The Way to Dusty Death

CHAPTER FIVE

To the Grand Prix racing fraternity of the world, as to seasoned travellers everywhere, a hotel is a hotel is a hotel, a place to sleep, a place to eat, a stopover to the next faceless anonymity. The newly-built Villa- Hotel Cessni on the outskirts of Monza, however, could fairly claim to be an exception to the truism. Superbly designed, superbly built and superbly landscaped, its huge airy rooms with their immaculately designed furniture, their luxurious bathrooms, splendidly sweeping balconies, sumptuous food and warmth of service, here one would have thought was the caravanserai nonpareil for the better-heeled millionaire.

And so it would be, one day, but not yet. The Villa-Hotel Cessni had as yet to establish its clientele, its image, its reputation and, hopefully and eventually, its traditions and for the achievement of — those infinitely desirable ends, the fair uses of publicity, for luxury hotels as for hotdog stands, could be very sweet indeed. No sport on earth has a more international following and it was with this in mind that the management had deemed it prudent to invite the major Grand Prix teams to accommodate themselves in this palace, for a ludicrously low nominal fee, for the duration of the Italian Grand Prix. Few teams had failed to accept the invitation and fewer still cared to exercise their minds with the philosophical and psychological motivations of the management: all they knew and cared about was that the Hotel-Villa Cessni was infinitely more luxurious and fractionally cheaper than the several Austrian hotels they had so gratefully abandoned only twelve days ago. Next year, it seemed likely, they wouldn’t even be allowed to sleep stacked six-deep in the basement: but that was next year.

That Friday evening late in August was warm but by no means warm enough to justify air-conditioning. Nevertheless, the air-conditioning in the lobby of the Hotel-Villa Cessni was operating at the top of its bent making the temperature in that luxuriously appointed haven from the lower classes almost uncomfortably cool. Common sense said that this interior climatic condition was wholly unnecessary: the prestige of an up and coming status symbol said that it was wholly necessary. The management was concerned with prestige to the point of obsession: the air-conditioning remained on. The Cessni was going to be the place to go when the sun rode high.

MacAlpine and Dunnet, sitting side by side but almost concealed from each other’s sight by virtue of the imposing construction of the vast velvet-lined arm-chairs in which they reclined rather than sat, had more important things on their minds than a few degrees of temperature hither and yonder. They spoke but seldom and then with a marked lack of animation: they gave the air of those who had precious little to get animated about. Dunnet stirred.

‘Our wandering boy is late on the road tonight.’

He has an excuse,’ MacAlpine said. ‘At least, I hope to hell he has. One thing, he was always a conscientious workman. He wanted a few more extra laps to adjust the suspension and gear ratios of this new car of his.’

Dunnet was gloomy. ‘It wouldn’t have been possible, I suppose, to give it to Tracchia instead?’

‘Quite impossible, Alexis, and you know it. The mighty law of protocol. Johnny’s not only Coronado’s number one, he’s still the world’s. Our dear sponsors, without which we couldn’t very well operate — I could, but I’ll be damned if I’ll lay out a fortune like that — are highly sensitive people. Sensitive to public opinion, that is. The only reason they paint the names of their damned products on the outside of our cars is that the public will go out and buy those same damned products. They’re not benefactors of racing except purely incidentally: they are simply advertisers. An advertiser wants to reach the biggest market. Ninety-nine point repeater nine per cent of that market lies outside the racing world and it doesn’t matter a damn if they know nothing about what goes on inside the racing world. It’s what they believe that matters. And they believe that Harlow still stands alone. So, Harlow gets the best and newest car. If he doesn’t, the public lose their faith in Harlow, in Coronado and in the advertisers, and not necessarily in that order.’

‘Ah, well. The days of miracles may not yet He behind us. After all, he hasn’t been observed or known to take a drink in the past twelve days. Maybe he’s going to surprise us all. And there’s only two days to go to the Italian Grand Prix.’

‘So why did he have those two bottles of scotch which you removed from his room only an hour ago?’

