The Way to Dusty Death

CHAPTER SIX

Harlow drained his coffee — it was by now his invariable custom to breakfast alone in his bedroom — and crossed to the window. The famed Italian September sun was nowhere to be seen that morning. The overcast was very heavy, but the ground was dry and the visibility excellent, a combination making for ideal race-track conditions. He went into the bathroom, opened the window to its fullest extent, removed the cistern cover, took out the scotch, turned on the hot water tap and systematically poured half the contents of the bottle into the basin. He returned the bottle to its hiding-place, sprayed the room very heavily with an airfresh aerosol and left.

He drove alone to the race-track — the passenger seat in his red Ferrari was rarely occupied now-to find Jacobson, his two mechanics and Dunnet already there. He greeted them briefly and in very short order, over-ailed and helmeted, was sitting in the cockpit of his new Coronado.

Jacobson favoured him with his usual grimly despondent look.

He said: ‘I hope you can give us good practice lap-time today, Johnny.’

Harlow said mildly: ‘I thought I didn’t do too badly yesterday. However, one can but try.’

With his finger on the starter button he glanced at Dunnet. ‘And where is our worthy employer today? Never known him to miss a practice lap before.’

‘In the hotel. He has things to attend to.’

MacAlpine did, indeed, have things to attend to. What he was attending to at that moment had by this time become almost a routine chore — investigating the current level of Harlow’s alcohol supply. As soon as he entered Harlow’s bathroom he realized that checking the level of scotch in the bottle in the cistern was going to be a mere formality: the wide open window and the air heavy with the scent of the aerosol spray made further investigation almost superfluous. However, investigate he did: even though he had been almost certain what to expect, his face still darkened with anger as he held the half empty bottle up for inspection. He replaced the bottle, left Harlow’s room almost at a run, actually ran across the hotel foyer, climbed into his Aston and drove off in a fashion that might well have left the astonished onlookers with the impression that he had mistaken the forecourt of the Villa-Hotel Cessni for the Monza circuit.

MacAlpine was still running when he arrived at the Coronado pits: there he encountered Dunnet who was just leaving them. MacAlpine was panting heavily. He said: ‘Where’s that young bastard Harlow?’

Dunnet did not reply at once. He seemed more concerned with shaking his head slowly from side to side.

‘God’s sake, man, where’s that drunken layabout?’ MacAlpine’s voice was almost a shout. ‘He mustn’t be allowed anywhere near that damned track.’

‘There’s a lot of other drivers in Monza who would agree with you.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘It means that that drunken layabout has just broken the lap record by two point one seconds.’

Dunnet continued to shake his head in continued disbelief. ‘Bloody well incredible.’

‘Two point one! Two point one! Two point one!’ It was MacAlpine’s turn to take up the head-shaking. Impossible. A margin like that? Impossible.’

‘Ask the time-keepers. He did it twice.’

‘Jesus!’

‘You don’t seem as pleased as you might, James.’

‘Pleased. I’m bloody well terrified. Sure, sure, he’s still the best driver in the world-except in actual competition when his nerve goes. But it wasn’t driving skill that took him around in that time. It was Dutch courage. Sheer bloody suicidal Dutch courage.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘He’d a half-bottle of scotch inside him, Alexis.’

Dunnet stared at him. He said at length, ‘I don’t believe k. I can’t believe it He may have driven like a bat out of hell but he also drove like an angel. Half a bottle of scotch? He’d have killed himself.’

‘Perhaps it’s as well there was no one else on the track at the time. He’d have killed them, maybe.’

‘But — but a whole half-bottle!’

‘Want to come and have a look in the cistern in his bathroom?’

‘No, no. You think I’d ever question your word? It’s just that I can’t understand it.’

‘Nor can I, nor can I. And where is our world champion at the moment?’

‘Left the track. Says he’s through for the day. Says he’s got the pole position for tomorrow and if anyone takes it from him he’ll just come back and take it away from them again. He’s in an uppish sort of mood today, is our Johnny.’

‘And he never used to talk that way. That’s not uppishness, Alexis, it’s sheer bloody euphoria dancing on clouds of seventy proof. God Almighty, do I have a problem or do I have a problem.’

‘You have a problem, James.’

