The Way To Dusty Death Part 2

'Pull him in? Good G.o.d, Mac, are you mad? Nikki's got fifteen clear seconds now that I'm out There's no way he can lose. Our Signor Tracchia would never forgive me - or you - if you were to pull him in now. It'll be his first Grand Prix - and the one he most wanted to win.'

Harlow turned and walked away as if the matter was settled. Both Mary and Rory watched him go, the former with dull misery in her eyes, the latter with a mixture of triumph and contempt at which he was at no pains at all to conceal. MacAlpine hesitated, made as if to speak, then he too turned and walked away, although in a different direction. Dunnet accompanied him. The two men halted in a corner of the pits.

MacAlpine said: 'Well?'

Dunnet said: Well what, James?'

'Please. I don't deserve that from you.'

'You mean, did I see what you saw? His hands?'

Tie's got the shakes again.' MacAlpine made a long pause then sighed and shook his head. 'I keep on saying it. It happens to them all. No matter how cool or brave or brilliant - h.e.l.l, I've said it all before. And when a man has icy calm and iron control like Johnny -well, when the break comes it's liable to be a pretty drastic one.'

'And when does the break come?'

'Pretty soon, I think. I'll give him one more Grand Prix. Do you know what he's going to do now? Later tonight, rather-he's become very crafty about it.'

'I don't think I want to know.'

'He's going to hit the bottle.'

A voice with a very powerful Glasgow accent said: the word is that he already has.'

Both MacAlpine and Dunnet turned slowly round. Coming out of the shadows of the hut behind was a small man with an incredibly wizened face, whose straggling white moustache contrasted oddly with his monk's tonsure. Even odder was the long, thin and remarkably bent black cigar protruding from one corner of his virtually toothless mouth. His name was Henry, he was the transporter's old driver - long long past retiring age - and the cigar was his trademark. It was said that he occasionally ate with the cigar in his mouth.

MacAlpine said without inflection: 'Eavesdropping, eh?'

'Eavesdropping! 'It was difficult to say whether Henry's tone and expression reflected indignation or incredulity but in either event they were on an Olympian scale. 'You know very well that I would never eavesdrop, Mr. MacAlpine. I was just listening. There's a difference.'

'What did you say just now?'

'I know you heard what I said.' Henry was still splendidly unperturbed. 'You know that he's driving like a madman and that all the other drivers are getting terrified of him. In fact, they are are terrified of him. He shouldn't be allowed on a race-track again. The man's shot, you can see that. And in Glasgow, when we say that a man's shot, we mean - ' terrified of him. He shouldn't be allowed on a race-track again. The man's shot, you can see that. And in Glasgow, when we say that a man's shot, we mean - '

Dunnet said : 'We know what you mean. I thought you were a friend of his, Henry?'

'Aye, I'm all that. Finest gentleman I've ever known, begging the pardon of you two gentlemen. It's because I'm his friend that I don't want him killed - or had up for manslaughter.'

MacAlpine said without animosity: 'You stick to your job of running the transporter, Henry : I'll stick to mine of running the Coronado team.'

Henry nodded and turned away, gravity in his face and a certain carefully controlled degree of outrage in his walk as if to say he'd done his duty, delivered his witch's warning and if that warning were not acted upon the consequences weren't going to be his, Henry's, fault. MacAlpine, his face equally grave, rubbed his cheek thoughtfully and said : 'He could be right at that. In fact, I have every reason for thinking he is.'

'Is what, James?'

'On the skids. On the rocks. Shot, as Henry would say.'

'Shot by whom? By what?'

'Chap called Bacchus, Alexis. The chap that prefers using booze to bullets.'

'You have evidence of this?'

'Not so much evidence of his drinking as lack of evidence of his not drinking. Which can be just as d.a.m.ning.'

'Sorry, don't follow. Can it be that you have been holding out on me, James?'