‘I could say he was trying to test his moral fibre but I don’t think you would believe it.’

‘Would you?’

‘Frankly, James, no.’ Dunnet relapsed into another period of gloom from which he emerged to say: ‘Any word from your agents in the south, James?’

‘Nothing. I’m afraid, Alexis, I’ve just about given up hope. Fourteen weeks now since Marie disappeared. It’s too long, it’s just too long. Had there been an accident, I would have heard. Had there been foul play, then I’m sure I would have heard. Had I been kidnap and ransom-well, that’s ridiculous, of course I would have heard. She’s just vanished. Accident, boating-I don’t know.’

‘And we’ve talked so often about amnesia.’

‘And I’ve told you so often, without immodesty, that no one as well known as Marie MacAlpine, no matter what her mental trouble, could go missing so long without being picked up.’

‘I know. Mary’s taking that pretty badly now, isn’t she?’

‘Especially in the past twelve days. Harlow. Alexis, we broke her heart — sorry, that’s quite unfair — I broke her heart in Austria. If I’d known how far she was gone — ah, but I’d no option.’

Taking her to the reception tonight?’

‘Yes. I insisted. To take her out of herself, that’s what I tell myself— or is it just to ease my conscience? Again, I don’t know. Maybe I’m making another mistake.’

‘It seems to me that that young fellow Harlow has a great deal to answer for. And this is his last chance, James? Any more crazy driving, any more fiascos, any more drinking — then it’s the chopper? That’s it?’

‘That’s entirely it.’ MacAlpine nodded in the direction of the revolving entrance doors. Think we should tell him now?’

Dunnet looked in the direction indicated. Harlow was walking across the Carrara-marbled flags. He was still clad in his customarily immaculate white racing overalls. A young and rather beautiful young girl at the desk smiled at him as he passed by. Harlow flicked her an expressionless glance and the smile froze. He continued on his way across the vast lobby and such is the respect that men accord the gods when they walk the earth that a hundred conversations died as he passed by. ‘Harlow seemed unaware of the presence of any of them, for he looked neither to left nor to right, but it was a safe assumption that those remarkable eyes missed nothing, an assumption borne out by the fact that, apparently without noticing them, he veered direction towards where MacAlpine and Dunnet sat. MacAlpine said: ‘No scotch or menthol, that’s for sure. Otherwise, he’d avoid me like the plague.’

Harlow stood before them. He said, without any inflection of irony or sarcasm: ‘Enjoying the quiet even-fall, gentlemen?’

MacAlpine answered. ‘You could say that. We might enjoy it even more if you could tell us how the new Coronado is coming along.’

‘Shaping up. Jacobson — for once — agrees with me that a slight alteration in the ratios and the rear suspension is all that’s necessary. It’ll be all right for Sunday.’

‘No complaints, then?’

‘No. It’s a fine car. Best Coronado yet. And fast.’

‘How fast?’

‘I haven’t found out yet. But we equaled the lap record the last two times out.’

‘Well, well.’ MacAlpine looked at his watch. ‘Better hurry. We have to leave for the reception in half an hour.’

‘I’m tired. I’m going to have a shower, two hours’ sleep, then some dinner. I’ve come here for the Grand Prix, not for mingling with high society.’

‘You definitely refuse to come?’

‘I refused to come last time out too. Setting a precedent, if you like.’

‘It’s obligatory, you know.’

‘In my vocabulary, obligation and compulsion are not the same things.’

‘There are three or four very important people present tonight especially just to see you.’

‘I know.’

MacAlpine paused before speaking, ‘How do you know. Only Alexis and I know.’

‘Mary told me.’ Harlow turned and walked away.

‘Well.’ Dunnet pressed his lips tightly together. the arrogant young bastard. Walking in here to tell us he’s just equalled the lap record without even trying. Thing is, I believe him. That’s why he stopped by, isn’t it?’

