The Way to Dusty Death

CHAPTER NINE

It was just coming up for dawn when Harlow and the twins entered the Coronado garage.

Jacobson and an unknown mechanic were already there. They looked, Harlow reflected, just as exhausted as he himself felt.

Harlow said: thought you told me you had two new boys?’

‘One of them didn’t turn up. When he does,’ Jacob-son said grimly, ‘he’s out. Come on, let’s empty the transporter and load up.’

The brilliant early morning sun, which presaged rain later in the day, was over the roof-tops when Harlow backed the transporter out into the rue Gerard. Jacobson said: ‘On your way then, the three of you. I’ll be in Vignolles about a couple of hours after you. Some business to attend to first.’

Harlow didn’t even bother to make the natural inquiry as to what that business might be. In the first place he knew that whatever answer he got would be a lie. In the second place he knew what the answer was anyway: Jacobson would have an urgent appointment with his associates in The Hermitage in the rue Georges Sand to acquaint them with the misfortunes of Luigi the Light-fingered. So he merely contented himself with a nod and drove off.

To the twins’ vast relief, the journey to Vignolles was not a replica of the hair-raising trip between Monza and Marseilles. Harlow drove almost sedately. In the first place, he had time in hand. Then again he knew he was so tired that he had lost the fine edge of his concentration.

Finally, within an hour of leaving Marseilles, it had begun to rain, lightly at first then with increasing intensity, which drastically reduced visibility. Nevertheless, the transporter reached its destination by 11.30.

Harlow pulled the transporter to a stop mid-way between the stands and a large chalet-like building and climbed down, followed by the twins. It was still raining, and the skies were heavily overcast. Harlow gazed round the grey and empty desolation of the Vignolles track, stretched his arms and yawned.

‘Home, sweet home. God, I’m tired. And hungry. Let’s see what the canteen has to offer.’

The canteen had not, in fact, a great deal to offer but all three men were too hungry to complain. As they ate, the canteen slowly began to fill up, mainly with officials and employees of the track. Everyone knew Harlow, but almost no one acknowledged his presence. Harlow, remained quite indifferent. At noon he pushed back his chair and made for the door and as he reached for the handle the door opened and Mary entered. She more than over-compensated for the general lack of welcome shown by the others. She smiled at him in delight, wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. Harlow cleared his throat and looked round the canteen where the diners were now showing a vast degree more interest in him.

He said: ‘I thought you said you were a very private person.’

‘I am. But I hug everyone. You know that.’

‘Well, thank you very much.’

She rubbed her cheek. ‘You’re scruffy, filthy and unshaven.’

‘What do you expect of a face that hasn’t seen water or felt a blade for twenty-four hours?’

She smiled. ‘Mr. Dunnet would like to see you in the chalet, Johnny. Though why he couldn’t come to see you in the canteen — ‘

‘I’m sure Mr. Dunnet has his reasons. Such as not wanting to be seen in my company.’

She wrinkled her nose to show her disbelief and led the way out to — the rain. She clung to his arm and said: ‘I was so scared, Johnny. So scared.’

‘And so you’d every right to be,’ Harlow said solemnly. ‘It’s a perilous mission lugging a transporter to Marseilles and back.’ — ‘Johnny.’

‘Sorry.’

They hurried through the rain to the chalet, up the wooden steps, across — the porch and into the hall. As the door closed, Mary reached for Harlow and kissed him. As a kiss, it was neither sisterly nor platonic. Harlow blinked his unresisting astonishment.

She said: ‘But I don’t do that to everyone. Or anyone.’

‘You, Mary, are a little minx.’

‘Ah, yes. But a lovable little minx.’

‘I suppose so. I suppose so.’

Rory watched this scene from the head of the chalet stairs. He was scowling most dreadfully but had the wit to disappear swiftly as Mary and Harlow turned to mount the stairs: Rory’s last meeting with Harlow was still a very painful memory.

Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved, but still looking very tired, Harlow was in Dunnet’s room. The account of the night’s activities he’d given to Dunnet had been brief, succinct, but had missed out nothing of importance.

Dunnet said: ‘And now?’