MacAlpine nodded and told briefly of his duplicity in the line of duty. It was just after the day that Jethou had died and Harlow had shown his lack of expertise both in pouring and drinking brandy that MacAlpine had first suspected that Harlow had forgone his lifelong abstention from alcohol. There had been, of course, no spectacular drinking bouts, for those would have been automatically responsible for having him banned from the race-tracks of the world: a genius for avoiding company, he just went about it quietly, steadily, persistently and above all secretly, for Harlow always drank alone, almost invariably in out of the way places, usually quite remote, where he stood little or no chance of being discovered. This MacAlpine knew for he had hired what was practically a full-time investigator to follow him but Harlow was either extremely lucky or, aware of what was going on -he was a man of quite remarkable intelligence and must have suspected the possibility of his being followed - extremely astute and skilled in his avoidance of surveillance, for he had been tracked down only three times to sources of supply, small Weinstuben Weinstuben lost in the forests near the Hockenheim and Nurburgring circuits. Even on those occasions he had been observed to be sipping, delicately and with what appeared to be commendable restraint, a small gla.s.s of hock which was hardly sufficient to blunt even the highly-tuned faculties and reactions of a Formula One driver: what made this elusiveness all the more remarkable was that Harlow drove everywhere in his flame-red Ferrari, the most conspicuous car on the roads of Europe. But that he went to such extraordinary - and extraordinarily successful - lengths to escape surveillance was, for MacAlpine, all the circ.u.mstantial evidence he required that Harlow's frequent, mysterious and unexplained absences coincided with Harlow's frequent and solitary drinking bouts. MacAlpine finished by saying that a later and more sinister note had crept in: there was now daily and incontrovertible evidence that Harlow had developed a powerful affinity for scotch. lost in the forests near the Hockenheim and Nurburgring circuits. Even on those occasions he had been observed to be sipping, delicately and with what appeared to be commendable restraint, a small gla.s.s of hock which was hardly sufficient to blunt even the highly-tuned faculties and reactions of a Formula One driver: what made this elusiveness all the more remarkable was that Harlow drove everywhere in his flame-red Ferrari, the most conspicuous car on the roads of Europe. But that he went to such extraordinary - and extraordinarily successful - lengths to escape surveillance was, for MacAlpine, all the circ.u.mstantial evidence he required that Harlow's frequent, mysterious and unexplained absences coincided with Harlow's frequent and solitary drinking bouts. MacAlpine finished by saying that a later and more sinister note had crept in: there was now daily and incontrovertible evidence that Harlow had developed a powerful affinity for scotch.

Dunnet was silent until he saw that MacAlpine apparently had no intention of adding to what he had said. 'Evidence?' he said, 'What kind of evidence?'

'Olfactory evidence.'

Dunnet paused briefly then said: 'I've never smelt anything.'

MacAlpine said kindly: That, Alexis, is because you are not capable of smelling anything. You can't smell oil, you can't smell fuel, you can't smell burning tyres. How do you expect to be able to smell scotch?'

Dunnet inclined his head in acknowledgment. He said : 'Have you smelt anything?'

MacAlpine shook his head.

'Well, then.'

MacAlpine said: 'He avoids me like the plague nowadays - and you know how close Johnny and myself used to be. Whenever he does get close to me he smells powerfully of menthol throat tablets. Doesn't that say something to you?'

'Come off it, James. That's no evidence.'

'Perhaps not. But Tracchia, Jacobson and Rory swear to it.'

'Oh, brother, are they unbiased witnesses. If Johnny is forced to step down who's going to be Coronado's number one driver with a good chance of being the next champion? Who but our Nikki. Jacobson and Johnny have never been on good terms and now the relations.h.i.+p is going from bad to worse: Jacobson doesn't like having his cars smashed up and what he likes even less is Harlow's contention that the smashes have nothing to do with him which brings into question Jacobson's ability to prepare a car thoroughly. As for Rory, well, frankly, he hates Johnny Harlow's guts: partly because of what Johnny did to Mary, partly because she's never allowed the accident to make the slightest difference in her att.i.tude towards him. I'm afraid, James, that your daughter is the only person left on the team who is still totally devoted to Johnny Harlow.'

