The Way to Dusty Death

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.’

‘What?’

‘Oddly, it doesn’t matter any more. Let’s forget about Rory. Let’s talk of you.’ He called to the waitress. ‘Same again, please.’

Mary looked at the freshly filled glass. She said: ‘What’s that? Gin? Vodka?’

‘Tonic and water.’

‘Oh, Johnny!’

Will you kindly stop ‘Oh, Johnnying me’.’ It was impossible to tell whether the irritation in his voice was genuine or not. Wow then. You say you are worried as if you have to tell anyone that, far less me. Let me guess at your worries, Mary. I would say that there are five of them, Rory, yourself, your father, your mother and me.’ She made as if to speak but he waved her to silence.

‘You can forget about Rory and his antagonism to me. A month from now and he’ll think it was all a bad dream. Then yourself — and don’t deny you are worried about our, shall we say, relationship: those things tend to mend but they take time. Then there’s your father and mother and, well, me again. I’m. about right?’

‘You haven’t talked to me like this for a long long time.’

Does that mean I’m about right?’

She nodded without speaking.

‘Your father. I know he’s not looking well, that he’s lost weight. I suggest that he’s worried about your mother and me, very much in that order.’

‘My mother,’ she whispered. ‘How did you know about that? Nobody knows about that except Daddy and me.’

‘I suspect Alexis Dunnet may know about it, they’re very close friends, but I can’t be sure. But your father told me, over two months ago. He trusted me, I know, in the days when we were still on speaking terms.’

‘Please, Johnny.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s better than ‘Oh, Johnny’. In spite of all that’s passed, I believe he still does. Please don’t tell him that I told you because I said I’d tell no one. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

‘Your father hasn’t been very communicative in the past two months. Understandably. And I hardly felt I was in a position to ask him questions. No progress, no trace of her, no message since she left your Marseilles home three months ago?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ If she’d been the type to wring her hands she’d have done just that. ‘And she used to phone every day she wasn’t with us, write every week and now we —’

‘And your father has tried everything?’

‘Daddy’s a millionaire. Don’t you think he would have tried everything?’

‘I should have thought so. So. You’re worried. What can I do?’

Mary briefly drummed her fingers on the table and looked up at him. Her eyes were masked in tears. She said: ‘You could remove his other main worry.’

‘Me?’

Mary nodded.

At that precise moment MacAlpine was very actively concerned in investigating his other main worry. He and Dunnet were standing outside a hotel bedroom door, with MacAlpine inserting a key in the lock. Dunnet looked around him apprehensively and said: ‘I don’t think the receptionist believed a word you said.’

‘Who cares?’ MacAlpine turned the key in the lock. ‘I got Johnny’s key, didn’t I?’

‘And if you hadn’t?’

‘I’d have kicked his damned door in. I’ve done it before, haven’t I?’

The two men entered, closed and locked the door behind them. Wordlessly and methodically, they began to search Harlow’s room, looking equally in the most likely as unlikely places — and in a hotel room the number of places available for concealment to even the most imaginative is very limited. Three minutes and their search was over, a search that had been as rewarding as it was deeply dismaying. The two men gazed down in a brief and almost stunned silence at the haul on Harlow’s bed — four full bottles of scotch and a fifth half full. They looked at each other and Dunnet summed up their feelings in a most succinct fashion indeed.

He said, ‘Jesus!’

MacAlpine nodded. Unusually for him, he seemed at a total loss for words. He didn’t have to say anything for Dunnet to understand and sympathize with his feelings for the vastly unpleasant dilemma in which MacAlpine now found himself. He had committed himself to giving Harlow his last chance ever and now before him he had all the evidence he would ever require to justify Harlow’s instant dismissal.

‘Dunnet said: ‘So what do we do?’

‘We take that damn poison with us, that’s what we do.’ MacAlpine’s eyes were sick, his low voice harsh with strain.

‘But he’s bound to notice. And at once. From what we know of him now the first thing he’ll do on return is head straight for the nearest bottle.’

‘Who the hell cares what he does or notices? What can he do about it? More importantly, what can he say about it? He’s not going to rush down to the desk and shout: ‘I’m Johnny Harlow.

Someone’s just stolen five bottles of scotch from my room.’ He won’t be able to do or say a thing.’

‘Of course he can’t But he’ll still know the bottles are gone. What’s he going to think about that?’

‘Again, who cares what that young dipsomaniac thinks? Besides, why should it have been us.

If we had been responsible, he’d expect the heavens to fall in on him the moment he returns. But they won’t. We won’t say a word — yet. Could have been any thief posing as a member of the staff. Come to — that, it wouldn’t have been the first genuine staff member with a leaning towards petty larceny.’