‘Straight back into Marseilles in the Ferrari. I’ll check on Giancarlo and the films, then go and extend my sympathies to Luigi the Light-fingered.’

Will he sing?’

Take a linnet. If he talks, the police will forget that they ever saw his gun and knife which will save our friend from five years’ mail-bag sewing or breaking boulders in a quarry or whatever.

Luigi does not strike me as the noblest Roman of them all.’

‘How do you get back here?’

‘By Ferrari.’

‘But I thought that James said that-’

‘That I was to leave it in Marseilles? I’m going to leave it in that disused farmyard down the road. I want the Ferrari tonight. I want to get into the Villa Hermitage tonight. I want a gun.’

For almost fifteen interminable seconds Dunnet sat quite still, not looking at Harlow, then he brought up his typewriter from beneath the bed, upended it and undipped the, base plate. This was lined with felt and was equipped with six pairs of spring clips. In the clips were held two automatic pistols, two silencers and two spare ammunition magazines. Harlow removed the smaller pistol, a silencer and a spare magazine. He pressed the magazine release switch, examined the magazine already in the gun and pressed it home again. He put all three items in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and zipped it up. He left the room without another word.

Seconds later he was with MacAlpine. MacAlpine’s complexion was quite grey and he was unquestionably a very sick man with an illness insusceptible to physical diagnosis. He said:

‘Leaving now? You must be exhausted.’

Harlow said: ‘It’ll probably hit me tomorrow morning.’

MacAlpine glanced through the window. The rain was sheeting down. He turned back to Harlow and said: ‘Don’t envy you your trip to Marseilles. But the forecast says it’ll clear this evening. We’ll unload the transporter then.’

‘I think you’re trying to say something, sir.’

‘Well, yes.’ MacAlpine hesitated. ‘I believe you have been kissing my daughter.’

That’s a bare-faced lie. She was kissing me. Incidentally, one of — these days I’m going to clobber that boy of yours.’

‘You have my best wishes,’ MacAlpine said wearily. ‘Do you have designs upon my daughter, Johnny?’

‘I don’t know about that. But she sure as hell has designs on me.’

‘Harlow left and literally bumped into Rory in the corridor outside. They eyed each other, speculation in Harlow’s eyes, trepidation in Rory’s.

Harlow said: ‘Aha! Eavesdropping again. Almost as good as spying, isn’t it, Rory?’

‘What? Me? Eavesdrop? Never!’

Harlow put a kindly arm around his shoulder.

‘Rory, my lad, I have news. I not only have your father’s permission for but approval of my intention to clobber you one of these days. At my convenience, of course.’

Harlow gave Rory a friendly pat on the shoulder: there was considerable menace in the friendliness. Harlow, smiling, descended the stairs to find Mary waiting.

She said: ‘Speak to you, Johnny?’

‘Sure. But on the porch. That black-haired young monster has probably got the whole place wired for sound.’

They went out on the porch, closing the door behind them. The chill rain was falling so heavily that it was impossible to see more than half-way across the abandoned airfield.

Mary said: ‘Put your arm around me, Johnny.’

‘I obediently put my arm round you. In fact, as a bonus, I’ll put them both around you.’

‘Please don’t talk like that, Johnny. I’m scared. I’m scared all the time now, scared for you.

There’s something terribly wrong, isn’t there, Johnny?’

‘What should be wrong?’

‘Oh, you are exasperating!’ She changed the subject — or appeared to. ‘Going to Marseilles?’

‘Yes.’

Take me with you.’

‘No’

‘That’s not very gallant.’

‘No.’

‘What are you, Johnny? What are you doing?’

She had been pressing closely against him but now she drew back, slowly, wonderingly. She put her hand inside his leather jacket, pulled the pocket zip and took out the automatic: she gazed down, hypnotized, at the blue metallic sheen of the gun.

‘Nothing that’s wrong, sweet Mary.’

She put her hand in his pocket again, took out the silencer and stared at it with eyes sick with worry and fear. She whispered: This is a silencer, isn’t it? This way you can kill people without making a noise.’

‘I said ‘Nothing that’s wrong, sweet Mary.’’