To tell me that he’s still the best in the business? Partly. Also to tell me to stuff my bloody reception. Also to tell me that he’ll speak to Mary whether I like it or not. And the final twist, to let me know — that Mary has no secrets from him. Where’s that damned daughter of mine?’

‘This should be interesting to see.’

‘What should be?’

‘To see if you can break a heart twice.’

MacAlpine sighed and slumped even farther back in his arm-chair. ‘I suppose you’re right, Alexis, I suppose you’re right. Mind you, I’d still like to knock their two damned young heads together.’

Harlow, clad in a white bath-robe and obviously recently showered, emerged from the bathroom and opened up his wardrobe. He brought out a fresh suit then reached up to a shelf above it. Clearly, he didn’t find what he expected to and his eyebrows lifted. He looked in a cupboard with similarly negative results. He stood in the middle of the room, pondering, then smiled widely.

He said softly: ‘Well, well, well Here we go again. Clever devils.’

From the still-smiling expression on his face, it was clear that Harlow didn’t believe his own words. He lifted the mattress, reached under, removed a flat half-bottle of scotch, examined and replaced it. From there he went into the bathroom, removed the cistern lid, lifted out a bottle of Glenfiddich malt, checked the level-it was about three-parts full, replaced it in a certain position and then put the cistern lid back in place. This he left slightly askew. He returned to his bedroom, put on a light grey suit and was just adjusting his tie when he heard the sound of a heavy engine below. He switched out the light, pulled back the curtains, opened his window and peered out cautiously.

A large coach was drawn up outside the hotel entrance and the various drivers, managers, senior mechanics and journalists who were headed for the official reception were filing aboard.

Harlow checked to see that all those whose absence that evening he considered highly desirable were. among those present, and they were — Dunnet, Tracchia, Neubauer, Jacobson and MacAlpine, the last with a very pale and downcast Mary clinging to his arm. The door closed and the bus moved off into the night.

Five minutes later, Harlow sauntered up to the reception desk. Behind it was the very pretty young girl he’d ignored on the way in. He smiled widely at her — his colleagues wouldn’t have believed it — and she, recovering quickly from the shock of seeing the other side of Harlow’s nature, smiled in return, almost blushing in embarrassed pleasure. For those outside immediate racing circles, Harlow was still — the world’s number one.

Harlow said: ‘Good evening.’

‘Good evening, Mr. Harlow, sir.’ The smile faded. ‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed your bus.’

‘I have my own private transport.’

The smile came back on again. ‘Of course, Mr. Harlow. How silly of me. Your red Ferrari. Is there something —’

‘Yes, please. I have four names here — MacAlpine, Neubauer, Tracchia and Jacobson. I wonder if you could give me their room numbers?’

‘Certainly, Mr. Harlow. But I’m afraid those gentlemen have all just left.’

‘I know. I waited until they had left.’

‘I don’t understand, sir. ‘

‘I just want to slip something under their doors. An old pre-race custom.’

‘You race drivers and your practical jokes.’ She’d almost certainly never seen a race driver until that evening but that didn’t prevent her from giving him a look of roguish understanding.

The numbers you want are 202, 208, 204 and 206.’

That’s in the order of the names I gave you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Thank you.’ Harlow touched a finger to his lips. ‘Now, not a word.’

‘Of course not, Mr. Harlow.’ She smiled conspiratorially at him as he turned away. Harlow had a sufficiently realistic assessment of his own fame to appreciate that she would talk for months about this brief encounter: just as long as she didn’t talk until that weekend was over.

He returned to his own room, took a movie camera from a suitcase, unscrewed its back, carefully scratching the dull metallic black as he did so, removed the plate and pulled out a small miniaturized camera not much larger than a packet of cigarettes. He pocketed — this, re-screwed in place the back plate of the movie camera, replaced it in his suitcase and looked thoughtfully at the small canvas bag of tools that lay there. Tonight, he would not require those: where he was going he knew where to find all the tools and flashlights he wanted. He took the bag with him and left the room.