‘So our little bird won’t sing?’

‘Our little bird can’t. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.’

Too late, my Mary,’ Harlow said. ‘Can’t drive no more. Johnny Harlow’s on the skids. Ask anyone.’

‘I don’t mean that and you know it. I mean your drinking.’

‘Me? Drink?’ Harlow’s face was its usual impassive self. ‘Who says that?’

‘Everybody.’

‘Everybody’s a liar.’

As a remark, it was a guaranteed conversation-stopper. A tear fell from Mary’s face on to her wrist watch but if Harlow saw it he made no comment. By and by Mary sighed and said quietly:

‘I give up. I was a fool to try. Johnny, are you coming to the Mayor’s reception tonight?’

‘No.’

‘I thought you’d like to take me. Please.’

‘And make you a martyr? No.’

‘Why don’t you come? Every other race driver does.’

‘I’m not every other driver. I’m Johnny Harlow. I’m a pariah, an outcast. I have a delicate and sensitive nature and I don’t like it when nobody speaks to me.’

Mary put both her hands on his. ‘I’ll speak to you, Johnny, you know I always will.’

‘I know.’ Harlow spoke without either bitterness or irony. ‘I cripple you for life and you’ll always speak to me. Stay away from me, young Mary. I’m poison.’

There are some poisons I could get to like very much indeed.’

Harlow squeezed her hand and rose. ‘Come on. You have to get dressed for this do tonight.

I’ll see you back to the hotel.’

They emerged from the cafe, Mary using her walking stick with one hand while with the other she clung to Harlow’s arm. Harlow, carrying the other stick, had slowed his normal pace to accommodate Mary’s limp. As they moved slowly up the street, Rory MacAlpine emerged from the shadows of the recessed doorway opposite the cafe. He was shivering violently in the cold night air but seemed to be entirely unaware of this.

Judging from the look of very considerable satisfaction on his face, Rory had other and more agreeable matters on his mind than the temperature. He crossed the street, followed Harlow and Mary at a discreet distance until he came to the first road junction. He turned right into this and began to run.

By the time he had arrived back at the hotel, he was no longer shivering but sweating profusely for he had not stopped running all the way. He slowed down to cross the lobby and mount the stairs, went to his room, washed, combed his hair, straightened his tie, spent a few moments in front of his mirror practising his sad but dutiful expression until he thought he had it about right, then walked across towards his father’s room. He knocked, received some sort of mumbled reply and went inside.

James MacAlpine’s suite was, by any odds, the most comfortable in the hotel. As a millionaire, MacAlpine could afford to indulge himself: as both a man and a millionaire he saw no reason why he shouldn’t. But MacAlpine wasn’t indulging in any indulgence at that moment, nor, as he sat far back in an over-stuffed armchair did he appear to be savouring any of the creature comforts surrounding him. He appeared, instead, to be sunk in some deep and private gloom from which he roused himself enough to look up almost apathetically as his son closed the door behind him.

‘Well, my boy, what is it? Couldn’t it wait until the morning?’

‘No, Dad, it couldn’t.’

‘Out with it, then. You can see I’m busy.’

‘Yes, Dad, I know.’ Rory’s sad but dutiful expression remained in position. ‘But there’s something I felt I had to tell you.’ He hesitated as if embarrassed at what he was about to say.

‘It’s about Johnny Harlow, Dad.’

‘Anything you have to say about Harlow will be treated with the greatest reserve.’ Despite the words, a degree of interest had crept into MacAlpine’s thinning features. ‘We all know what you think of Harlow.’

‘Yes, Dad. I thought of that before I came to see you.’ Rory hesitated again. ‘You know this thing about Johnny Harlow, Dad? The stories people are telling about his drinking too much.’

‘Well?’ MacAlpine’s tone was wholly non-committal. It was with some difficulty that Rory managed to keep his pious expression from slipping: this was going to be much more difficult than he expected.

‘It’s true. The drinking, I mean. I saw him in a pub tonight.’

‘Thank you, Rory, you may go.’ He paused. ‘Were you in that pub too?’

‘Me? Come on, Dad. I was outside. I could see in, though.’

‘Spying, lad?’

‘I was passing by.’ A curt but injured tone.

MacAlpine waved a hand in dismissal. Rory turned to go, then turned again to face his father.

‘Maybe I don’t like Johnny Harlow. But I do like Mary. I like her more than any person in the world.’ MacAlpine nodded, he knew this to be true. ‘I don’t ever want to see her hurt. That’s why I came to see you. She was in that pub with Harlow.’