‘I know. I know you never would. But — I must tell Daddy.’

‘If you wish to destroy your father, then do so.’ It was brutal, Harlow realized, but he knew of no other way. ‘Go ahead. Tell him.’

‘Destroy my — what do you mean?’

There’s something I want to do. If your father knew, he’d stop me. He’s lost his nerve.

Everybody’s opinion to the contrary, I haven’t lost mine.’

‘What do you mean — destroy him?’

‘I don’t think he’d long survive the death of your mother.’

‘My mother?’ She stared at him for long seconds. ‘But my mother—’

‘Your mother’s alive. I know she is. I think I can find out where she is. If I do, I’ll go and get her tonight.’

‘You’re sure?’ The girl was weeping silently. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure, my sweet Mary.’ Harlow wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

There are police, Johnny.’

‘No. I could tell them where to get the information but they wouldn’t get it. They have to operate within the law.’

Instinctively, she dropped her brown tear-filled eyes from his and gazed at the gun and silencer in her hand. After a few moments she lifted her eyes again. Harlow nodded slightly, just once, took them gently from her, returned them to his pocket and closed the zip. She looked at him for a long moment, then took his leather lapels in her hands.

‘Come back to me, Johnny.’

‘I’ll always come back to you, Mary.’

She tried to smile through her tears. It was not a very successful effort. She said: ‘Another slip of the tongue?’

That was not a slip of the tongue.’ Harlow turned his leather collar high, descended the steps and walked quickly through the driving rain. He did not look back.

Less than one hour later Harlow and Giancarlo were occupying — the two arm-chairs in Giancarlo’s scientific laboratory. Harlow was leafing through a thick pile of glossy photographs.

Harlow said: ‘I’m a very competent cameraman, although I do say so myself.’

Giancarlo nodded. ‘Indeed, And very full of human interest, those subjects of yours. We are, alas, temporarily baffled by the Tracchia and Neubauer documents, but then that makes them even more interesting, don’t you think? Not that MacAlpine and Jacobson are lacking in interest. Far from it. Do you know that MacAlpine has paid out just over £140,000 in the past six months?’

‘I guessed it was a lot — but that much! Even for a millionaire that must bite. What are the chances of identifying the lucky recipient?’

‘At present, zero. It’s a Zurich numbered account. But if they are presented with proved criminal acts, especially murder, the Swiss banks will open up.’

Harlow said: They’ll get their evidence.’

Giancarlo looked at Harlow in lengthy speculation, then nodded. ‘I should not be surprised.

Now, as for our friend Jacobson, he must be the wealthiest mechanic in Europe. His addresses, incidentally, are those of the leading book-makers of Europe.’

‘Gambling on the gee-gees?’

Giancarlo gave him a pitying look. ‘No great feat to find what it was, the dates made it easy.

Each lodgement was made two or three days after a Grand Prix race.’

‘Well, well. An enterprising lad is our Jacobson. Opens up a whole new vista of fascinating possibilities, doesn’t it?’

‘Doesn’t it, now? You can take those photographs. I have duplicates.’

Thank you very much indeed.’ Harlow handed back the photographs. think I want to be caught with that bloody lot on me?’

Harlow said his thanks and goodbye and drove straight to the police station. On duty was the inspector who had been there in the early hours of the morning. His former geniality had quite deserted him: he now had about him a definitely lugubrious air.

Harlow said: ‘Has Luigi the Light-fingered been singing sweet songs?’

The inspector shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, our little canary has lost his voice.’

‘Meaning?’

‘His medicine did not agree with him. I fear, Mr. Harlow, that you dealt with him in so heroic a fashion that he required pain-killing tablets every hour. I had four men guarding him — two outside the room, two inside. Ten minutes before noon this ravishingly beautiful young blonde nurse — that’s how those cretins describe her-’

‘Cretins?’

‘My sergeant and his three men. She left two tablets and a glass of water and asked the sergeant to see that he took his medicine exactly at noon. Sergeant Fleury is nothing if not gallant so precisely at noon he gave Luigi his medicine.’

‘What was the medicine?’

‘Cyanide.’

