Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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promotion from subaltern to major in the space of six hours, Jake had

been four miles down the line, a sergeant driver in the Royal Tank

Corps seconded from the American Third Army.

They discovered that they were almost of an age, neither of them yet

forty, but that both of them had packed a world of experience and

wandering into that short span, They recognized in each other that same

restlessness that was always driving them on to new adventure, never

staying long enough in one place or at one job to grow roots,

unfettered by offspring or possessions, by spouse or

responsibilities,

taking up each new adventure eagerly and discarding it again without

qualms or regrets, Always moving onwards never looking backwards.

Understanding each other a little, they began to respect one another.

Halfway through the meal, they were no longer scornful of the other's

differences. Neither of them thought of the other as Limey or

Yank any longer but this didn't mean that Jake was about to accept any

cheques or that Gareth had given up his plans to acquire the five

armoured cars. At last Gareth swilled the last few drops around his

brandy balloon and glanced at his pocket watch.

"Nine o'clock. It's too early for bed. What shall we do now?"

Jake suggested, "There are two new girls down at Madame Cecile's. They

came in on the mail boat." Gareth quickly turned the suggestion

aside.

"Later perhaps but too soon after dinner, it gives me heartburn.

You don't, by any chance, feel like a few hands at cards? There is

usually a decent game down at the club."

"We can't go in there. We aren't members."

"I have reciprocity with my London club, old boy.

Sign you in, what?" They had played for an hour and a half. Jake was

enjoying the game. He liked the style of the establishment, for he

usually played in less salubrious surroundings the back room behind the

bar, an upturned fruit-crate behind the main boiler in an engine room,

or a scratch game in a dockside warehouse.

This was a hushed room with draped velvet curtains, expanses of dark

wood panelling, dark-toned oil paintings and hunting trophies

shaggy-maned lions, buffalo with huge bossed horns drooping

mournfully,

all of them staring down with glassy eyes from the walls.

From the three billiard tables came the discreet click of the ivory

balls, as half a dozen players in dress shirts and braces, black ties

and black trousers, evening jackets discarded for the game, leaned

across the heavy green-topped tables to play their shots.

There were three tables of contract bridge from which came the murmur

of bid and counter bid in the cultivated tones of the British upper

class, all the players in the dress that Jake thought of as penguin

suits black and white, with black bows.

Between the tables, the waiters moved on silent bare feet, in

ankle-length white robes and pillbox fez, like priests of some ancient

religion bearing trays of sparkling crystal glass.

There was only one table of draw poker, a huge teak structure with

brass ashtrays set into the woodwork, and niches and trays to hold the

whisky glasses and the coloured ivory chips. At the table sat five

players, and only Jake was not in evening dress the other three were

the type of poker players that Jake would dearly love to have kept

locked up for his exclusive pleasure.

There was a minor British peer, out in Africa to decimate the wildlife.

He had recently returned from the interior, where a white hunter had

stood respectfully at his elbow with a heavy-calibre rifle,

while the peer mowed down vast numbers of buffalo, lion and

rhinoceros.

This gentleman had a nervous tic under his right eye which jumped

whenever he held three of a kind or better in his hand.

Despite this affliction, a phenomenal run of good cards had allowed him

to be the only winner, other than Jake, at the table.

There was a coffee planter with a deeply tanned and wrinkled face who

made an involuntary little hissing sound whenever he improvised on the

draw or squeezed out a pleasing combination.

On Jake's right hand was an elderly civil servant with thinning hair

and a fever-yellow complexion who broke out in a muck sweat whenever he

judged himself on the point of winning a pot an expectation which was

seldom realized.

In an hour's careful play, Jake had built up his winnings to a little

over a hundred pounds and he felt very warm and contented down there

where his dinner was digesting. The only element in his life that

afforded him any disquiet was his new friend and sponsor.

Gareth Swales sat at his ease, conversing with the peer as an equal,

condescending graciously to the planter and commiserating with the

civil servant on his run of luck. He had neither won nor lost any

significant amount, yet he handled the cards with a dexterity that was

impressive. In those long tapering fingers with the carefully

manicured nails, the pasteboards rustled and rippled, blurred and

snapped, with a speed that defied the eye.

Jake watched carefully, without appearing to do so, whenever the deal

passed to Major Gareth Swales. There is no way that a dealer,

even with the most magical touch, can stack a deck of cards without

facing them during the shuffle and Gareth never faced the deck as he

manipulated it. His eyes never even dropped to the cards, but played

lightly over the faces of the others as he chatted. Jake began to

relax a little.

