the full amount."
"Your what? "The beam on Jake's face faded.
"My personal cheque on Courts of Piccadilly." It was true that
Gareth Swales did have a chequing account with Courts. According to
his last statement, the account was in debit to the sum of eighteen
pounds seventeen and sixpence. The manager had written him a spicy
little letter in red ink.
"Safe as the Bank of England." Gareth flourished his cheque book.
It would take three weeks for the cheque to be presented in London and
bounce through the roof. By that time, he hoped to be on his way to
Madrid. There looked to be a very profitable little piece of business
brewing up satisfactorily in that area, and by then Gareth
Swales would have the capital to exploit it.
"Funny thing about cheques." Jake removed the cheroot from his mouth.