The Way to Dusty Death (21 page)

One minute later Harlow, Rory and a blackly scowling Tracchia were in
The Chevalier’s
brightly lit saloon.

Harlow said: ‘No one aboard, it seems. I take it that Mrs. MacAlpine is behind that locked door below. I want the key, Tracchia.’

A deep voice said: ‘Stand still. Don’t turn round.

‘Drop that gun.’

Harlow stood still, didn’t turn round and dropped his gun. The seaman walked into the saloon from the after door.

Tracchia smiled, almost beatifically. That was well done, Pauli.’

‘My pleasure, Signor Tracchia.’ He passed by Rory, gave him a contemptuous shove that sent him reeling into a corner of the settee and moved forward to pick up Harlow’s gun.

‘You drop
your
gun. Now!’ Rory’s voice had a most distinct quaver to it.

Pauli swung around, an expression of total astonishment on his face. Rory had a gun clutched in two very unsteady hands.

Pauli smiled broadly. ‘Well, well, well. What a brave little gamecock.’ He brought up his gun.

Rory’s hands and arms were trembling like an aspen leaf in an autumn gale. He compressed his lips, screwed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger. In that confined space the report of the gun was deafening but even so not loud enough to drown out Pauli’s shout of agony. Pauli stared down in stupefaction as the blood from his shattered right shoulder seeped down between the clutching fingers of his left hand. Tracchia, too, wore a similarly bemused expression, one that changed to one of considerable pain as Harlow’s vicious swinging left hook sank deeply into his stomach. He bent double, Harlow struck him on the back of the neck but Tracchia was tough and durable. Still bent almost double, he staggered through the after door out on to the deck. As he did so, he passed Rory, very pale and looking very faint and clearly through with shooting exploits for the night. It was as well. Harlow was in such close pursuit that he might well have been the victim of Rory’s extremely wobbly marksmanship.

Rory looked at the wounded Pauli then at the two guns lying at his feet. Rory rose and pointed his gun at Pauli. He said : ‘Sit down.’

Pain-wracked though he was, Pauli moved with alacrity to obey. There was no saying where Rory’s next unpredictable shot might lodge itself. As he moved to a corner of the saloon the sound of blows and grunts of pain could be clearly heard from outside. Rory scooped up the two guns and ran through the after door.

On deck, the fight had clearly reached its climax. Tracchia, his wildly flailing feet clear of the deck and his body arched like a bow, had his back on the guardrail and the upper half of his body over the water. Harlow’s hands were on his throat. Tracchia, in turn, was belabouring Harlow’s already sadly battered and bruised face, but the belabouring was of no avail. Harlow, his face implacable, pushed him farther and farther out. Suddenly changing his tactics, he removed his right hand from Tracchia’s throat, hooked it under his thighs and proceeded to tip him over the guard-rail. When Tracchia spoke, his voice came as a wholly understandable croak.

‘I can’t swim! I can’t swim!’

If Harlow had heard him there was not even the most minuscule change of expression on his face to register that fact. He gave a final convulsive heave, the flailing legs disappeared and Tracchia entered the water with a, resounding splash that threw water as high as Harlow’s face. A barred cloud had at last crossed the moon. Harlow gazed down intently into the water for about fifteen seconds, produced ‘his torch and made a complete circuit of the water around the yacht until he arrived back at his starting place. Again, still breathing deeply and quickly, he peered over the side, then turned to Rory. He said: ‘Maybe he Was right at that. Maybe he can’t swim.’

Rory tore off his jacket. ‘I can swim. I’m a very good swimmer, Mr. Harlow.’

Harlow’s iron hand grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. ‘You, Rory, are out of your mind.’

Rory looked at him for a long moment, nodded, picked up his jacket and put it on again. He said: ‘Vermin?’

‘Yes.’ They went back into the saloon. Pauli was still huddled in a settee, moaning. Harlow said: The key to Mrs. MacAlpine’s cabin.’

Pauli nodded in the direction of a cabinet drawer. Harlow found the key, removed the first-aid box from its clip on the bulkhead, ushered Pauli below at the point of his gun, opened the first cabin door, gestured Pauli inside and threw in the first-aid box. He said: ‘I’ll have a doctor here within half an hour. Meantime, I don’t care a damn whether you live or die.’ He left and locked the cabin door from the outside.