'Yes, I know.' MacAlpine was momentarily silent then said dully: 'Mary was the first person to tell me.'

'Oh, Jesus!' Dunnet looked miserably out on the track and without looking at MacAlpine said: 'You've no option now. You have to fire him. For preference, today.'

'You're forgetting, Alexis, that you've just learnt this while I've known it for some time. My mind has been made up. One more Grand Prix,'

The parking lot, in the fading light, looked like the last resting place of the behemoths of a bygone age. The huge transporters that carried the racing cars, spare parts and portable workshops around Europe, parked, as they were, in a totally haphazard fas.h.i.+on, loomed menacingly out of the gloom. They were completely devoid of life as evinced by the fact that no light showed from any of them. The car park itself ,was equally deserted except for a figure that had just appeared from out of the gathering dusk and pa.s.sed through the entrance to the transporter parking lot.

Johnny Harlow made no apparent attempt to conceal his presence from any chance observer, if any such there had been. Swinging his little canvas bag he made his way diagonally across the parking lot until he brought up at one of the huge behemoths: written large on the side and back was the word FERRARI. He didn't even bother to try the door of the transporter but produced a bunch of curiously shaped keys and had the door open in a matter of a few seconds. He pa.s.sed inside and closed and locked -the door behind him. For five minutes he did nothing other than move from window to window on either side of the transporter checking patiently, continuously, to see if his unauthorized entrance had been observed. It was apparent that it had not been. Satisfied, Harlow withdrew the flash-lamp from the canvas bag, switched on the red beam, stooped over the nearest Ferrari racing car and began to examine it minutely.

There were about thirty people in the hotel lobby that evening. Among them were Mary MacAlpine and her brother, Henry and the two red-haired Rafferty twins. The sound level of the conversation was notably high: the hotel had been taken over for the weekend by several of the Grand Prix teams and the racing fraternity is not particularly renowned for its inhibitions. All of them, mainly drivers but with several mechanics, had discarded their workaday clothes and were suitably attired for their evening meal which was as yet an hour distant. Henry, especially, was exceptionally resplendent in a grey pin-striped suit with a red rose in his b.u.t.tonhole. Even his moustache appeared to have been combed. Mary sat beside him with Rory a few feet away, reading a magazine, or at least appearing to do so. Mary sat silently, unsmiling, constantly gripping and twisting one of the walking sticks to which she had now graduated. Suddenly, she turned to Henry.

'Where does does Johnny go each evening. We hardly ever see him after dinner nowadays.' Johnny go each evening. We hardly ever see him after dinner nowadays.'

'Johnny?' Henry adjusted the flower in his b.u.t.tonhole. 'No idea, miss. Maybe he prefers his own company. Maybe he finds the food better elsewhere. Maybe anything.'

Rory still held the magazine before his face. Clearly however he was not reading for his eyes were very still. But, at the moment, his whole being was not in his eyes but in his ears.

Mary said : 'Maybe it's not just the food that he finds better elsewhere.'

'Girls, miss? Johnny Harlow's not interested in girls.' He leered at her in what he probably imagined to be a roguish fas.h.i.+on in keeping with the gentlemanly splendour of his evening wear. 'Except for a certain you-know-who.'

'Don't be such a fool.' Mary MacAlpine was not always milk and roses. 'You know what I mean.'

'What do do you mean, miss?' you mean, miss?'

'Don't be clever with me, Henry.'

Henry a.s.sumed the sad expression of the continuously misjudged.

'I'm not clever enough to be clever with anybody.'

Mary looked at him in cold speculation then abruptly turned away. Rory just as quickly averted his own head. He was looking very thoughtful indeed and the expression superimposed upon the thoughtfulness could hardly be described as pleasant.