The planter dealt him four to an open-ended flush, and he filled it

with the six of hearts. The civil servant, who had an insatiable

curiosity, called his raise to twenty pounds and sighed and muttered

mournfully as he paid the ivory chips into the pot and Jake swept them

away and stacked them neatly in front of him.

"Let's have a new pack-" smiled Gareth, lifting a finger for a servant,

and hope that it breaks your run of luck." Gareth offered the seal on

the new pack for inspection, then split it with his thumbnail and

unwrapped the pristine cards with their bicycle-wheel designs,

fanned them, lifted the jokers and began to shuffle, at the same time

starting a very funny and obscene story about a bishop who entered the

women's rest room at Choring Cross Station in error.

The joke took a minute or two in the telling and in the roar of

masculine laughter that followed, Gareth began to deal, skimming the

cards across the green baize, so that they piled up neatly before each

player. Only Jake had noticed that during the bishop's harrowing

experiences in the ladies" room, Gareth had blocked the cards between

shuffles, and that each time as he lifted the two blocks he had rolled

his wrists so that for a fleeting instant they had fanned slightly and

faced.

Guffawing loudly, the baron gathered up his hand and looked at it.

He choked in the middle of his next guffaw, and his eyelid started to

jump and twitch, as though it was making love to his nose. From across

the table came a loud hiss of indrawn breath as the planter closed his

cards quickly and covered them with both hands. At Jake's right

hand,

the civil servant's face shone like polished yellow ivory and a little

trickle of sweat broke from his thinning hairline, ran down his nose,

and dripped unheeded on to the front of his dress shirt, as he stared

at his cards.

Jake opened his own cards, and glanced at the three queens it

contained. He sighed and began his own story.

"When I was first engineer on the old Harvest Maid tied up in

Kowloon, the skipper brought a fancy little dude on board and we all

got into a game. The stakes kept jumping up and up, and just after

midnight this dude dealt one hell of a hand." Nobody appeared to be

listening to Jake's story, they were all too absorbed with their own

cards.

"The skipper ended up with four kings, I got four jacks and the ship's

doctor pulled a mere four tens." Jake rearranged the queens in his

hand and broke off his story while Gareth Swales fulfilled the civil

servant's request for two cards.

"The dude himself took one card from the draw and the betting went mad.

We were throwing everything we owned into the pot. Thanks,

friend, I'll take two cards also." Gareth flicked two cards across the

table, and Jake discarded from his hand before picking them up.

"As I was saying, we were almost stripping off our underpants to throw

it all in the middle. I was in for a little over a thousand bucks Jake

squeezed open the new cards and could hardly suppress a grin. All the

ladies were there. Four pretty little queens peered out at him.

"We signed IOUs, we pledged our wages, and the dude came right along on

the ride, not pushing the betting but staying right there."

Gareth gave the baron one card and drew one himself.

They were listening now, eyes darting from Jake's lips to their own

cards.

"Well, when it came to the showdown, we were looking at each other

across a pile of cash that came to the ceiling and the dude hit us with

a straight flush. I remember it so clearly, in clubs three to the

eight. It took the skipper and me twelve hours to recover from the

shock and then we worked out the odds on that deal just happening

naturally it was something like sixteen million to one. The odds were

against the dude and we went looking for him. Found him down at the

old Peninsula Hotel, spending our hard-won gold. We were preparing for

sea at the time. Our boilers were cold. We sat the dude on top of

them, and fired them.

Had to tie him down, of course, and after a few hours his knockers,

were roasting like chestnuts."

"By God," exclaimed the peer.

"How awful."

"Quite right," Jake agreed. "Hell of a stink in my engine room." A

heavy charged silence settled over the table all of them aware that

something explosive was about to happen, that an accusation had been

made, but most of them not certain what the accusation was,

and at whom it had been levelled. They held up their cards like

protective shields, and their eyes darted suspiciously from face to

face. The atmosphere was so tense that it pervaded the gracious

room,

and the players at the other tables paused and looked up.

I think," Gareth Swales drawled in crisp tones that carried to every

corner of the listening room, "that what Mr. Barton is trying to say

is that somebody is cheating." That word, spoken in these

surroundings, was so shocking, so charged with dire consequence, that

strong men gasped and blanched. Cheating in the club, by God, better a

man be accused of adultery or ordinary murder.

"I must say that I have to agree with Mr. Barton." The icy blue eyes

snapped with angry lights, and he turned deliberately to the bewildered

member of the House of lords beside him.

"I wonder if you would be good enough, sir, to inform us as to the

exact amount of our money that you have won." The voice cracked like a

whiplash, and the peer stared at him with complete incomprehension for

a moment and then his face mottled purple and crimson, and he gobbled

angrily.

