Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur (книги онлайн без регистрации полностью .TXT) 📗
We need popular support we must reach the people. If the common
peoples are informed of our lot, they will force their own governments
to take action."
"It's a pretty thought," Gareth agreed.
"Travelling with me now is one of the most highly thought of and
influential journalists in America. Someone who has the ear of
hundreds of thousands of readers across the United States of America,
and the rest of the English-speaking world as well. A person of
liberal conscience, a champion of the oppressed." The Prince paused.
"However,
this person's reputation has preceded us. The Italians realize that
their case might be damaged if the truth is written by a journalist of
this calibre and they have taken measures to prevent this happening.
We have today heard by radio that transit of English, French and
Italian territories will be refused, and' that this ally of ours will
be denied access to Ethiopia. They do not only embargo weapons but
they prevent our friends from giving us succour."
"No," said Gareth. "I've got enough trouble that I must act as a taxi
service for the entire press corps of the world.
I'll be damned if I will-"
"Can he drive a motor car? "Jake interrupted "We are still short of a
driver for the last car."
"If I
know journalists, all he can drive is a whisky bottle," grunted Gareth
gloomily.
"If he can drive we'd save the wages of hiring another driver,"
Jake pointed out, and Gareth's gloom lightened a little.
"That's true if he can drive."
"Let us find out," suggested the
Prince, and spoke quietly to one of his men who slipped out of the
cabin. Gareth took advantage of the pause to take the Prince's arm and
draw him aside from the main group.
"I have drawn up an estimate of the additional expenses we will
encounter the hire of a ship and that sort of thing it stretches the
old finances. I wonder if you could see your way clear to making a
gesture of good faith just a small advance. A few hundred guineas."
"Major Swales, I have made the gesture already by giving my nephew into
your care."
"Not that I don't appreciate that-" Gareth was about to enlarge his
argument, but he was prevented from doing so by the opening of the
cabin door and the entry of the journalist. Gareth Swales straightened
up and touched the knot of his tie. His smile broke across the cabin
like the early morning sun.
Jake Barton had slumped down into one of the chairs beside the chart
table and was about to light a cheroot, the match flaring in the cup of
his hands, but he did not complete the movement. The match burned on
forgotten, as he stared at the newcomer.
"Gentlemen," said the Prince. "I have the honour to introduce
Miss Victoria Camberwell, a distinguished member of the American press
and a good friend of my country." Vicky Camberwell was not yet thirty
years of age, and she was also an unusually attractive and nubile young
woman. She had learned long ago that youth and feminine beauty were
not assets in her chosen career and she tried, with little success, to
disguise both.
She adopted a severe, almost mannish, dress. A military-style shirt
with cloth epaulets and button-down breast pockets that were pushed out
by the large but shapely breasts. Her skirt was tailored in the same
cream linen with more button down pockets on the thighs, and clasped at
the slim waist with a leather belt and heavy snake's buckle.
Her shoes were of the lace-up type that women call "sensible."
On her long lovely legs they looked almost frivolous.
Her hair was drawn severely back to expose a long swan neck. The hair
was fine and silken, sun-bleached, in places, almost white and shaded
over her high broad forehead to the colour of wheat and autumn
leaves.
Gareth recovered first. "Miss Camberwell, of course. I know your
work. Your column is syndicated in the Observer." She looked at him
without expression, remarkably immune to the celebrated Swales smile.
Her eyes, he noticed, were serious and level, sage green in colour, but
shot with speckles of tawny gold.
Jake's match burned his fingers and he swore. She turned to him and he
stood up quickly.
"I didn't expect a woman."
"You don't like women?" Her voice was pitched low and had a husky tone
that raised goose bumps on Jake's forearms.
"Some of my favourite people are women." He saw that she was tall,
reaching almost to his shoulder, and that her body had a poised
athletic carriage. She held her head at a haughty angle which
emphasized the strong independent line of mouth and jaw.
"In fact, I can't think of anyone I like more." And she smiled for the
first time. It had surprising warmth, and Jake saw that her front
teeth were slightly uneven one pushed out of line with the other. He
stared at it fascinated for a moment, then he looked up into the
appraising green eyes.
"Do you drive a car?" he asked seriously, and her smile turned to
surprised laughter.
"I do." said Vicky, laughing. "I also ride a horse and a bicycle,
I can ski, pilot an aeroplane, play snooker and bridge, sing, dance and
play the piano."
"That will do," Jake laughed with her. "That will do just fine." Vicky
turned back to the Prince. "What is all this about,
Lij Mikhael?" she asked. "Just what do these two gentlemen have to do
with our plans?" The towering purple hull of the Dunnottar Castle
swung slowly across the back-drop of palm trees and the high sun-gilded
ranges of cumulus cloud, as she pulled her anchors and came around for
the harbour entrance.
At the rail of the upper deck, the tall figure of the Prince was
flanked by the white-robed figures of his staff, and as the ship
increased speed and kicked up a white sparkling bow wave, he lifted an
arm in a gesture of farewell.
Swiftly, the shape of the liner dwindled away into the limitless
eastern ocean as she made her offing before turning northwards once
more.
The four figures on the wharf lingered after it had disappeared,
staring out at the horizon whose long sweep was uninterrupted except by
the tiny white triangular sails of the fishing fleet coming in off the
banks.
Jake spoke first. "We'll have to find digs for Miss Camberwell. And
at the thought, both he and Gareth made a grab for her single battered
portmanteau and the typewriter in its leather case.
"Spin you for it," suggested Gareth, and an East African shilling
appeared in his hand.
"Tails,"decided Jake.
"Rough luck, old son," Gareth commiserated, and returned the coin to
his pocket. "I'll take care of Miss Camberwell-" he went on, " then
I'll start looking for a ship to take us up coast. In the meantime, I
suggest you have another look at those cars." As he spoke,
he hailed a ricksha from the row which waited at the head of the
wharf.
"Remember, Jake, it was one thing driving them down to the harbour but
an altogether different matter driving them through two hundred miles
of desert. You'd best make sure we don't have to walk home, he
advised, and handed Vicky Camberwell into the ricksha. "Driver,