Harlow, the hooded red light giving all the illumination he required, probed the depths of a box of spares. Suddenly, he half straightened, c.o.c.ked his head as if to listen, switched off the torch, went to a side window and peered out. The evening darkness had deepened until it was now almost night, but a yellowish half-moon drifting behind scattered cloud gave just enough light to see by. Two men were heading across the transporter park, heading straight towards the Coronado unit, which was less than twenty feet from where Harlow stood watching. There was no difficulty at all in identifying them as MacAlpine and Jacobson. Harlow made his way to the Ferrari transporter's door, unlocked it and cautiously opened it just sufficiently to give him a view of the Coronado transporter's door. MacAlpine was just inserting his key in the lock. MacAlpine said : 'So there's no doubt then. Harlow wasn't imagining things. Fourth gear is stripped.'

'Completely.'

'So he may be in the clear after all?' There was a note almost of supplication in MacAlpine's voice.

There's more than one way of stripping a gear.' Jacobson's tone offered very little in the way of encouragement.

'There's that, I suppose, there's that. Come on, let's have a look at this d.a.m.ned gear-box.'

Both men pa.s.sed inside and lights came on. Harlow, unusually half-smiling, nodded slowly, closed and gently locked the door and resumed his search. He acted with the same circ.u.mspection as he had in the Cagliari pits, forcing open crates and boxes, when this was necessary, with the greatest of care so that they could be closed again to show the absolute minimum of offered violence. He operated with speed and intense concentration, pausing only once at the sound of a noise outside. He checked the source of the noise, saw MacAlpine and Jacobson descending the steps of the Coronado transporter and walk away across the deserted compound. Harlow returned to his work.

CHAPTER FOUR

When Harlow finally returned to the hotel, the lobby, which also served as the bar, was crowded with hardly a seat left vacant and a group of at least a dozen men pressing in close against the bar. MacAlpine and Jacob-son were sitting at a table with Dunnet. Mary, Henry and Rory were still sitting in the same seats. As Harlow closed the street door behind him, the dinner gong sounded -it was that kind of small country hotel, deliberately so styled, where everyone ate at the same time or not. at all. It was a great convenience to management and staff though somewhat less so to the guests. The guests were rising as Harlow made his way across the lobby towards the stairs. n.o.body greeted him, few even bothered to look at him. MacAlpine, Jacobson and Dunnet ignored him entirely. Rory scowled at him in open contempt. Mary glanced briefly at him, bit her lip and quickly looked away again. Two months previously it would have taken Johnny Harlow five minutes to reach the foot of those stairs. That evening he made it in under ten seconds. If he was in any way dismayed by his reception he hid 'his concern well. His face was as impa.s.sive as that of a wooden Indian's.

Arrived in his bedroom, he washed cursorily, combed his hair, crossed to a cupboard, reached for a high shelf, brought down a bottle of scotch, went into the bathroom, sipped some of the scotch, swirled it round his mouth then grimaced and spat it out. He left the gla.s.s, with its still almost untouched contents, on the basin ledge, returned the bottle to the cupboard and made his way down to the dining-room.

He was the last arrival. A complete stranger entering would have been paid more attention than was accorded to him. Harlow was no longer the person to be seen with. The dining-room was pretty well filled but not to capacity. Most of the tables held four people, a handful held only two. Of the tables that held four people, only three had as few as three people at them. Of the tables for two, only Henry sat alone. Harlow's mouth quirked, so briefly, perhaps even involuntarily, that it could have been more imagined than seen, then, without hesitation, he crossed the dining-room and sat down at Henry's table.

Harlow said : 'May I, Henry?'

