Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur (читать хорошую книгу полностью txt) 📗

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