On the afternoon of that same Saturday MacAlpine, had he been in a certain rather shabby little side street in Monza, might well have had justification for thinking that his problems were being doubly or trebly compounded. Two highly undistinguished little cafes faced each other across the narrow street. They had in common the same peeling paint facade, hanging reed curtains, chequered cloth-covered sidewalk tables and bare, functional and splendidly uninspired interiors.

And both of them, as was so common in cafes of this type, featured high-backed booths facing end-on to the street.

Sitting well back from the window in such a booth on the southern and shaded side of the street were Neubauer and Tracchia with untouched drinks in front of them. The drinks were untouched because neither man was interested in them. Their entire interest was concentrated upon the cafe opposite where, close up to the window and clearly in view, Harlow and Dunnet, glasses in their hands, could be seen engaged in what appeared to be earnest discussion across their booth table.

Neubauer said: ‘Well, now that we’ve followed them here, Nikki, what do we do now? I mean, you can’t lip-read, can you?’

We wait and see? We play it by ear? T wish to God T could lip-read, Willi. And I’d also like to know why those two have suddenly become so friendly — though they hardly ever speak nowadays in public. And why did they have to come to a little back street like this to talk? We know that Harlow is up to something very funny indeed — the back of my neck still feels half-broken, I could hardly get my damned helmet on today. And if he and Dunnet are so thick then they’re both up to the same funny thing. But Dunnet’s only a journalist. What can a journalist and a has-been driver be up to?’

‘Has-been? Did you see his times this morning?’

‘Has-been I said and has-been I meant. You’ll see — he’ll crack tomorrow just as he’s cracked in the last four GPs.’

‘Yes. Another strange.thing. Why is he so good in practice and such a failure in the races themselves?’

‘No question. It’s common knowledge that Harlow’s pretty close to being an alcoholic — I’d say he already is one. All right, so he can drive one fast lap, maybe three. But in an eighty-lap Grand Prix — how can you expect an alco to have the stamina, the reactions, the nerve to last the pace? He’ll crack.’ He looked away from the other cafe and took a morose sip of his drink. ‘God, what wouldn’t I give to be sitting in the next booth to those two.’

Tracchia laid a hand on Neubauer’s forearm. ‘Maybe that won’t be necessary, Willi. Maybe we’ve just found a pair of ears to do our listening for us. Look!’

Neubauer looked. With what appeared to be a considerable degree of stealth and secrecy Rory MacAlpine was edging his way into the booth next to the one occupied by Harlow and Dunnet.

He was carrying a coloured drink in his hand. When he sat it was with his back to Harlow: physically, they couldn’t have been more than a foot apart. Rory adopted a very upright posture, both his back and the back of his head pressed hard against the partition: he was, clearly, listening very intently indeed. He had about him the look of one who was planning a career either as a master spy or a double agent. Without question he had a rare talent for observing — and listening — without being observed.

Neubauer said: ‘What do you think young MacAlpine is up to?’

‘Here and now?’ Tracchia spread his hands. ‘Anything. The one thing that you can be sure of is that he intends no good to Harlow. I should think he is just trying to get anything he can on Harlow. Just anything. He’s a determined young devil — and he hates Harlow. I must say I wouldn’t care very much myself to be in his black books.’

‘So we have an ally, Nikki, yes?’

‘I see no reason why not. Let’s think up a nice little story to tell him.’ He peered across the street. ‘Young Rory doesn’t seem too pleased about something.’

Rory wasn’t. His expression held mixed feelings of vexation, exasperation and perplexity: because of the high back of the booth and the background noise level created by the other patrons of the cafe, he could catch only snatches of the conversation from the next booth.

Matters weren’t helped for Rory by the fact that Harlow and Dunnet were carrying on this conversation in very low tones indeed. Both of them had tall clear drinks in front of them, both drinks with ice and lemon in them: only one held gin. Dunnet looked consideringly at the tiny film cassette he was cradling in the palm of his hand then slipped it into a safe inside pocket.

‘Photographs of code? You’re sure?’

‘Code for sure. Perhaps even along with some abstruse foreign language. I’m afraid I’m no expert on those matters.’

‘No more than I am. But we have people who are experts. And the Coronado transporter.

You’re sure about that too?’

‘No question.’

‘So we’ve been nursing a viper to our own bosom — if that’s the phrase I’m looking for.’

