the Bentley came to an abrupt rest while a ringing silence fell over
the palm grove.
Jake Barton crept silently away through the undergrowth leaving his
partner stunned and entangled in a mesh of lanky limbs and expensive
French underwear.
"I want you to believe that in my weakened condition it was a long walk
home. At the same time, I had to try and convince the lady that we
were not betrothed."
"We'll get you a citation," Jake promised him,
and emerged from the engine housing of the armoured car.
"With disregard for his own personal safety Major Gareth Swales held
the pass, stan ned the breach, battered down the gates-"
"Terribly amusing," growled Gareth. "But, just like you, I have a
reputation to maintain. It would embarrass me in certain circles if
this got out,
old son. Mum's the word, what?"
"You have my word of honour," Jake told him seriously, and stooped over
the crank handle. She fired at the first turn and settled to a steady
rhythm to which Jake listened for a few moments before he grinned.
"Listen to her, the bloody little beauty," and he turned to
Gareth. "Wasn't it worth it just to hear that sweet burbling song?"
Gareth rolled his eyes in agonized memory and Jake went on. "Four of
them. Four lovely, well-behaved ladies. What more could you ask out
of life?"
"Five,"said Gareth promptly, and Jake scowled.
"We'd put my name on the fifth one," he wheedled. "I'd sign a
statement to protect your reputation." But the expression on Jake's
face was sufficient answer.
"No?" Gareth sighed. "I predict that your sentimental,
oldfashioned outlook is going to get us both into a lot of trouble."
"We can split up now."
"Wouldn't dream of it, old son. Actually, it would have been dicey
peddling a dead one to those Ethiops. They've got these dirty great
swords, and it's not only your head that they lop off or so I hear. No,
we'll settle for just the four, then." May
22nd the Dunnottar Castle anchored in the Dares Salaam roads and was
immediately surrounded by a swarm of barges and lighters. She was the
flagship of the Union Castle Line, outward bound from Southampton to
Cape Town, Durban, Lourenco Marques, Dares Salaam and Jibuti.
Two suites and ten double cabins of the first class accommodation were
taken up by Lij Mikhael Wasan Sagud and his entourage. The Lij was a
scion of the royal house of Ethiopia that traced its line back to
King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. He was a trusted member of the
Emperor's inner circle and, under his father, the deputy governor of a
piece of mountain and desert country in the northern provinces the size
of Scotland and Wales combined.
The Ras was returning to his homeland after six months of petitioning
the foreign ministers of Great Britain and France, and lobbying in the
halls of the League of Nations in Geneva, trying to gather pledges of
support for his country in the face of the gathering storm clouds of
Fascist Italian aspirations towards an African Empire.
The Lij was a disillusioned man when he disembarked with four of his
senior advisers and made the short journey by lighter to where two
hired open tourers awaited his arrival on the wharf. Hire of the motor
vehicles had been arranged by Major Gareth Swales and the drivers had
been given their instructions.
"Now, you leave the talking to me, old chap," Gareth advised Jake,
as they waited anxiously in the cavernous and gloomy depths of No. 4
Warehouse. "This really is my part of the show, you know. You just
look stern and do the demonstrating. That will impress the old Ethiop
no end." Gareth was resplendent in a pale blue tropical suit with a
fresh white carnation in the buttonhole, and silk shirt. He wore the
diagonally striped old school tie, his hair was brilliantined and
carefully brushed, and the sleek lines of the mustache had been trimmed
that morning. He ran a judicious eye over his partner and was mildly
satisfied. Jake's suit had not been cut in Savile Row, of course, but
it was adequate for the occasion, clean and freshly pressed. His shoes
had been newly polished and the usually unruly profusion of curls had
been wetted and slicked down neatly.
He had scrubbed all traces of grease from his large bony hands and from
under his fingernails.
"They probably don't even speak English," Gareth gave his opinion.
"Have to use the old sign language, you know.
Wish you'd let me have that dead one. We could have palmed it off on
them. They are bound to be a gullible lot, throw in a handful of beads
and a bag of salt-" He was interrupted by the sound of approaching
engines.
"This will be them, now. Don't forget what I told you." The two open
tourers pulled up in the bright sunlight beyond the doors and disgorged
their passengers. Four of them wore the long flowing white shammas,
full-length robes like Roman togas draped across the shoulder.
Under the robes they wore black gabardine riding breeches and open
sandals. They were all of them elderly men, the dense bushes of their
hair shot through with strands of grey and the dark faces wrinkled and