He moved along the corridor to room 202 — MacAlpine’s room. Unlike MacAlpine, Harlow did not have to resort to devious means to obtain hotel room keys — he had some excellent sets of keys himself. He selected one of these and with the fourth key the door opened. He entered and locked the door behind him.

Having disposed of the canvas bag in the highest and virtually unreachable shelf in a wall wardrobe, Harlow proceeded to search the room thoroughly. Nothing escaped his scrutiny —

MacAlpine’s clothing, wardrobes, cupboards, suitcases. Finally he came across a locked suitcase, so small as to be almost a brief-case, fastened with locks that were very strong and peculiar indeed. But Harlow also had a set of very small and peculiar keys. Opening the small suitcase presented no difficulty whatsoever.

The interior held a kind of small travelling office, containing as it did a mass of papers, including invoices, receipts, cheque-books and contracts: the owner of the Coronado team obviously served as his own accountant. Harlow ignored everything except an elastic-bound bunch of expired cheque-books. He flipped through those quickly then stopped and stared at the front few pages of one of the cheque-books where all the payments were recorded together. He examined all four recording pages closely, shook his head in evident disbelief, pursed his lips in a soundless whistle, brought out his miniature camera and took eight pictures, two of each page.

This done, he returned everything as he had found it and left.

The corridor was deserted. Harlow moved down to 204 — Tracchia’s room — and used the same key to enter as he ‘had on MacAlpine’s door: hotel room keys have only marginal differences as they have to accommodate a master key: what Harlow had was, in fact, a master key.

As Tracchia had considerably fewer possessions than MacAlpine, the search was correspondingly easier. Again Harlow encountered another, but smaller, brief-case, the opening of which again provided him with the minimum of difficulty. There were but few papers inside and Harlow found little of interest among them except a thin book, bound in black and red, of what appeared to be a list of extremely cryptic addresses. Each address, if address it were, was headed by a single letter, followed by two or three wholly indecipherable lines of letters. It could have meant something: it could have meant nothing. Harlow hesitated, obviously in a state of indecision, shrugged, brought out his camera and photographed the pages. He left Tracchia’s room in as immaculate a condition as he had left MacAlpine’s.

Two minutes later in 208, Harlow, sitting on Neubauer’s bed with a brief-case on his lap, was no longer hesitating. The miniature camera clicked busily away: the thin black and red note-book he held in his hand was identical to the one he had found in Tracchia’s possession.

From there, Harlow moved on to the last of his four objectives — Jacobson’s room. Jacobson, it appeared, was either less discreet or less sophisticated than either Tracchia or Neubauer. He had two bank-books and when Harlow opened them he sat quite still. Jacobson’s income, it appeared from them, amounted to at least twenty times as much as he could reasonably expect to earn as a chief mechanic. Inside one of the books was a list of addresses, in plain English, scattered all over Europe. All those details Harlow faithfully recorded on his little camera. He replaced the papers in the case and the case in its original position and was on the point of leaving when he heard footsteps in the corridor. He stood, irresolute, until the footsteps came to a halt outside his door. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and was about to use it as a mask when a key turned in the lock. Harlow had time only to move swiftly and silently into a wardrobe, pulling the door quietly to behind him, when the corridor door opened and someone entered the room.

From where Harlow was, all was total darkness. He could hear someone moving around the room but had no idea from the sound as to what the source of the activity might be: for all he could tell someone might have been engaged in exactly the same pursuit as he himself had been a minute ago. Working purely by feel, he folded his handkerchief cornerwise, adjusted the straight edge to a point just below his eyes and knotted the handkerchief behind the back of his head.