‘It is a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?’

‘And no question about Henry having any finger in the pie?’

‘Henry?’ Harlow shook his head positively. ‘My life on it.’

‘Even though, as driver, he’s the only person who’s with the transporter on every trip it makes?’

‘Even though.’

‘And Henry will have to go?’

‘What option do we have?’

‘So. Exit Henry — temporarily, though he won’t know it: he’ll get his old job back. He’ll be hurt, of course — but what’s one brief hurt to thousands of life-long ones?’

‘And if he refuses?’

‘I’ll have him kidnapped,’ Dunnet said matter-of-factly. ‘Or otherwise removed — painlessly, of course. But he’ll go along. I’ve got the doctor’s certificate already signed.’

‘How about medical ethics?’

The combination of £500 and a genuine certificate of an already existing heart murmur makes medical scruples vanish like a snowflake in the river.’

The two men finished their drinks, rose and left. So, after what he presumably regarded as being a suitably safe interval, did Rory. In the cafe opposite, Neubauer and Tracchia rose hurriedly, walked quickly after Rory and overtook him in half a minute. Rory looked his surprise.

Tracchia said confidentially: ‘We want to talk to you, Rory. Can you keep a secret?’

Rory looked intrigued but he had a native caution which seldom abandoned him. ‘What’s the secret about?’

‘You are a suspicious young person.’

‘What’s the secret about?’

‘Johnny Harlow.’

‘That’s different.’ Tracchia had Rory’s instantaneous and co-operative attention. ‘Of course I can keep a secret.’

Neubauer said: ‘Well, then, never a whisper. Never one word or you’ll ruin everything. You understand?’

‘Of course.’ He hadn’t the faintest idea what Neubauer was talking about.

You’ve heard of the GPDA?’

‘Course. The Grand Prix Drivers’ Association.’

‘Right. Well, the GPDA has decided that for the safety of us all, drivers and spectators alike, Harlow must be removed from the Grand Prix roster. We want him taken off all the race-tracks in Europe. You know that he drinks?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘He drinks so much that he’s become the most dangerous driver in Europe.’ Neubauer’s voice was low-pitched, conspiratorial and totally convincing. ‘Every other driver is scared to be on the same track as he is. None of us knows when he’s going to be the next Jethou.’

‘You-you mean-’

‘He was drunk at the time. That’s why a good man dies, Rory-because another man drinks half a bottle of scotch too many. Would you call that much different from being a murderer?’

‘No, by God I wouldn’t!’

‘So the GPDA has asked Willi and myself to gather die evidence. About drinking, I mean.

Especially before a big race. Will you help us?’

‘You have to ask me?’

‘We know, boy, we know.’ Neubauer put his hand on Rory’s shoulder, a gesture at once indicative of consolation and understanding. ‘Mary is our girl, too. You saw Harlow and Mr.

Dunnet in that cafe just now. Did Harlow drink?’

‘I didn’t really see them. I was in the next booth. But I heard Mr. Dunnet say something about gin and I saw the waiter bring two tall glasses with what looked like water in them.’

‘Water!’ Tracchia shook his head sadly. ‘Anyway, that’s more like it. Though I can’t believe that Dunnet — well, who knows. Did you hear them talk about drink?’

‘Mr. Dunnet? Is there something wrong with him too?’

Tracchia said evasively, well aware that that was the surest way of arousing Rory’s interest: ‘I don’t know anything about Mr. Dunnet. About drink, now.’

They spoke in very low voices. I caught something, not much. Not about drink. The only thing I heard was something about changed cassettes — film cassettes — or such-like, something Harlow had given to Mr. Dunnet. Didn’t make any kind of sense to me.’

Tracchia said: that hardly concerns us. But the rest, yes. Keep your eyes and ears open, will you?’

Rory, carefully concealing his new-found sense of self-importance, nodded man to man and walked away. Neubauer and Tracchia looked at each other with fury in their faces, a fury, clearly, that was not directed at each other.

Through tightly clenched teeth Tracchia said: The crafty bastard! He’s switched cassettes on us. That was a dud we destroyed.’

On the evening of that same day Dunnet and Henry sat in a remote corner of the lobby in the Villa-Hotel Cessni. Dunnet wore his usual near-inscrutable expression. Henry looked somewhat stunned although it was clear that his native shrewdness was hard at work making a reassessment of an existing situation and a readjustment to a developing one. He tried hard not to look cunning.

