The Way to Dusty Death (17 page)

‘Come back to me, Johnny.’

‘I’ll always come back to you, Mary.’

She tried to smile through her tears. It was not a very successful effort. She said : ‘Another slip of the tongue?’

That was not a slip of the tongue.’ Harlow turned his leather collar high, descended the steps and walked quickly through the driving rain. He did not look back.

Less than one hour later Harlow and Giancarlo were occupying -the two arm-chairs in Giancarlo’s scientific laboratory. Harlow was leafing through a thick pile of glossy photographs. Harlow said : ‘I’m a very competent cameraman, although I do say so myself.’

Giancarlo nodded. ‘Indeed, And very full of human interest, those subjects of yours. We are, alas, temporarily baffled by the Tracchia and Neubauer documents, but then that makes them even more interesting, don’t you think? Not that MacAlpine and Jacobson are lacking in interest. Far from it. Do you know that MacAlpine has paid out just over £140,000 in the past six months?’

‘I guessed it was a lot - but
that
much! Even for a millionaire that must bite. What are the chances of identifying the lucky recipient?’

‘At present, zero. It’s a Zurich numbered account. But if they are presented with proved criminal acts, especially murder, the Swiss banks will open up.’

Harlow said: They’ll get their evidence.’

Giancarlo looked at Harlow in lengthy speculation, then nodded. ‘I should not be surprised. Now, as for our friend Jacobson, he must be the wealthiest mechanic in Europe. His addresses, incidentally, are those of the leading book-makers of Europe.’

‘Gambling on the gee-gees?’

Giancarlo gave him a pitying look. ‘No great feat to find what it was, the dates made it easy. Each lodgement was made two or three days after a Grand Prix race.’

‘Well, well. An enterprising lad is our Jacobson. Opens up a whole new vista of fascinating possibilities, doesn’t it?’

‘Doesn’t it, now? You can take those photographs. I have duplicates.’

Thank you very much indeed.’ Harlow handed back the photographs. think I want to be caught with that bloody lot on me?’

Harlow said his thanks and goodbye and drove straight to the police station. On duty was the inspector who had been there in the early hours of the morning. His former geniality had quite deserted him: he now had about him a definitely lugubrious air.

Harlow said: ‘Has Luigi the Light-fingered been singing sweet songs?’

The inspector shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, our little canary has lost his voice.’

‘Meaning?’

‘His medicine did not agree with him. I fear, Mr. Harlow, that you dealt with him in so heroic a fashion that he required pain-killing tablets every hour. I had four men guarding him — two outside the room, two inside. Ten minutes before noon this ravishingly beautiful young blonde nurse — that’s how those cretins describe her-’

‘Cretins?’

‘My sergeant and his three men. She left two tablets and a glass of water and asked the sergeant to see that he took his medicine exactly at noon. Sergeant Fleury is nothing if not gallant so precisely at noon he gave Luigi his medicine.’

‘What was the medicine?’

‘Cyanide.’

It was late afternoon when Harlow drove the red Ferrari into the courtyard of the deserted farm just south of the Vignolles airfield. The door of the empty barn was open. Harlow took the car inside, stopped the engine and got out, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom of the windowless barn. He was still trying to do this when a stocking-masked figure seemed to materialize out of this self-same gloom. Despite the almost legendary speed of his reactions Harlow had no time to get at his gun, for the figure was less -than six feet away and already swinging what looked like a pick-axe handle. Harlow catapulted himself forward, getting in below the vicious swing of the club, his shoulder crashing into his assailant just below the breast-bone. The man, completely winded, gasped in agony, staggered backwards and fell heavily with Harlow on top of him, one hand on the prostrate man’s throat while with the other he reached for his gun.

He did not even manage to get the gun clear of his pocket. He heard the faintest of sounds behind him and twisted round just in time to see another masked figure and a swinging club and catch the full impact of a vicious blow on the right forehead and temple. He collapsed without a sound. The man whom Harlow had winded climbed unsteadily to his feet and although still bent almost double in pain swung his leg and kicked Harlow full in his unconscious and unprotected face. It was perhaps fortunate for Harlow that his attacker was still in so weakened a state otherwise the kick might well have been lethal. Clearly, his attacker was dissatisfied with his initial effort for he drew his foot back again but his companion dragged him away before he could put his potentially lethal intentions into effect. The winded man, still bent over, staggered to and sat on a convenient bench while the other man proceeded to search the unconscious Harlow in a very thorough fashion indeed.