The wardrobe door opened and Harlow was confronted with the spectacle of a portly, middle-aged chambermaid carrying a bolster in her hands — she’d obviously just been changing it for the night-time pillows. She, in turn, was confronted with the shadowy menacing figure of a man in a white mask. The chambermaid’s eyes turned up in her head. Soundlessly, without even as much as a sigh, she swayed and crumpled slowly towards the floor. Harlow stepped out, caught her before she hit the marble tiles and lowered her gently, using the bolster as a pillow. He moved quickly towards the opened corridor door, closed it, removed his handkerchief and proceeded to wipe all the surfaces he had touched, including the top and handle of the brief-case. Finally, he took the telephone off the hook and left it lying on the table. He left, pulling the door to behind him but not quite closing it.

He passed swiftly along the corridor, descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, went to the bar and ordered himself a drink. The barman looked at him in what came to being open astonishment.

‘You said what, sir?’ ‘Double gin and tonic is what I said.’ Yes, Mr. Harlow. Very good, Mr. Harlow.’ As impassively as he could, die barman prepared the drink which Harlow took to a wall seat situated between two potted plants. He looked across the lobby with interest. There were some signs of unusual activity at the telephone switchboard, where the girl operator was showing increasing signs of irritation. A light on her board kept flashing on and off but she was obviously having no success in contacting the room number in question. Finally, clearly exasperated, she beckoned a page boy and said something in a low voice. The page boy nodded and crossed the lobby at the properly sedate pace in keeping with the advertised ambience of the Hotel-Villa Cessna.

When he returned, it was at anything but a sedate pace. He ran across the lobby and whispered something urgently to the operator. She left her seat and only seconds later no less a personage than the manager himself appeared and hurried across the lobby. Harlow waited patiently, pretending to sip his drink from time to time. He knew that most people in the lobby were covertly studying him but was unconcerned. From where they sat he was drinking a harmless lemonade or tonic water. The barman, of course, knew better and it was as certain as that night’s sundown that one of the first things that MacAlpine would do on his return would be to ask for Johnny Harlow’s drink bill, on the convincing enough pretext that it was inconceivable for the champion to put his hand in his pocket for anything.

The manager reappeared, moving with most un-managerial haste, in a sort of disciplined trot, reached the desk and busied himself with the telephone. The entire lobby was now agog with interest and expectation. Their undivided attention had now been transferred from Harlow to the front desk and Harlow took advantage of this to tip the contents of his glass into a potted plant.

He rose and sauntered across the lobby as if heading for the front revolving doors. His route brought him past the side of the manager. Harlow broke step.

He said sympathetically: Trouble?’

‘Grave trouble, Mr. Harlow. Very grave.’ The manager had the phone to his ear, obviously waiting for a call to come through, but it was still apparent that he was flattered that Johnny Harlow should take time off to speak to him. ‘Burglars! Assassins! One of our chambermaids has been most brutally and savagely assaulted.’

‘Good God! Where?’

‘Mr. Jacobson’s room.’

‘Jacobson’s — but he’s only our chief mechanic. He’s got nothing worth stealing.’

‘Ah! Like enough, Mr. Harlow. But the burglar wasn’t to know that, was he?’

Harlow said anxiously: ‘I hope she was able to identify her attacker.’

‘Impossible. All she remembers is a masked giant jumping out of a wardrobe and attacking her.

He was carrying a club, she said.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Excuse me. The police.’

Harlow turned, exhaled a long slow sigh of relief, walked away, passed out through the revolving doors, turned right and then right again, re-entered the hotel through one of the side doors and made his way unobserved back up to his own room. Here he withdrew the sealed film cassette from his miniature camera, replaced it with a fresh one — or one — that appeared to be fresh — unscrewed the back of his cine-camera, inserted the miniature and screwed home the back plate of the cinecamera. For good measure, he added a few more scratches to the dulled black metal finish. The original cassette he put in an envelope, wrote on it his name and room number, took it down to the desk, where the more immediate signs of panic appeared to be over, asked that it be put in the safe and returned to his room.

An hour later, Harlow, his more conventional wear now replaced by a navy roll-neck pullover and leather jacket, sat waiting patiently on the edge of his bed. For the second time that night, he heard the sound of a heavy diesel motor outside, for the second time that night he switched off the light, pulled the curtains, opened the window and looked out. The reception party bus had returned. He pulled the curtains to again, switched on the light, removed the flat bottle of scotch from under the mattress, rinsed his mouth with some of it and left.