'Be my guest, Mr. Harlow.' Henry was cordiality itself, and cordial he remained throughout the meal, talking at length on a wide variety of utterly inconsequential subjects which, try as he might, Harlow found of only minimal interest. Henry's intellectual reach was normally limited in its nature and Harlow found that it was only with considerable difficulty that he could keep up his conversational end against Henry's pedestrian plat.i.tudes. To make matters worse he had to listen to Henry's observations from a distance of about six inches, an aesthetic ordeal in itself, as at even a distance of several yards Henry could not, with all charity, have been called photogenic. But Henry appeared to have considered this close-range exchange of intimacies as essential and, in the circ.u.mstances, Harlow would have found it hard to disagree with him. The silence in the dining-room that evening was more in the nature of a cathedral hush, one that could not have been attributed to a beatific enjoyment of die food which was of a standard to earn for the Austrians the most astronomical odds against in the culinary stakes. It was plain to Harlow, as it was plain to all present, that the very fact of his being there had an almost totally inhibitory effect on normal conversation. Henry, consequently, considered it prudent to lower his voice to a graveyard whisper that could not be heard beyond the confines of their table which in turn necessitated this very personal face-to-face approach. Harlow felt but did not express his profound relief when the meal was over: Henry also suffered from a severe case of halitosis.

Harlow was among the last to rise. He drifted aimlessly into the now again crowded lobby. He stood there in apparent irresolution, quite ignored and glancing idly around. Mary he saw there, and Rory, while at the far end of the lobby MacAlpine was engaged with, what appeared to be some form of desultory conversation with Henry.

MacAlpine said: 'Well?'

Henry was wearing his self-righteous expression. 'Smelled like a distillery, sir.'

MacAlpine smiled faintly. 'Coming from Glasgow, you should know something about those things. A good job. I owe you an apology, Henry.'

Henry inclined his head. 'Granted, Mr. MacAlpine.'

Harlow averted his head from this tableau. He hadn't heard a word of the exchange but then he didn't have to hear it. Suddenly, like a man making up his mind, he headed for the street door. Mary saw him go, looked around to see if she was being observed, came to the apparent conclusion that she wasn't, gathered up her two sticks and limped after him. Rory, in his turn, waited for about ten seconds after his sister's departure then drifted aimlessly towards the door.

Five minutes later Harlow entered a cafe and took a seat at an empty table where he could keep an eye on the entrance. A pretty young waitress approached, opened her eyes and then smiled charmingly. There were few young people of either s.e.x in Europe who did not recognize Harlow on sight.

Harlow smiled back. Tonic and water, please.'

The eyes opened even wider. 'I beg your pardon, sir.'

'Tonic and water.'

The waitress, whose opinion of world champion drivers had clearly suffered a sudden revision, brought the drink. He sipped it occasionally, keeping an eye on the entrance door, then frowned as the door opened and Mary, clearly in a very apprehensive mood, entered the cafe. She saw Harlow at once, limped across the room and sat down at the table.

She said: 'Hallo, Johnny,' in the voice of one who was far from sure of her reception.

'I must say I'd expected someone else.'

'You what?'

'Someone else.'

'I don't understand. Who-'

'No matter.' Harlow's tone was as brusque as his words. 'Who sent you here to spy on me?'

'Spy on you? Spy on you?' She stared at him, the expression on her face one of lack of understanding rather than incredulity. 'What on earth can you mean?'

Harlow remained implacable. 'Surely you know what the word 'spy' means?'

'Oh, Johnny!' The hurt in the big brown eyes was as unmistakable as that in the voice. 'You know I'd never spy on you.'

Harlow relented, but only marginally. then why are you here?'

'Aren't you pleased just to see me?'

That's neither here nor there. What are you doing in this cafe?'

'I was - I was just pa.s.sing by and -'

'And you saw me and came in.' Abruptly he pushed back his chain and rose. 'Wait here.'

Harlow went to the front door, glanced at it briefly and opened it, stepping just outside. He turned and looked for several seconds back up the way he had come, then turned round and looked down the street. But his interest lay in neither direction, but in a doorway directly across the street. A figure stood there, pushed back deeply into the recess. Without appearing to have noticed him, Harlow re-entered the cafe, closed the door behind him and returned to his seat.

He said: 'Aren't you lucky to have -those X-ray eyes. Frosted gla.s.s all the way and yet you see me sitting here.'

'All right, Johnny.' She sounded very weary. 'I followed you. I'm worried. I'm dreadfully worried.'