It was noticeably darker inside the barn when Harlow slowly began to come to. He stirred, moaned, then shakily raised shoulders and body off -the ground until he was at arm’s length from it. He remained in this position for some time then, with what was clearly a Herculean effort, managed to stagger to his feet where he remained uncontrollably swaying like a drunken man. His face felt as if it had been struck by a passing Coronado. After a minute or two, more by instinct than anything else, he lurched out of the garage, crossed the courtyard, falling down twice in the process, and made his erratic way towards the airfield tarmac.

The rain had now stopped falling and the sky was beginning to clear. Dunnet had just emerged from the canteen and was heading towards the chalet when he caught sight of -this staggering figure, less than fifty yards away, weaving its seemingly alcoholic way across the airfield tarmac. For a moment Dunnet stood like a man turned to stone, then broke into a dead run. He reached Harlow in seconds, put a supporting arm around his shoulders as he stared into his face, a face now barely recognizable. The forehead was wickedly gashed and hideously bruised and the blood that had seeped — and was still seeping —had completely masked the right side of his face and blinded his right eye. The left-hand side of the face was in little better condition. The left cheek was one huge bruise with a transverse cut. He bled from nose and mouth, his lip was split and at least two teeth were missing.

‘Christ Almighty!’ Dunnet said. ‘Dear Christ Almighty!’

Dunnet half-guided, half-carried the staggering, semiconscious Harlow across the tarmac, up the steps, across the porch and into the hall of -the chalet. Dunnet cursed under his breath as Mary chose just that moment to emerge from the living-room. She stood stock-still for a moment, brown eyes huge in a white appalled face, and when she spoke her voice was a barely audible whisper.

‘Johnny!’ she said. ‘Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. What have they done to you?’

She reached forward and gently touched the blood-masked face, beginning to tremble uncontrollably as the tears rolled down her face.

‘No time for tears, Mary, my dear.’ Dunnet’s voice was deliberately brisk. ‘Warm water, sponge, towel. After that, bring the first-aid box. On no account are you to tell your father. We’ll be in the lounge.’

Five minutes later, in the lounge, a basin of bloodstained water and a bloodstained towel lay at Harlow’s feet. His face was clear of blood now and the end result was, if anything, worse looking than ever inasmuch as the gashes and bruises stood out in clear relief. Dunnet, ruthlessly applying iodine and antiseptics, was taping up the gashes and from the frequent wincing expressions on the face of his patient, it was clear that Harlow was suffering considerably. He put finger and thumb inside his mouth, wrenched, winced again and came out with a tooth which he regarded with disfavour before dropping into the basin. When he spoke, despite the thickness of his speech, it was clear that however damaged he might have been physically, mentally he was back on balance.

‘You and me, Alexis. I think we should have our photographs taken. For the family albums. How do we compare for looks?’

Dunnet examined him judicially. ‘About even-stephen, I should say.’

True, true. Mind you, I think nature gave me an unfair start over you.’

‘Stop it, stop it, will you.’ Mary was openly crying. ‘He’s hurt, he’s terribly hurt. I’m going to get a doctor.’

‘No question.’ The bantering note had left Harlow’s voice and there was iron in it now. ‘No doctors. No stitches. Later. Not tonight.’

Mary, her eyes brimming with tears, gazed fixedly at the glass of brandy Harlow held in his hand. The hand was steady as that of a stone statue. She said, not with bitterness, only a dawning of understanding: ‘You fooled us all. The nerve-shattered world champion with the shaking hands. You fooled us all the time. Didn’t you, Johnny?’

‘Yes. Please leave the room, Mary.’

‘I swear I’ll never talk. Not even to Daddy.’

‘Leave the room.’

‘Leave her be,’ Dunnet said. ‘If you talk, Mary, you know he’d never look at you again. My God, it never rains but it pours. You’re our second alarm this afternoon. Tweedledum and Tweedledee are missing.’

Dunnet looked at Harlow for his reaction but there was none.

Harlow said: They were working on the transporter at the time.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘How the hell do you know?’

‘In the south hangar. With Jacobson.’

Dunnet nodded slowly.