He was descending the foot of the stairs as the reception party entered the lobby. Mary, reduced to only one stick now, was on her father’s arm but when MacAlpine saw Harlow he handed her to Dunnet. Mary looked at Harlow quietly and steadily but her face didn’t say anything.

Harlow made to brush by but MacAlpine barred his way.

MacAlpine said: the mayor was very vexed and displeased by your absence.’

Harlow seemed totally unconcerned by the mayor’s reactions. He said: ‘I’ll bet he was the only one.’

‘You remember you have some practice laps first thing in the morning?’

‘I’m the person who has to do them. Is it likely that I would forget?’

Harlow made to move by MacAlpine but the latter blocked his way again.

MacAlpine said: ‘Where are you going?’

‘Out.’

‘I forbid you — ‘

‘You’ll forbid me nothing that isn’t in my contract.’

Harlow left. Dunnet looked at MacAlpine and sniffed.

‘Air is a bit thick, isn’t it?’

‘We missed something,’ MacAlpine said. ‘We’d better go and see What it was we missed.’

Mary looked at them in turn.

‘So you’ve already searched his room when he was put on the track. And now that his back is turned again you’re going to search it again. Despicable. Utterly despicable. You’re nothing better than a couple of — a couple of sneak-thieves.’ She pulled her arm away from Dunnet. ‘Leave me alone. I can find my own room.’

Both men watched her limp across the foyer. Dunnet said complainingly: ‘Considering the issues involved, life or death issues, if you like, I do consider that a rather unreasonable attitude.’

‘So is love,’ MacAlpine sighed. ‘So is love.’

Harlow, descending the hotel steps, brushed by Neubauer and Tracchia. Not only did he not speak to them, for they still remained on courtesy terms, he didn’t even appear to see them. Both men turned and looked after Harlow. He was walking with that over-erect, over-stiff posture of the slightly inebriated who are making too good a job of trying to pretend that all is well. Even as they watched, Harlow made one barely perceptible and clearly unpremeditated stagger to one side, but quickly recovered and was back on an over-straight course again. Neubauer and Tracchia exchanged glances, nodded to each other briefly, just once. Neubauer went into the hotel while Tracchia moved off after Harlow.

The earlier warm night air had suddenly begun to chill, the coolness being accompanied by a slight drizzle. This was to Tracchia’s advantage. City-dwellers are notoriously averse to anything more than a slight humidity in the atmosphere, and although the Hotel-Villa Cessni was situated in what was really nothing more than a small village, the same urban principle applied: with the first signs of rain the streets began to clear rapidly: the danger of losing Harlow among crowds of people decreased almost to nothingness. The rain increased steadily until finally Tracchia was following Harlow through almost deserted streets. This, of course, increased the chances of detection should Harlow choose to cast a backward glance but it became quickly evident that Harlow had no intention of casting any backward glances: he had about him the fixed and determined air of a man who was heading for a certain objective and backward glances were no part of his forward-looking plans. Tracchia, sensing this, began to move up closer until he was no more than ten yards behind Harlow.

Harlow’s behaviour was becoming steadily more erratic. He had lost his ability to pursue a straight line and was beginning to weave noticeably. On one occasion he staggered in against a recessed doorway shop window and Tracchia caught a glimpse of Harlow’s reflected face, head shaking and eyes apparently closed. But he pushed himself off and went resolutely if unsteadily on his way. Tracchia closed up even more, his face registering an expression of mingled amusement, contempt and disgust. The expression deepened as Harlow, his condition still deteriorating, lurched round a street corner to his left.

Temporarily out of Tracchia’s line of vision, Harlow, all signs of insobriety vanished, moved rapidly into the first darkened doorway round the corner. From a back pocket he withdrew an article not normally carried by racing drivers — a woven leather black-jack with a wrist thong.

