Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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Cry Wolf [047-011-4.8]

By: Wilbur Smith

Category: fiction action adventure

Synopsis:

"Run," he shouted. "Keep running." And he turned back to

face the crippled animal as it launched itself from the ledge into the

bed of the river. It was only then that Jake realized that he still

carried a full bottle of Scrubbs Ammonia in his hand. The lion came

bounding swiftly through the shallow stagnant pool towards him. Despite

the wounds, it followed with lithe and sinuous menace. it was so close

that he could see each stiff white whisker in the curled upper lip and

hear the rattle of air in its throat. He let it come on, for to turn

and run was suicide. At the last moment he reared back like a baseball

pitcher and hurled the bottle.

Jake Barton is an American engineer, Gareth Swalles (a stylish

Englishman with a nose for a quick deal. Both have always moved from

one escapade to another. Now, as Mussolini prepares to annihilate the

people of Ethiopia, the two adventurers come up against Vicky

Camberwell, the beautiful but fiery reporter bent on espousing their

cause. Striking a bargain with a beleaguered Ethiopian prince, the

trio dares to run gauntlet guns and a batch of run-down armoured cars

in a final, desperate gamble for freedom..

To Jake Barton, machinery was always feminine with all the female's

fascination, wiles and bitchery.

So when he first saw them standing in a row beneath the spreading dark

green foliage of the mango trees, they became for him the iron

ladies.

There were five of them, standing aloof from the other heaps of

worn-out and redundant equipment that His Majesty's Government was

offering for sale. Although it was June and the cooler season between

the monsoons, yet the heat on this cloudless morning in Dares Salaam

was mounting like a force-fed furnace and Jake went thankfully into the

shade of the mangoes to stand closer to the ladies and begin his

examination.

He glanced around the enclosed yard, and noticed that he seemed to be

the only one interested in the five vehicles.

The motley crowd of potential buyers was picking over the heaps of

broken shovels and Picks, the rows of battered wheelbarrows and the

other mounds of unidentifiable rubbish.

He turned his attention back to the ladies, as he slipped off the light

tropical moleskin jacket he wore and hung it on the branch of a mango

tree.

The ladies were aristocrats fallen on hard times, their hard but rakish

lines were dulled by the faded and scratched paintwork and the

cancerous blotches of rust that showed through. The foxy-faced fruit

bats that hung inverted in the mango branches above them had splattered

them with their dung, and oil and grease had oozed from their elderly

joints and caked with dust in unsightly black streaks and blobs.

Jake knew their lineage and their history and as he laid aside the

small carpet bag that held his tools, he reviewed it swiftly. Five

fine pieces of craftsmanship lying rotting away on the fever coast of

Tanganyika. The bodies and chassis had been built by Schreiner the

stately high cupola in which the open mounting for the Maxim machine

gun now glared like an empty eye-socket, the square sloping platform of

the engine housing, with its heavy armour plate and the neat rows of

rivets and the steel shutters that could be closed to protect the

radiator against incoming enemy fire.

They stood tall on the metal bossed wheels with their solid rubber

tyres, and Jake felt a sneaking regret that he would be the one to tear

their engines out of them and toss aside the worn-out but gallant old

bodies.

They did not deserve such cavalier treatment, these fighting iron

ladies who in their youth had chased the wily German commander von

Lettow-Vorbeck across the wide plains and over the fierce hills of

East

Africa. The thorns of the wilderness had deeply scarred the paintwork

of the five armoured cars and there were places where rifle fire had

glanced off their armour, leaving the distinctive dimple in the

steel.

Those were their grandest days, streaming into battle with their

cavalry pennants flying, dust billowing behind them, bounding and

crashing through the don gas and ant bear holes, their machine guns

blazing and the terrified German askaris scattering before them.