He said: ‘You certainly do know how to lay it on the line, don’t you, Mr. Dunnet?’ The tone of respectful admiration for a higher intellect was perfectly done. Dunnet remained totally unmoved.

‘If by laying it on the line, Henry, you mean putting it as briefly and clearly as possible, then, yes, I have laid it on the line. Yes or no? ‘

‘Jesus, Mr. Dunnet, you don’t give a man much time to think, do you?’

Dunnet said patiently: This hardly calls for thought, Henry. A simple yes or no. Take it or leave it.’

Henry kept his cunning look under wraps. ‘And if I leave it?’

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

Henry looked distinctly uneasy. ‘I don’t know if I like the sound of that, Mr. Dunnet.’

‘How does it sound to you, Henry?’

‘I mean, well, you aren’t blackmailing me or threatening me or something like that?’

Dunnet had the air of a man counting up to ten. ‘You make me say it, Henry. You’re talking rubbish. How can one blackmail a man who leads the spotless life you do? You do lead a spotless life, don’t you, Henry? And why should I threaten you? How could I threaten you?’ He made a long pause. ‘Yes or no?’

Henry sighed in defeat. ‘Damn it all, yes. I’ve got nothing to lose. For £5,000 and a job in our Marseilles garage I’d sell my own grandmother down the river — God rest her soul.’

That wouldn’t be necessary even if it were possible. Just total silence that’s all. Here’s a health certificate from a local doctor. It’s to say you have an advanced cardiac condition and are no longer fit for heavy work such as, say, driving a transporter.’

‘I haven’t been feeling at all well lately and that’s a fact.’

Dunnet permitted himself the faintest of smiles. ‘I thought you might have been feeling that way.’

‘Does Mr. MacAlpine know about this?’

‘He will when you tell him. Just wave that paper.’

‘You think he’ll wear it?’

‘If you mean accept it, yes. He’ll have no option.’

‘May I ask the reason for all this?’

‘No. You’re getting paid £5,000 not to ask questions. Or talk. Ever. ‘

‘You’re a very funny journalist, Mr. Dunnet.’

‘Very.’

‘I’m told you were an accountant in what they call the City. Why did you give it up?’

‘Emphysema. My lungs, Henry, my lungs.’

‘Something like my cardiac condition?’

‘In these days of stress and strain, Henry, perfect health is a blessing that is granted to very few of us. And now you’d better go and see Mr. MacAlpine.’

Henry left. Dunnet wrote a brief note, addressed a stout buff envelope, marked it EXPRESS and URGENT in the top left corner, inserted the note and micro-film and left. As he passed out into the corridor he failed to notice that the door of the room next to his was slightly ajar: consequently, he also failed to observe a single eye peering out through this narrow gap in the doorway.

The eye belonged to Tracchia. He closed the door, moved out on to his balcony and waved an arm in signal. In the distance, far beyond the forecourt of the hotel, an indistinct figure raised an arm in acknowledgment. Tracchia hurried downstairs and located Neubauer. Together they moved towards the bar and sat there, ordering soft drinks. At least a score of people saw and recognized them for Neubauer and Tracchia were scarcely less well known that Harlow himself.

But Tracchia was not a man to establish an alibi by halves.

He said to the barman: ‘I’m expecting a call from Milan at five o’clock. What time do you have?’

‘Exactly five, Mr. Tracchia. ‘

‘Let the desk know I’m here.’

‘The direct route to the Post Office lay through a narrow alleyway lined with mews-type houses and alternate garages on both sides. The road was almost deserted, a fact that Dunnet attributed to its being a Saturday afternoon. In all its brief length of less than two hundred yards there was only an overalled figure working ‘ over the engine of his car outside the opened door of a garage. In a fashion more French than Italian he wore a navy beret down to his eyes and the rest of his face was so streaked with oil and grease as to be virtually unrecognizable. He wouldn’t, Dunnet thought inconsequentially, have been tolerated for five seconds on die Coronado racing team. But, then, working on a Coronado and on a battered old Fiat 600 called for different standards of approach.

