The Way to Dusty Death

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rory said: ‘Mr. Harlow, are you secret service or special agent or something?’

Harlow glanced at him, then returned his eyes to the road. He was driving quickly but nowhere near his limit: there seemed to be no compelling urgency about the task on hand. He said: ‘I’m an out of work race driver.’

‘Come on. Who are you kidding?’

‘No one. In your own phraseology, Rory, just giving Mr. Dunnet a bit of a hand, like.’

‘Doing what, Mr. Harlow? I mean, Mr. Dunnet doesn’t seem to be doing very much, does he?’

‘Mr. Dunnet is a co-ordinator. I suppose I’m what might be called his field man.’

‘Yes. But doing what?’

‘Investigating other Grand Prix drivers. Keeping an eye on them, rather. And mechanics —

anyone connected with racing.’

‘I see.’ Rory, clearly, did not see at all. ‘I’m not being rude, Mr. Harlow, but why pick you?

Why not investigate you?’

‘A fair question. Probably because I’ve been so very lucky in the last two years or so that they figured that I was making more money honestly than I possibly could dishonestly.’

‘That figures.’ Rory was in a very judicial mood. ‘But why were you investigating?’

‘Because something has been smelling and smelling badly on the Grand Prix circuits for over a year now. Cars were losing that seemed a certainty to win. Cars were winning that shouldn’t have had a chance. Cars had mysterious accidents. Gars went off the track where Acre was no earthly reason why they should have gone off the track. They ran out of petrol when they shouldn’t have run out of petrol. Engines over-heated through a mysterious loss of oil or coolant or both. Drivers fell ill at the most mysterious times — and the most inconvenient times. And as there is so much prestige, pride, power and above all profit in running a highly successful racing car, it was at first thought that a manufacturer or, more likely, a race team owner was trying to corner the market for himself.’

‘But he wasn’t?’

‘As you so brightly remark, he wasn’t. This became clear when manufacturers and team owners discovered that they were all being victimized. They approached Scotland Yard only to be told that they were powerless to intervene. The Yard called in Interpol. In effect, Mr. Dunnet.’

‘But how did you get on to people like Tracchia and Neubauer?’

‘In the main, illegally. Round the clock telephone switchboard watch, maximum surveillance of all suspects at every Grand Prix meeting and interception of all incoming and out-going mail. We found five drivers and seven or eight mechanics who were stashing away more money than they could have possibly earned. But it was an irregular sort of thing for most of them. It’s impossible to fix every race. But Tracchia and Neubauer were stashing it away after every race. So we figured they were selling something — and there’s only one thing you can sell for the kind of money they were getting.’

‘Drugs. Heroin.’

‘Indeed.’ He pointed ahead and Rory caught the sign ‘BANDOL’ picked up by the headlights.

Harlow slowed, lowered his window, poked his head out and looked up. Bands of cloud were beginning to spread across the sky but there was still much more starlit sky than cloud. Harlow withdrew his head and said: ‘We could have picked a better night for the job. Far too damn bright. They’re bound to have a guard, maybe two, for your mother. Point is, will they be keeping a watch — not only seeing that your mother doesn’t escape but that no one comes aboard? No reason why they should assume that anyone should try to board The Chevalier — I can’t think of any way they can have heard of the misfortune that has happened to Neubauer and his pals. But that’s the way an organization like the Marzio brothers has survived so long-by never taking chances.’

‘So we assume there is a guard, Mr. Harlow?’

That is what we assume.’

Harlow drove into the little town, parked the car in an empty high-walled builder’s yard where it could not possibly be seen from the narrow alleyway outside. They left the car and soon, keeping in deep shadow, were cautiously picking their way along the small waterfront and harbour. They halted and scanned the bay to the east.

‘Isn’t that her?’ Although there was no one within earshot, Rory’s voice was a tense whisper.

‘Isn’t that her?’

‘The Chevalier for sure.’

There were at least a dozen yachts and cruisers anchored in the brilliantly moonlit and almost mirror-smooth little bay. The one nearest the shore was a rather splendid motor yacht, nearer fifty feet than forty, and had very definitely a blue hull and white topsides.