In the next cabin, a woman of about forty sat on a stool by her bunk. Pale and thin from her long confinement, she was still quite beautiful. The resemblance to her daughter was startling. She was listless, totally apathetic, the epitome of resignation and despair. The sound of the gun and the commotion on the upper deck could not have gone unregistered, but no signs of registration showed in her face.

A key turned in the lock, the door opened and Harlow came in. She made no move. He walked to within three feet of her and still she gazed uncaringly downwards.

Harlow touched her shoulder and said, very gently: ‘I’ve come to take you home, Marie.’

She turned her head in slow and unbelieving wonderment, initially and understandably not recognizing the battered face before her. Then, slowly, almost incredulously, recognition dawned upon her. She rose unsteadily to her feet, half smiled at him, then tremblingly took a step forward, put her thin arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

‘Johnny Harlow,’ she whispered. ‘My dear, dear Johnny. Johnny Harlow. What have they done to your face?’

‘Nothing that time won’t cure,’ Harlow said briskly. ‘After all, it wasn’t all that hot to begin with.’ He patted her back as if to reassure her of his actual presence, then gently disengaged himself. ‘I think there’s someone else who would like to see you, Marie.’

For someone who claimed that he could not swim, Tracchia was cleaving through the water like a torpedo. He reached the landing steps, scrambled up to the quay, and headed for the nearest phone booth. He put through a .reverse charge call to Vignolles and had to stand there for almost five minutes before his call came through: the French telephone service is not world renowned. He asked for Jacobson and finally reached him in his bedroom. Tracchia’s account of the evening’s happenings were succinct and to the point but could have been shorter as it was heavily burdened with a wide range of expletives.  ‘So that’s it, Jake,’ Tracchia finished up. That bastard has outsmarted us all.’

Jacobson’s face, as he sat on his bed, was tight with anger but he was clearly in control of himself. He said : ‘Not quite yet. So we’ve lost our ace in the hole. We’ll just have to get ourselves another one, won’t we? You understand? Meet you at Bandol inside the hour. Usual ‘place.’

‘Passport?
^’

‘Yes.’

‘In my bedside table drawer. And for Christ’s sake bring me a set of dry clothing or I’ll have pneumonia before the night is out.’

Tracchia emerged from the phone booth. He was actually smiling. He went to take up position among some crates and barrels, seeking a safe position where he could keep
The Chevalier
under observation and, in the process of doing so, literally tripped over the prostrate Yonnie.

‘Good God, Yonnie, I’d forgotten just where you were’.’ The bound and gagged man looked up with pleading eyes. Tracchia shook his head. ‘Sorry, can’t untie you yet. That bastard Harlow, young MacAlpine rather, has shot Pauli. I had to swim for it. The two of them will be coming ashore any minute. Harlow may check whether you’re still here. If he does, and you’re gone, he’ll raise a hue and cry immediately: if you’re still here he’ll reckon that you can be left in cold storage for a while. Gives us more time to play with. When they’ve landed and gone take the dinghy out to
The Chevalier.
Find a bag and stuff it with all the papers in the two top drawers of the chart-table. God, if the police were ever to lay hands on that lot! Among other things, your days would be numbered. You’ll take them to your place in Marseilles in my car and wait mere. If you get those papers you’re in the clear. Harlow didn’t recognize you, it was too dark in the shadows here, nobody even knows your name. Understand?’

Yonnie nodded glumly then turned his head in the direction of the harbor. Tracchia nodded. The sound of the outboard was unmistakable and soon the dinghy appeared in sight round the bows of
The Chevalier.
Tracchia prudently withdrew twenty or thirty yards along the waterfront. The dinghy came alongside the landing steps and Rory was the first out, painter in hand. As he secured the dinghy, Harlow helped Marie ashore, then followed himself, her suitcase in his hand. His gun was in his other hand. Tracchia toyed briefly with the idea of way-laying Harlow in the shadows but almost immediately and very prudently changed his mind. He knew that Harlow would be in no mood to be taking any chances and, if necessary, would shoot and shoot to kill without the slightest compunction.