As Dunnet passed the Fiat the mechanic abruptly straightened. Dunnet politely side-stepped to avoid him but as he did so the mechanic, one leg braced against the side of the car to lend additional leverage for a take-off thrust, flung his entire bodily weight against him. Completely off-balance and already falling, Dunnet staggered through the opened garage doorway. His already headlong process towards the ground was rapidly and violently accelerated by two very large and very powerful stocking-masked figures who clearly held no brief for the more gentle arts of persuasion. The garage door closed behind him.

Rory was absorbed in a lurid comic magazine and Tracchia and Neubauer, alibis safely established, were still at the bar when Dunnet entered the hotel. It was an entry that attracted the immediate attention of everyone in the foyer for it was an entry that would have attracted such attention anywhere. Dunnet didn’t walk in, he staggered in like a drunken man and even then would have fallen were it not for the fact that he was supported by a policeman on either side of him. He was bleeding badly from nose and mouth, had a rapidly closing right eye, an unpleasant gash above it and, generally, a badly bruised face. Tracchia, Neubauer, Rory and the receptionist reached him at almost the same moment.

The shock in Tracchia’s voice marched perfectly with the expression on his face. He said: ‘God in heaven, Mr. Dunnet, what happened to you?’

Dunnet tried to smile, winced and thought better of it. He said in a slurred voice: ‘I rather think I was set upon.’

Neubauer said: ‘But who did — I mean where — why, Mr. Dunnet, why?’

One of the policemen held up his hand and turned to the receptionist. ‘Please. At once. A doctor.’

‘In one minute. Less. We have seven staying here. She turned to Tracchia. ‘You know Mr.

Dunnet’s room, Mr. Tracchia. If you and Mr. Neubauer would be so kind as to show the officers—’

‘No need. Mr. Neubauer and I will take him up.’

The policeman said: ‘I’m sorry. We will require a statement from — ‘

He halted as most people did when they were on the receiving end of Tracchia’s most intimidating scowl. He said: ‘Leave your station number with this young lady. You will be called when the doctor gives Mr. Dunnet permission to talk. Not before. Meantime, he must get to bed immediately. Do you understand?’

They understood, nodded and left without another word. Tracchia and Neubauer, followed by a Rory whose puzzlement was matched only by his apprehension, took Dunnet to his room and were in the process of putting him to bed when a doctor arrived. He was young, Italian, clearly highly efficient and extremely polite when he asked them to leave the room.

In the corridor Rory said: ‘Why would anyone do that to Mr. Dunnet?’

‘Who knows?’ Tracchia said. ‘Robbers, thieves, people who would sooner rob and half-kill than do an honest day’s work.’ He flicked a glance at Neubauer, one that Rory was not intended to miss. there are lots of unpleasant people in the world, Rory. Let’s leave it to the police, shall we?’

‘You mean that you’re not going to bother — ‘

‘We’re drivers, my boy,’ Neubauer said. ‘‘We’re not detectives.’

‘I’m not a boy! I’ll soon be seventeen. And I’m not a fool.’ Rory brought his anger under control and looked at them speculatively. there’s something very fishy, very funny going on. I’ll bet Harlow is mixed up in this somewhere.’

‘Barlow?’ Tracchia raised an amused eyebrow in a fashion that was little to Rory’s liking.

‘Come off it, Rory. You were the person who overheard Harlow and Dunnet having their confidential little ‘Ste-ci-tete.’

‘Aha! That’s just the point. I didn’t overhear what they said. I just heard their voices, not what they said. They could have been saying anything. Maybe Harlow was threatening him.’ Rory paused to consider this fresh and intriguing prospect and conviction burgeoned on the instant. ‘Of course that was what it was. Harlow was threatening him because Dunnet was either double-crossing or blackmailing him.’

Tracchia said kindly: ‘Rory, you really must give up reading those horror comics of yours.

Even if Dunnet were double-crossing or blackmailing Harlow, how would beating up Dunnet help in any way? He’s still around, isn’t he? He can still carry on this double-crossing or blackmailing of yours. I’m afraid you’ll have to come up with a better one than that, Rory.’

Rory said slowly: ‘Maybe I can. Dunnet did say he was beaten up in that narrow alleyway leading towards the main street. Do you know what lies at the far end of the alleyway? The Post Office. Maybe Dunnet was going down there to dispose of some evidence he had on Harlow.