‘And now?’ Rory said. ‘What do we do now?’ He was shivering, not because of cold or, as had been the case in the Villa Hermitage, of apprehension, but because of sheer excitement.

Harlow glanced thoughtfully upwards. The sky was still heavily overcast although there was a bar of cloud moving in the direction of the moon.

‘Eat. I’m hungry.’

‘Eat? Eat? But-but, I mean-’ Rory gestured towards the yacht.

‘All things in their time. Your mother’s hardly likely to vanish in the next hour. Besides, if we were to — ah — borrow a boat and go out to The Chevalier … I don’t much fancy being picked out in this brilliant moonlight. There are clouds moving across. Let’s bide a wee.’

‘Let’s what?’

‘An old Scottish phrase. Let’s wait a little while Festina lente.’

Rory looked at him in bafflement. ‘Festina what?’

‘You really are an ignorant young layabout.’ Harlow smiled to rob his words of offence. ‘An even older Latin phrase. Make haste slowly.’

They moved away and brought up at a waterside cafe which Harlow inspected from the outside. He shook his head and they walked on to a second cafe, where the same thing happened.

The third cafe they entered. It was three-parts empty. They took seats by a curtained window.

Rory said: ‘What’s — this place got that the others haven’t?’

Harlow twitched back the curtain. ‘A view.’ Their vantage point commanded an excellent view of The Chevalier.

‘I see.’ Rory consulted his menu without enthusiasm. ‘I can’t eat a thing.’

Harlow said encouragingly: ‘Let’s try a little something.’

Five minutes later two enormous dishes of bouillabaisse were set before them. Five minutes after that Rory’s dish was completely empty. Harlow smiled at both the empty plate and Rory, then his smile abruptly vanished.

‘Rory. Look at me. Don’t look elsewhere. Especially don’t look at the bar. Act and speak naturally. Bloke’s just come in whom I used to know very slightly. A mechanic who left the Coronado team a few weeks after I joined. Your father fired him for theft. He was very friendly with Tracchia and from the fact that he’s in Bandol it’s a million to one that he still is.’

A small dark man in brown overalls, so lean and scrawny as to be almost wizened, sat at the bar with a full glass of beer before him. He took his first sip of it and as he did so his eyes strayed to the mirror at the back of the bar. He could clearly see Harlow talking earnestly to Rory. He spluttered and half-choked over his beer. He lowered his glass, put coins on the counter and left as unobtrusively as possible.

Harlow said: ‘ ‘Yonnie’ they used to call him. I don’t know his real name. I think he’s certain we neither saw nor recognized him. If he’s with Tracchia, and he must be, this makes it for sure that Tracchia is already aboard. Either Tracchia’s temporarily relieved him of guard duties so that he could come ashore for a much-needed drink or Tracchia’s sent him away because he doesn’t want any witnesses around when he picks me off when I go out to the boat.’

Harlow pulled back the curtains and they both looked out. They could see a small outboard-powered dinghy heading directly towards The Chevalier, Rory looked questioningly at Harlow.

Harlow said: ‘Our Nicolo Tracchia is an impulsive, not to say impetuous lad, which is why he’s not quite the driver he could be. Five minutes from now he’ll be in the shadows somewhere outside waiting to gun me down the moment I step out of here. Run up to the car, Rory. Bring me some of that twine — and adhesive tape. I think we may need it. Meet me about fifty yards along the quay there, at the head of the landing steps.’

As Harlow signalled the waiter for his bill, Rory left, walking with some degree of restraint. As soon as he had passed through the bead-curtained doorway he broke into a dead run. Arrived at the Ferrari, he opened the boot, stuffed twine and tape into his pockets, closed the boot, hesitated, then opened the driver’s door and pulled out the four automatics from under the seat.

He selected the smallest, pushed the other three back into concealment, studied the one he held in his hand, eased the safety catch off, looked guiltily around and stuffed the automatic into an inside pocket. He made his way quickly down to the waterfront.