Harlow came straight to where Yonnie lay, bent over him, straightened and said: ‘He’ll keep.
^’
The three crossed the road to the nearest phone booth —the one that Tracchia had lately occupied-and Harlow went inside. Tracchia moved stealthily along behind the cover of barrels and crates until he reached Yonnie. He produced a knife and cut him free. Yonnie sat up and he had the expression of a man who would have given a great deal to be able to shout in pain. He rubbed hands and wrists in agony: Rory was no respecter of circulations. By and by, gingerly and clearly not enjoying the process, he removed the insulated tape from his face. He opened his mouth but Tracchia clapped his hand across it to prevent what would be doubtless a torrential outpouring of imprecations.

‘Quiet,’ Tracchia whispered. they’re just on the other side of the road. Harlow’s in the phone booth.’ He removed his hand. ‘When they leave, I’m going to follow them to see that they do really leave Bandol. As soon as they’re out of sight, get down to the dinghy. Use -the oars. We don’t want Harlow hearing the outboard start up and coming back to investigate.’

‘Me? Row?’ Yonnie said huskily. He flexed his fingers and winced. ‘My hands are dead.’

‘You’d better get them back to life fast,’ Tracchia said unfeelingly.
‘Or you’re
going to be dead. Ah, now.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘He’s just left the phone box. Be dead quiet. That bastard Harlow can hear a leaf drop twenty feet away.’

Harlow, Rory and Mrs. MacAlpine walked up a street away from the waterfront. They turned a corner and disappeared. Tracchia said: ‘Get going.’

He watched Yonnie head for the landing steps then followed quickly after the trio in front. For about three minutes he trailed them at a very discreet distance indeed, then lost sight of them as they turned another left corner. He peered cautiously round the corner, saw that it was a cul-de-sac, hesitated and then stiffened as he heard the unmistakable sound of a Ferrari engine starting up. Shivering violently in his still soaking clothes, he pressed himself into the darkness of a recessed and’ unlit alleyway. The Ferrari emerged from the cul-de-sac, turned left and headed north out of Bandol. Tracchia watched it go then hurried back to the phone booth. ‘ There was the usual frustrating delay in getting through to Vignolles. Eventually, he succeeded in reaching Jacobson. He said: ‘Harlow’s just left with Rory and Mrs. MacAlpine. He made a phone call before he left -almost certainly to Vignolles to tell MacAlpine that he’s got his wife back. I’d leave by the back door if I were you.’

‘No worry,’ Jacobson sounded confident. ‘I am leaving by the back door. The fire-escape. I’ve already got our cases in the Aston and our passports in my pocket. I’m now on my way to collect our third passport. See you. ‘

Tracchia replaced the receiver. He was about to open the booth door when he stopped and stood as if a man turned to stone. A large black Citroen had slid silently down to the waterfront, showing only side-lights. Even those were switched off before the car came to a halt. No flashing lights, no howling sirens —but it was indisputably a police car and one paying a very private visit. Four uniformed policemen came out of the car. Tracchia pried open the door of the booth so that the automatic light went out, then leaned as far back as possible, praying that he wouldn’t be seen. He wasn’t. The four policemen at once disappeared behind the -barrels where Yonnie had been, two of them with lit torches in hand, and reappeared within ten seconds, one of them carrying some unidentifiable objects in his hand. Tracchia did not need to see it to know what the man was carrying — the twine and black tape that had immobilized and silenced Yonnie. The four policemen held a brief conference then headed for the landing steps. Twenty seconds later a rowing boat was heading purposefully but silently towards
The Chevalier.

Tracchia emerged from the booth, fists clenched, his face black with anger and softly but audibly swearing to himself. The only printable word, and one that was repeated many times, was ‘Harlow’. The bitter realization had come to Tracchia that Harlow had not phoned Vignolles: he had phoned the local police.

In her room in Vignolles Mary was getting ready for dinner when a knock came at her door. She opened it to find Jacobson standing there. He said: ‘Can I have a private word with you, Mary? It’s very important.’

She regarded him with mild astonishment then opened the door for him to enter. Jacobson closed the door behind him.

She said curiously: ‘What’s so important? What do you want?’

Jacobson pulled a gun from his waist-band. ‘You. I’m in trouble and I need some form of security to make sure that I don’t get into more trouble. You’re the security. Pack an overnight bag and give me your passport’

She gave him her passport and packed the bag. Jacobson crossed to the bed and snapped shut the catches of her case. ‘You’d better come now.’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Now, I said.’ He lifted his gun menacingly.