"Sir! How dare you. Good God, sir!-" and he rose in his seat,

breathless, choking with outrage.

"Have at him!" cried Gareth, and overturned the heavy teak table with

a single upward thrust of both hands. It crashed over, pinning the

planter and the civil servant under it, and scattering ivory chips and

playing cards in such profusion that nobody would ever know what cards

Gareth Swales had dealt to himself in that last remarkable deal.

Gareth leaned across the struggling mass of downed players and clipped

the peer smartly under the left ear.

"Cheating! Ha! Caught you cheating!" The peer roared like a bull and

swung a full-armed punch under which Gareth ducked lightly, but which

went on to catch the club secretary between the eyes, as he hurried up

to intervene.

The room erupted into violence, as the other members rushed in to

assist the secretary.

Jake tried to reach Gareth, through the sudden seething storm of

bodies.

"Not him, you!" he shouted angrily, flexing his arms and knotting his

fists.

There were forty club members in the room. Only one person was not

dressed in the uniform that showed they belonged Jake in his baggy

moleskins and the pack turned on him.

"Watch out behind you, old boy," Gareth warned Jake in a friendly

fashion, as he reached out to take the lapels of Gareth's suit in his

hands.

Jake whirled to meet the rush of angry members, and the fists that were

bunched for Major Swales thudded into the charging group. Two of them

dropped but the rest swarmed on.

"Lay on!" Gareth encouraged him merrily. "And damned be he who cries

"Enough"." Miraculously he had armed himself with a billiard cue.

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

thirty-two years, this despite her father's large fortune and respected

title.

Gareth glanced sideways at her and saw all too clearly why this should

be. The first adjective which sprang to mind was "horsey', but it was

not the correct one, Gareth decided.

"Comely'or'camel-like' would convey a much more accurate description.

A besotted camel, he thought, as he intercepted the adoring gaze which

she fixed upon him as she sat sideways upon the luxurious leather

seats.

"Jolly good of you to let me take your Pater's bus for a spin, old

girl. And she simpered at the endearment, exposing the huge yellowish

teeth under the large nose.

A V A "Definitely thinking of buying one myself, when I get home.

Can't beat the old Benters, what?" Gareth swung the long black

limousine off the metal led road and it plunged forward smoothly over

the dusty rutted track that led northwards along the coast through the

palm trees.

An ask ari policeman recognized the fluttering pennant on the front

wing, red and blue and gold with rampant lion and unicorn, and he

pulled himself to foot-stamping attention and flung a flamboyant

salute. Gareth touched the brim of his hat to the manner born, then

turned to his companion who had not taken her eyes from his tanned and

noble face since they had left the grounds of Government House.

"There is a good view place up ahead, looks out across actually.

Thought we'd park the channel, very beautiful there for a while." She

nodded vehemently, unable to trust herself to speak.

Gareth was glad of that she had a squeaky little treble and he smiled

his gratitude. That brilliant, completely irresistible smile,

and the girl blushed a mottled purple.

She had good eyes, Gareth tried to convince himself, that is if you

like camels" eyes. Huge sorrowful pools with long matted lashes.

He would concentrate on the eyes and try and avoid the teeth. He felt

a sudden small twinge of concern. "I hope she doesn't bite in the

critical moments.

With those choppers, she could inflict a mortal wound." For a moment

he considered abandoning the project. Then he made himself imagine a

pile of one thousand sovereigns, and his courage returned.

Gareth braked the Bentley and searched for the turnoffs It was well

concealed by underbrush and he missed it and had to back up.

Gently he eased the gleaming limousine down into a small clearing,

walled in by fern and scrub and roofed over by the cathedral arches of

the palms.

"Well, here we are, what?" Gareth pulled on the hand brake and turned

to his companion. "Actually you can see the channel if you twist your

neck a bit." He leaned forward to demonstrate, and with a convulsive

leap the Governor's daughter sprang upon him. Gareth's last controlled

thought was that he must avoid the teeth.

Jake Barton waited until the huge glistening Bentley began to heave and

toss on its suspension like a lifeboat in a gale, before he rose from

the cover of the ferns and, carpet-bag in hand, crept around to the

bonnet with its gleaming winged initial V and the stiffly embroidered

household pennant.

The noise he made in opening and lifting the engine cowling was

effectively smothered by the whinnying cries of passion that issued out

–of the car, and Jake glanced through the windscreen and caught one

horrifying glimpse of the Governor's daughter's white limbs, long and

shapeless and knobbly kneed as a camel's kicking ecstatically at the

roof of the cab before he ducked his head into the engine.

He worked swiftly, his lips pursed but the tune stealthily muted,

and his brow creased with concentration as the carburettor jumped and