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.