Harlow slipped the thong over his hand and waited.

He had little enough time to wait. As Tracchia rounded the corner the contempt on his face gave way to consternation when he saw that the ill-lit street ahead was empty. Anxiously, he increased his pace and within half a dozen paces was passing by the shadowed and recessed doorway where Harlow waited.

A Grand Prix driver needs timing, accuracy and eyesight. All of those Harlow had in super-abundance. Also he was extremely fit. Tracchia lost consciousness instantly. Without as much as a glance at it, Harlow stepped over the prostrate body and strode briskly on his way. Only, it wasn’t the way he had been going. He retraced his tracks for about a quarter of a mile, turned left and almost at once found himself in the transporter parking lot. It seemed extremely unlikely that Tracchia, when he came to, would have even the slightest idea as to where Harlow had been headed.

Harlow made directly for the nearest transporter. Even through the rain and near darkness the name, in (two feet high golden letters, was easily distinguishable: CORONADO. He unlocked the door, passed inside and switched on the lights and very powerful lights they were too, as they had to be for mechanics working on such delicate engineering. Here there was no need for glowing red lights, stealth and secrecy: there was no one who was going to question Johnny Harlow’s right to be inside his own transporter. Nevertheless, he took the precaution of locking the door from the inside and leaving the key half-turned in the lock so that it couldn’t be opened from the outside. Then he used ply to mask the windows so that he couldn’t be seen from outside: only then did he make for the tool-rack on the side and select the implements he wanted.

MacAlpine and Dunnet, not for the first time, were 76 illegally in Harlow’s room and not feeling too happy about it: not about the illegality but what they had found there. More precisely, they were in Harlow’s bathroom. Dunnet had the cistern cover in his hand while MacAlpine held up a dripping bottle of malt whisky. Both men regarded each other, at a momentary loss for words, then Dunnet said: ‘Resourceful lad is our Johnny. He’s probably got a crate hidden under the driving seat of his Coronado. But I think you’d better leave that bottle where you found it.’

‘Why ever should I? What’s the point in that?’

‘That way we may know his daily consumption. If he can’t get it from that bottle he’ll sure as hell get it elsewhere — you know his uncanny way of vanishing in that red Ferrari of his. And then we’ll never know how much he drinks.’

‘I suppose so, I suppose so.’ He looked at the bottle and there was pain in his eyes. the most gifted driver of our time, perhaps the most gifted driver of all time, and now it’s come to this.

Why do the gods strike a man like Johnny Harlow down, Alexis? Because he’s beginning to walk too close to them.’

‘Put the bottle back, James.’

Only two doors away was another pair of unhappy men, one of them markedly so. Tracchia, from the incessant way in which he massaged the back of his neck, appeared to be in very considerable pain. Neubauer watched him with a mixture of sympathy and anger.

Neubauer said: ‘Sure it was that bastard Harlow?’

‘I’m sure. I’ve still got my wallet.’

That was careless of him. I think I’ll lose my room key and borrow the master.’

Tracchia momentarily ceased to massage his aching neck. ‘What the hell for?’

‘You’ll see. Stay here.’

Neubauer returned within two minutes, a key ring whirling round his finger. He said: ‘I’m taking the blonde at reception out on Sunday night. I think I’ll ask for the keys’ of the safe next time.’

Tracchia said in agonized patience: ‘Willi, there is a time and a place for comedy.’

‘Sorry.’ He opened the door and they passed out into the corridor. It was deserted. Less than ten seconds later they were both inside Harlow’s room, the door locked behind them.

Tracchia said: ‘What happens if Harlow comes along?’

‘Who would you rather be? Harlow or us?’

They had spent no more than a minute in searching when Neubauer suddenly said: ‘You were quite right, Nikki. Our dear friend Johnny is just that little bit careless.’

He showed Tracchia the cine-camera with the crisscross of scratches round each of the four screws securing the plate at the back, produced a pocket-knife, selected a small screw-driver, removed the plate and extracted the micro camera. Neubauer then extracted the cassette from the micro camera and examined it thoughtfully. He said: ‘We take this?’

