The Way to Dusty Death (6 page)

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 passed 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 buttonhole. 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
Johnny go each evening. We hardly ever see him after dinner nowadays.’

‘Johnny?’ Henry adjusted the flower in his buttonhole. ‘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 fashion 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
you mean, miss?’

‘Don’t be clever with me, Henry.’

Henry assumed 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, cocked 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 damned gear-box.
^’

Both men passed 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 circumspection 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. Nobody 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 impassive 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 glass, 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 platitudes. 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 circumstances, 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 sex 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 passing 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 glass 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.’

‘Aren’t we all now and again. You should see me out on those race-tracks at times.’ He paused, then added with apparent inconsequence:
‘Was
Rory still in the hotel when you left?’

She blinked her puzzlement. ‘Yes. Yes he was. I saw him. Just as I was leaving.’

‘Could he have seen you?’

‘That’s a funny question.’

‘I’m a funny fellow. Ask anyone around the racetracks. Could he have seen you?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose he could. Why-why all this concern about Rory?’

T wouldn’t like the poor little lad to be abroad in the streets at night and maybe catch a chill. Or maybe even get mugged.’ Harlow paused consideringly. there’s a thought, now.’

‘Oh, stop it, Johnny! Stop it! I know, Well I know he can’t stand the sight of you, won’t even speak to you ever since — ever since —’

‘Ever since I crippled you.’

‘Oh, dear God!’ The distress in the face was very real. ‘He’s my brother, Johnny, but he’s not me. Can I help it if — look, whatever his grudge, can’t you forget it? You’re the kindest man in die world, Johnny Harlow —’

‘Kindness doesn’t pay, Mary.’

‘You still are. I know you are. Can’t you forget it? Can’t you forgive him? You’re big enough, much more than big enough. Besides, he’s only a boy. You’re a man. What danger is he to you? What harm can he do you?’

‘You should see what harm a dangerous nine-year-old can do in Vietnam when he has a rifle in his hands.’

She pushed her chair back. The tonelessness in her voice belied the tears in her eyes. She said: ‘Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have bothered you. Good night, Johnny.’

He laid a gentle hand on her wrist and she made no move to withdraw it, merely sat waiting there with a numbed despair on her face. He said : ‘Don’t go. I just wanted to make sure of something.’