Maybe he thought it was too dangerous to carry that evidence around with him any more. So Harlow made good and sure that Dunnet never got the chance to post it.’

Neubauer looked at Tracchia then back at Rory. He wasn’t smiling any more. He said: ‘What kind of evidence, Rory?’

‘How should I know?’ Rory’s irritation was marked. ‘I’ve been doing all the thinking up till now. How about you two trying to do a little thinking for once?’

‘We might just at that.’ Tracchia, like Neubauer, was now suddenly serious and thoughtful.

‘Now don’t go talking around about this, lad. Apart from the fact that we haven’t a single shred of proof, there’s such a thing as the law of libel.’

‘I’ve told you once,’ Rory said with some acerbity, ‘I’m not a fool. Besides, it wouldn’t look too good for you two if it was known that you were trying to put the finger on Johnny Harlow.’

That you can say again,’ Tracchia said. ‘Bad news travels fast. Here comes Mr. MacAlpine.’

MacAlpine arrived at the head of the stairs, his face, much thinner now and far more deeply lined than it had been two months previously, was grim and tight with anger. He said: this is true?

I mean about Dunnet?’

Tracchia said: ‘I’m afraid so. Some person or persons have given him a pretty thorough going over.’

‘In God’s name, why?’

‘Robbery, it looks like.’

‘Robbery! In broad daylight. Jesus, the sweet joys of civilization. When did this happen?’

‘Couldn’t have been much more than ten minutes ago. Willi and I were at the bar when he went out. It was exactly five o’clock because I happened to be checking a phone call with the barman at the time. We were at the bar when he came back and when he came back I checked my watch — thought it might be useful for the police to know. It was exactly twelve minutes past five. He couldn’t have got very far in that time.’

‘Where is he now?’

There. In his room.’

Then why are you three — 9

‘Doctor’s in there with him. He threw us out.’

‘He will not,’ MacAlpine predicted with certainty, ‘throw me out.’

Nor did he. Five minutes later it was the doctor who was the first to emerge followed in another five by MacAlpine, his face at once thunderous and deeply worried. He went straight to his own room.

Tracchia, Neubauer and Rory were sitting by a wall table in the foyer when Harlow entered. If he saw them he paid no heed but walked straight across the length of the foyer to the stairs. He smiled faintly once or twice in response to tentative approaches and deferential smiles of greeting, but otherwise his face remained its normal impassive self.

Neubauer said: ‘Well, you must admit that our Johnny doesn’t look all that concerned about life.’

‘You bet he doesn’t.’ Rory could not have been accused of snarling, because he hadn’t yet mastered the art, but he was obviously getting close. ‘I’ll bet he’s not very concerned about death either. I’ll bet if it was his own grandmother he’d —’

‘Rory.’ Tracchia held up a restraining hand. ‘You’re letting your imagination run wild. The Grand Prix Drivers’ Association is a very respectable body of men. We have what people call a good public image and we don’t want to spoil it. Sure, we like to have you on our side: but wild talk like this can only damage everyone concerned.’

Rory scowled at each man in turn, rose and walked stiffly away. Neubauer said, almost sadly:

‘I’m afraid, Nikki, that our young firebrand there is shortly about to experience some of the most painful moments of his life.’

‘It’ll do him no harm,’ Tracchia said. ‘And it certainly won’t do us any either.’

Neubauer’s prophecy was confirmed in remarkably short order.

Harlow closed the door behind him and looked down at the prostrate figure of Dunnet who, although he had been duly and efficiently doctored, had a face that looked as if it had emerged from a major road accident within the past few minutes. Allowing for the areas covered by bruises and a variety of plasters, there was, in all conscience, little enough of his face to be seen, just a nose double its usual size, a completely-closed rainbow-coloured right eye and stitches on the forehead and upper lip, but sufficient to lend credence to his recent life and hard times. Harlow clucked his tongue in the usual sympathetic if rather perfunctory fashion, took two silent steps towards the door and jerked it open. Rory literally fell into the room and measured his length on the splendid marble tiles of the Villa-Hotel Cessni.