After that, the original engines had been replaced by the beautiful new

6 litre Bentleys, and they had begun the long decline of police patrol

work on the border, chasing the occasional cattle raider and slowly

being pounded by a succession of brutal drivers into the condition

which had at last brought them here to the Government sale yards in

this fiery May of the year of our Lord 1935. But Jake knew that even

the savage abuse to which they had been subjected could not have

destroyed the engines completely and that was what interested him.

He rolled up his sleeves like a surgeon about to begin his

examination.

"Ready or not, girls, "he muttered, "here comes old Jake." He was a

tall man with a big bony frame that was cramped in the confined area of

the armoured car's body, but he worked with a quiet concentration so

close to rapture that the discomfort went unnoticed. Jake's wide

friendly mouth was pursed in a whistle that went on endlessly, the

opening bars of "Tiger Rag" repeated over and over again, and his eyes

were screwed up against the gloom of the interior.

He worked swiftly, checking the throttle and ignition settings of the

controls, tracing out the fuel lines from the rear-mounted fuel tank,

finding the cocks under the driver's seat and grunting with

satisfaction. He scrambled out of the turret and dropped down the high

side of the vehicle, pausing to wipe away with his forearm the thin

trickle of sweat that broke from his thick curly black hair and ran

down his cheek, then he hurried forward and knocked the clamps open on

the side flaps of the armoured engine-cover.

"Oh sweet, sweet!" he whispered, as he saw the fine outlines of the

old Bentley engine block beneath the layer of thick dust and greasy

filth.

His hands with the big square palms and thick spatulate fingers went

out to touch it with what was almost a caress.

"The bastards have beaten you up, darling," he whispered.

"But we will have you singing again as lovely as ever, that's a

promise." He pulled the dipstick from the engine sump and took a drop

of oil between his fingers.

"Shit!" he grunted with disgust, as he felt the grittiness, and he

thrust the stick back into its slot. He pulled the plugs and, with the

promise of a shilling, had a loitering African swing the crank for him

while he felt the compression against the palm of his hand.

Swiftly he moved along the line of armoured cars, checking,

probing and testing, and when he reached the last of them he knew he

could have three of them running again for certain and four maybe.

One was shot beyond hope. There was a crack in the engine block

through which he could have ridden a horse, and the pistons had seized

so solid in their pots that not even the combined muscle upon the crank

handle of Jake and his helper could move them.

Two of them had the entire carburettor assemblies missing, but he could

cannibalize from the wreck. That left him short of one carburettor and

he felt only gloom at his chances of finding another in Dares Salaam.

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

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

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.

"They bring me out in a rash. If it's all the same to you,

I'll just take the seven fifty in cash money."

Ok Gareth pursed his lips. Very well, so it wasn't going to be that

easy either.

"Dear me," he said. "It will take a little while to clear."

"No hurry, "Jake grinned at him. "Any time before noon tomorrow.

That's the delivery date I have for my original buyer. You be here

with the money before that, and they are all yours." He rose abruptly

from the bath, cascading soapy water, and his black servant handed him

a towel.

"What plans have you for dinner?" Gareth asked.

"I think Abou here has cooked up a pot of his lion-killing stew."

"Won't you be my guest at the Royal?"

"I drank your beer for free why shouldn't I eat your food?" asked Jake

reasonably.

The dining room of the Royal Hotel had high ceilings and tall

insect-screened sash windows. The mechanical fans set in the roof

stirred the warm humid air sluggishly "into a substitute for

coolness,

and Gareth Swales was a splendid host.

His engaging charm was irresistible, and his choice of food and wine

induced in Jake a sense of such well-being that they laughed together

like old friends, and were delighted to find that they had mutual

acquaintances mostly harm en and brothel-keepers in various parts of

the world and that they had parallel experience.

Gareth had been doing business with a revolutionary leader in

Venezuela while Jake was helping build the railroad in that same

country. Jake had been chief engineer on a Blake Line coaster on the

China run when Gareth had been making contact with the Chinese

Communists on Yellow River.

They had been in France at the same time, and on that terrible day at

Amiens, when the German machine guns had accelerated Gareth Swales's