They saw too much,’ Harlow said. too much. It must have been by accident because
God
knows they weren’t overburdened by intelligence. But they saw too much. What’s Jacobson’s story?’

The twins went for a tea-break. When they didn’t come back after forty minutes, he went looking for them. They’d just vanished.’

‘Did they, in fact, go to the canteen?’ Dunnet shook his head. Then if they’re ever found it will be in the bottom of a ravine or a canal. Remember Jacques and Henry in the Coronado garage?’ Dunnet nodded. ‘Jacob-son said they’d become homesick and gone home. They’ve gone home all right —in the same way that Tweedledum and Tweedledee have gone home. He’s got two new mechanics down there but only one turned up for work this morning. The other didn’t. I’ve no proof, but I’ll get it. The missing lad didn’t turn up because I put him in hospital in the middle hours of the night.’

Dunnet showed no reaction. Mary stared at Harlow with unbelieving horror in her eyes.

Harlow went on: ‘Sorry, Mary. Jacobson is a killer, murderer if you like. He’ll stop at nothing to protect his own interests. I know he was responsible for the death of my young brother in the first Grand Prix of this season. That was what first made Alexis persuade me to work for him.’

Mary said in total disbelief: ‘You work for Alexis? A journalist?’

Harlow went on as if he had not heard her. ‘He tried to kill me in the French Grand Prix. I have photographic proof. He was responsible for Jethou’s death. He tried to get me last night but using a fake police trap to stop the transporter. He was responsible for the murder of a man in Marseilles today.’

Dunnet said calmly: ‘Who?’

‘Luigi the Light-fingered. He was fed a pain-reliever in hospital today. It certainly removed him from all pain — permanently. Cyanide. Jacobson was the only person who knew about Luigi so he had him eliminated before he could sing to the police. My fault — I’d told Jacobson. My fault. But I’d no option at the time.’

‘I can’t believe it.’ Mary was totally bewildered. ‘I
can’t
believe it. This is a nightmare.’

‘Believe what you like. Just stay a mile away from Jacobson. He’ll read your face like a book and will begin to become very interested in you. I should hate for Jacobson to become very interested in you, I’d rather you didn’t end up in a gravel pit. And always remember—you’re crippled for life and Jacobson did it.’

While he had been talking, Harlow had been carrying out a thorough examination of his pockets.

‘Cleaned out,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Completely. Wallet, passport, driving licence, money, car keys —but I have spares. All my skeleton keys.’ He pondered briefly. That means I’ll require a rope, hook and tarpaulin from the transporter. And then — ‘

Mary interrupted, fear in her eyes. ‘You’re not —you can’t go out again tonight! You should be in hospital.’

Harlow glanced at her briefly, expressionlessly, then went on : ‘And then, of course, they took my gun. I shall require another, Alexis. And some money.’

Harlow pushed himself to his feet, walked quickly and quietly to the door and jerked it open. Rory, who had clearly been listening with his ear pressed hard against the door, more or less fell into the room. Harlow seized him by the hair and Rory yelped in agony as Harlow straightened him up.

Harlow said: ‘Look at my face, Rory.’

Rory looked, winced and the colour drained from his own.

Harlow said : ‘You’re responsible for that, Rory.’

Suddenly, without warning, he struck Rory flatly handed across the left cheek. It was a heavy blow and would normally have sent Rory reeling but he couldn’t in this case because Harlow’s left hand was firmly entwined in his hair. Harlow struck him again, backhanded and with equal force, across the right cheek, then proceeded to repeat the process with metronomic regularity.

Mary screamed: ‘Johnny! Johnny! Have you gone mad?’ She made to throw herself at Harlow but Dunnet moved swiftly to pin her arms from behind. Dunnet appeared remarkably unperturbed by the turn events had taken.

‘I’m going to keep this up, Rory,’ Harlow said, ‘until you feel the way I look.’

Harlow kept it up. Rory made no attempt to resist or retaliate. His head was beginning to roll from side to side, quite helplessly, as Harlow continued to strike him repeatedly. Then, considering that the softening-up process had probably gone far enough, Harlow stopped.

Harlow said: ‘I want information. I want the truth. I want it now. You eavesdropped on Mr. Dunnet and myself this afternoon, did you not?’

Rory’s voice was a trembling pain-wracked whisper. ‘No! No! I swear I didn’t. I swear—’