Near the top of the landing steps was a double row of barrels, stacked two high. Harlow and Rory stood silently in the shadow, — the former with a gun in his hand. They could both see and hear the outboard dinghy approaching. The engine slowed, then cut out: there came the sound of feet mounting the wooden landing steps, then two figures appeared on the quay, Tracchia and Yonnie: Tracchia was carrying a rifle. Harlow moved out from the shadows.

‘Keep quite still,’ he said. Tracchia, that gun on the ground. Hands high and turn your backs to me. I get tired of repeating myself but the first of you to make the slightest suspicious movement will be shot through the back of the head. At four feet I am not likely to miss. Rory, see what your former friend and his friend are carrying.’

Rory’s search produced two guns.

Throw them in the water. Come on, you two. Behind those barrels. Face down, hands behind your backs. Rory, attend to our friend Yonnie.’

With the expertise born of recent and intensive practice Rory had Yonnie trussed like a turkey in less than two minutes.

Harlow said: ‘You know what the tape is for?’

Rory knew what the tape was for. He used about a couple of feet of black insulated adhesive tape that effectively ensured Yonnie’s total silence.

Harlow said: Clan he breathe?’

‘Just’

‘ ‘Just’ is enough. Not that it matters. We’ll leave him here. Maybe someone will find him in the morning. Not that that matters either. Up, Tracchia.’

‘But aren’t you — ‘

‘Mr. Tracchia we need. Who’s to say there isn’t another guard aboard? Tracchia here is a specialist in hostages so he’ll know what we want him for.’

Rory looked up at the sky. that cloud that’s moving towards the moon is taking its time about it.’

‘It doesn’t appear to be in any great hurry about it. But we’ll take a chance on it. We have our life assurance with us.’

The outboard motor dinghy moved across the moonlit water. Traccia was at the controls while Harlow, gun in hand, sat amidships facing him. Rory was in the bows, facing forward. At this point, the blue and white yacht was only a hundred yards away.

In the wheelhouse of the yacht a tall and powerfully built man had a pair of binoculars to his eyes. His face tightened. He laid down the binoculars, took a gun from a drawer, left the wheelhouse, climbed the ladder there and spreadeagled himself on the cabin roof. ‘

The dinghy came alongside the water-skiing steps at the stern and Rory made fast. At a gesture from Harlow, Tracchia climbed the ladder first and moved back slowly as Harlow, the gun trained on him, climbed the steps in turn. Rory followed. Harlow made a gesture that Rory should remain where he was, thrust his gun in Tracchia’s back and moved off to search the boat.

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.

Then you’d better shoot me now. Number eight.’

‘Cuneo. Then parts beyond.’ His voice was harsh but had the ring of sincerity. ‘I never make war on women. You’ll be released within twenty-four hours.’

‘I’ll be dead in twenty-four hours.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘May I go to the bathroom? I feel sick.’

Jacobson opened the bathroom door and looked inside. ‘No window. No telephone. OK.’

Mary entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She took a pen from her handbag, scribbled a few shaky words on a piece of paper, placed the paper face down on the floor behind the door and left. Jacob-son was waiting for her. He had her case in his left hand, a gun in the other. Both gun and right hand were buried deep in his jacket pocket.

On board The Chevalier, Yonnie thrust the last of the documents from the chart-table into a large briefcase. He returned to the saloon, placed the briefcase on a settee and went down the companionway to the accommodation quarters. He went to his own cabin and there spent a hurried five minutes in cramming his own most personal possessions into a canvas bag. He then made a tour of the other cabins, rifling the drawers for whatever money or articles of value that he might find. He found a considerable amount, returned to his own cabin and stuffed them inside his bag. He zipped the bag shut and climbed up the companionway. Four steps from the top he stopped. His face should have been masked in disbelief and terror but it wasn’t. Yonnie had run out of emotions and the capacity to display them.

Four very large armed policemen were resting comfortably on the settees in the saloon. A sergeant, with the briefcase on his knees, his elbow on the case and a gun in his hand pointing approximately hi the direction of Yonnie’s heart, said genially: ‘Going some place Yonnie?’