Cry Wolf Read online

  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 g
rin. 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