Wordlessly, Harlow bent over him, wound his fingers in Rory’s thick black curling hair and hauled him to his feet. Rory had no words either, just a piercing heartfelt scream of agony. Still without speaking, Harlow transferred his grip to Rory’s ear, marched him along the corridor to MacAlpine’s room, knocked and went inside, dragging Rory with him: tears of pain rolled down the unhappy Rory’s face. MacAlpine, lying on top of his bed, propped himself up on one elbow: his outrage that his only son should be so cruelly mishandled was clearly outweighed by the fact that it was Harlow who was ‘doing the mishandling.

Harlow said: ‘I know I’m not very much in the grace and favour line with Coronado at the moment. I also know he is your son. But the next time I find this spying young tramp eavesdropping outside the door of a room I’m in I’ll well and truly clobber him.’

MacAlpine looked at Harlow, then at Rory, then back to Harlow. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.’ The voice was flat and singularly lacking in conviction.

‘I don’t care whether you believe me or not.’ Harlow’s anger had gone, he’d slipped on his old mask of indifference. ‘But I know you would believe Alexis Dunnet. Go and ask him. I was with him in his room when I opened the door a bit unexpectedly for our young friend here. He had been leaning so heavily against it that he fell flat to the floor. I helped him up. By his hair. That’s why there’s tears in his eyes.’

MacAlpine looked at Rory in a less than paternal fashion. ‘Is this true?’

Rory wiped his sleeve across his eyes, concentrated sullenly on the examination of the toes of his shoes and prudently said nothing.

‘Leave him to me, Johnny.’ MacAlpine didn’t look particularly angry or upset, just very very tired. ‘My apologies if I seemed to doubt you — I didn’t.’

Harlow nodded, left, returned to Dunnet’s room, closed and locked the door then, as Dunnet watched in silence, proceeded to search the room thoroughly. A few minutes later, apparently still not satisfied, he moved into the adjacent bathroom, turned a tap and the shower on to maximum then went out, leaving the door wide open behind him. It is difficult for even the most sensitive microphone to pick up with any degree of clarity the sound of human voices against a background of running water.

Without any by-your-leave, he searched through the outer clothing that Dunnet had been wearing. He replaced the clothing and looked at Dunnet’s torn shirt and the white band that a wrist watch had left on a sun-tanned wrist.

‘Has it occurred to you, Alexis,’ Harlow said, that some of your activities are causing displeasure in certain quarters and that they are trying to discourage you?’

‘Funny. Bloody funny.’ Dunnet’s voice was, understandably, so thick and slurred that in his case the use of any anti-microphone devices was almost wholly superfluous. ‘Why didn’t they discourage me permanently?’

‘Only a fool kills unnecessarily. We are not up against fools. However, who knows, one day?

Well, now. Wallet, loose change, watch, cuff-links, even your half-dozen fountain pens and car keys — all gone. Looks like a pretty professional roll job, doesn’t it?’

The hell with that.’ Dunnet spat blood into a handful of tissue. ‘What matters is that the cassette is gone.’

Harlow hesitated then cleared his throat in a diffident fashion.

‘Well, let’s say that a cassette is missing.’

The only really viable feature in Dunnet’s face was his unblemished right eye: this, after a momentary puzzlement, he used most effectively to glower at Harlow with the maximum of suspicion.

‘What the hell do you mean?’

Harlow gazed into the middle distance.

‘Well, Alexis, I do feel a little bit apologetic about this, but the cassette that matters is in the hotel safe. The one our friends now have — the one I gave to you — was a plant.’

Dunnet, with what little could be seen of his sadly battered face slowly darkening in anger, tried to sit up: gently but firmly Harlow pushed him down again.

Harlow said: ‘Now, now, Alexis, don’t do yourself an injury. Another one, I mean. They were on to me and I had to put myself in the clear or I was finished — although God knows I never expected them to do this to you.’ He paused. ‘I’m in the clear now.’

‘You’d better be sure of that, my boy.’ Dunnet had subsided but his anger hadn’t.

‘I’m sure. When they develop that film spool they’ll find it contains micro photos — about a hundred — of line drawings of a prototype gas turbine engine. They’ll conclude I’m as much a criminal as they are, but as my business is industrial espionage, there can be no possible conflict of interests. They’ll lose interest in me.’

Dunnet looked at him balefully. ‘Clever bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am, rather.’ He went to the door, opened it and turned round. ‘Especially, it seems, when it is at other people’s expense.’