‘What!’ MacAlpine’s face had darkened in immediate anger.

‘Cut my throat and hope I die.’

‘You are sure?’

‘I am sure, Dad. Of course I’m sure. Nothing wrong with my eyes.’

‘I’m sure there’s not.’ MacAlpine said mechanically. A little, but not much, of the anger had left his eyes. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to accept it. Mind you, I don’t like spying. ‘

‘This wasn’t spying, Dad.’ Rory’s indignation could be of a particularly nauseating righteousness at times. This was detective work. When the good name of the Coronado team is at stake —’

MacAlpine lifted his hand to stop the spate of words and sighed heavily.

‘All right, all right, you virtuous little monster. Tell Mary I want her. Now. But don’t tell her why.’

Five minutes later Rory had been replaced by a Mary who looked simultaneously apprehensive and defiant. She said: ‘Who told you this?’

‘Never mind who told me. Is it true or not?’

‘I’m twenty-two, Daddy.’ She was very quiet. ‘I don’t have to answer you. I can look after myself.’

‘Can you? Can you? If I were to throw you off the Coronado team? You’ve no money and you won’t have till I’m dead. You’ve got no place to go. You’ve no mother now, at least no mother you can reach. You’ve no qualifications for anything. Who’s going to employ a cripple without qualifications?’

‘I would like to hear you say those horrible things to me in front of Johnny Harlow.’

‘Surprisingly, perhaps, I won’t react to that one. I was just as independent at your age, more so, I guess, and taking a poor view of parental authority.’ He paused, then went on curiously: You in love with this fellow?’

He’s not a fellow. He’s Johnny Harlow.’ MacAlpine raised an eyebrow at the intensity in her voice. ‘As for your question, am I never to be allowed any areas of privacy in my life?’

‘All right, all right.’ MacAlpine sighed. ‘A deal. If you answer my questions then I’ll tell you why I’m asking them. OK?’

She nodded.

‘Fine. True or false?’

‘If your spies are certain of their facts, Daddy, then why bother asking me?’

‘Mind your tongue.’ The reference to spies had touched MacAlpine to the raw.

‘Apologize for saying ‘mind your tongue’ to me.’

‘Jesus!’ MacAlpine looked at his daughter in an astonishment that was compounded half of irritation, half of admiration. ‘You must be my daughter. I apologize. Did he drink?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Something clear. He said it was tonic and water.’

‘And — that’s the kind of liar you keep company with. Tonic and bloody water! Stay away from him, Mary. If you don’t, it’s back home to Marseille for you.’

‘Why, Daddy? Why? Why? Why?’

‘Because God knows I’ve got enough trouble of my own without having my only daughter tying herself up to an alcoholic with the skids under him.’

‘Johnny! Alcoholic! Look, Daddy, I know he drinks a little-’

MacAlpine silenced her by the gesture of picking up the phone.

‘MacAlpine here. Will you ask Mr. Dunnet to come to see me? Yes. Now.’ He replaced the phone. ‘I said I’d tell you why I was asking those questions. I didn’t want to. But I’m going to have to.’

Dunnet entered and closed the door behind him. He had about him the look of a man who was not looking forward too keenly to the next few minutes. After asking Dunnet to sit down he said: Tell her, Alexis, would you, please?’

Dunnet looked even more acutely unhappy. ‘Must I, James?’

‘I’m afraid so. She’d never believe me if I told her what we found in Johnny’s room.’

Mary looked at each in turn, sheer incredulity in her face. She said: ‘You were searching Johnny’s room.’

Dunnet took a deep breath. ‘With good reason, Mary, and thank God we did. I can still hardly believe it myself. We found five bottles of scotch hidden in his room. One of them was half empty.’

Mary looked at them, stricken. Clearly, she believed them all too well. When MacAlpine spoke, it was very gently.

‘I am sorry. We all know how fond you are of him. We took the bottles away, incidentally.’

‘You took — the bottles away.’ Her voice was slow and dull and uncomprehending. ‘But he’ll know. He’ll report the theft. There’ll be police. There’ll be fingerprints — your fingerprints. Then— ‘

MacAlpine said: ‘Can you imagine Johnny Harlow ever admitting to anyone in the world that he’d five bottles of scotch in his room? Run along, girl, and get dressed. We’ve got to leave for — this bloody reception in twenty minutes — without, it seems, your precious Johnny.’

She remained seated, her face quite without expression, her unblinking eyes irremovably fixed on MacAlpine’s. After a few moments his expression softened and he smiled. He said: I'm sorry. That was quite uncalled for.’

Dunnet held the door while she hobbled from the room. Both men watched her go with pity in their eyes.