Tracchia shook his head and instantly screwed up his face in the agony caused by the thoughtless movement. When he had recovered, he said: ‘No. He would have known we were here.’

Neubauer said: ‘So there’s only one thing for it then?’

Tracchia nodded and again winced in pain. Neubauer lifted off the cover of the cassette, unreeled the film and passed it under a strong desk lamp, then, not without some difficulty, rewound the film, replaced the cover, put the cassette back in the micro camera and the micro camera in the cine.

Tracchia said: this proves nothing. We contact Marseilles?’

Neubauer nodded. Both men left the room.

Harlow had a Coronado pushed back by about a foot. He peered at the section of floor-board revealed, reached for a powerful torch, knelt and examined the floor intently. One of the longitudinal planks appeared to have two transverse lines on it, about fifteen inches apart. Harlow used an oily cloth to rub the front line, whereupon it became evident that the front line was no line at all but a very fine sharp cut. The revealed heads of the two holding nails were bright and clear of any marks. Harlow brought a chisel to bear and the front of the inlet wooden section lifted with surprising ease. He reached down an arm to explore the depth and length of the space beneath. A fractional lifting of the eyebrows expressed some degree of surprise, almost certainly as to the unseen extent of area available. Harlow brought out his arm and touched fingertips to mouth and nose: there was no perceptible change in his expression. He replaced the board section and gently tapped it into place, using the butt of a chisel on the gleaming nail-heads. With a suitably oiled and dirty cloth he smeared the cuts and nails.

Forty-five minutes had elapsed between the time of Harlow’s departure from the Villa-Hotel Cessni and his return there. The vast foyer looked semi-deserted but there must, n fact, have been over a hundred people there, many of them from the official reception party, all of them, probably, waiting to go ‘in for late dinner. The first two people Harlow saw were MacAlpine and Dunnet, sitting alone at a small table with short drinks. Two tables away Mary sat by herself, a soft drink and a magazine in front of her. She didn’t give the impression of reading and there was a certain stiff aloofness in her bearing. Harlow wondered towards whom the hostility was directed.

Towards himself, likely enough, but on the other hand there had grown up an increasing estrangement between Mary on the one hand and MacAlpine on the other. Of Rory there was no sign. Probably out spying somewhere, Harlow thought.

The three of them caught sight of Harlow at almost the same instant as he saw them.

MacAlpine immediately rose to his feet.

‘I’d be grateful, Alexis, if you could take Mary in to dinner. I’m going into the dining-room.

I’m afraid if I were to stay-’

‘It’s all right, James. I understand.’

Harlow watched the calculated snub of the departing back without expression, an absence of outward feeling that quickly changed to a certain apprehension as he saw Mary bearing down on him. No question now as to whom the unspoken.hostility had been directed. She gave the very distinct impression of having been waiting for him. That bewitching smile that had made her the sweetheart of the race-tracks was, Harlow observed, in marked abeyance. He braced himself for what he knew was going to be a low but correspondingly fierce voice.

‘Must you let everybody see you like this? And in a place like this.’ Harlow frowned in puzzlement. ‘You’ve been at it again.’

He said: that’s right. Go ahead. Wound an innocent man’s feelings. You have my worded bond — I mean my bonded word —’

‘It’s disgusting! Sober men don’t fall flat on their faces in the street. Look at the state of your clothes, your filthy hands. Go on! Just look at yourself.’

Harlow looked at himself.

‘Oh! Aha! Well, sweet dreams, sweet Mary.’

He turned towards the stairs, took five steps and halted abruptly when confronted by Dunnet.

For a moment the two men looked at each other, faces immobile, then there was an almost imperceptible lift of Dunnet’s eyebrow. When Harlow spoke, his voice was very quiet.

He said: ‘We go now.’

The Coronado?’

‘Yes.’

‘We go now.’