It was late afternoon when Harlow drove the red Ferrari into the courtyard of the deserted farm just south of the Vignolles airfield. The door of the empty barn was open. Harlow took the car inside, stopped the engine and got out, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom of the windowless barn. He was still trying to do this when a stocking-masked figure seemed to materialize out of this self-same gloom. Despite the almost legendary speed of his reactions Harlow had no time to get at his gun, for the figure was less — than six feet away and already swinging what looked like a pick-axe handle. Harlow catapulted himself forward, getting in below the vicious swing of the club, his shoulder crashing into his assailant just below the breast-bone.

The man, completely winded, gasped in agony, staggered backwards and fell heavily with Harlow on top of him, one hand on the prostrate man’s throat while with the other he reached for his gun.

He did not even manage to get the gun clear of his pocket. He heard the faintest of sounds behind him and twisted round just in time to see another masked figure and a swinging club and catch the full impact of a vicious blow on the right forehead and temple. He collapsed without a sound. The man whom Harlow had winded climbed unsteadily to his feet and although still bent almost double in pain swung his leg and kicked Harlow full in his unconscious and unprotected face. It was perhaps fortunate for Harlow that his attacker was still in so weakened a state otherwise the kick might well have been lethal. Clearly, his attacker was dissatisfied with his initial effort for he drew his foot back again but his companion dragged him away before he could put his potentially lethal intentions into effect. The winded man, still bent over, staggered to and sat on a convenient bench while the other man proceeded to search the unconscious Harlow in a very thorough fashion indeed.

It was noticeably darker inside the barn when Harlow slowly began to come to. He stirred, moaned, then shakily raised shoulders and body off — the ground until he was at arm’s length from it. He remained in this position for some time then, with what was clearly a Herculean effort, managed to stagger to his feet where he remained uncontrollably swaying like a drunken man. His face felt as if it had been struck by a passing Coronado. After a minute or two, more by instinct than anything else, he lurched out of the garage, crossed the courtyard, falling down twice in the process, and made his erratic way towards the airfield tarmac.

The rain had now stopped falling and the sky was beginning to clear. Dunnet had just emerged from the canteen and was heading towards the chalet when he caught sight of — this staggering figure, less than fifty yards away, weaving its seemingly alcoholic way across the airfield tarmac.

For a moment Dunnet stood like a man turned to stone, then broke into a dead run. He reached Harlow in seconds, put a supporting arm around his shoulders as he stared into his face, a face now barely recognizable. The forehead was wickedly gashed and hideously bruised and the blood that had seeped — and was still seeping — had completely masked the right side of his face and blinded his right eye. The left-hand side of the face was in little better condition. The left cheek was one huge bruise with a transverse cut. He bled from nose and mouth, his lip was split and at least two teeth were missing.

‘Christ Almighty!’ Dunnet said. ‘Dear Christ Almighty!’

Dunnet half-guided, half-carried the staggering, semiconscious Harlow across the tarmac, up the steps, across the porch and into the hall of — the chalet. Dunnet cursed under his breath as Mary chose just that moment to emerge from the living-room. She stood stock-still for a moment, brown eyes huge in a white appalled face, and when she spoke her voice was a barely audible whisper.

‘Johnny!’ she said. ‘Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. What have they done to you?’

She reached forward and gently touched the blood-masked face, beginning to tremble uncontrollably as the tears rolled down her face.

‘No time for tears, Mary, my dear.’ Dunnet’s voice was deliberately brisk. ‘Warm water, sponge, towel. After that, bring the first-aid box. On no account are you to tell your father. We’ll be in the lounge.’

Five minutes later, in the lounge, a basin of bloodstained water and a bloodstained towel lay at Harlow’s feet. His face was clear of blood now and the end result was, if anything, worse looking than ever inasmuch as the gashes and bruises stood out in clear relief. Dunnet, ruthlessly applying iodine and antiseptics, was taping up the gashes and from the frequent wincing expressions on the face of his patient, it was clear that Harlow was suffering considerably. He put finger and thumb inside his mouth, wrenched, winced again and came out with a tooth which he regarded with disfavour before dropping into the basin. When he spoke, despite the thickness of his speech, it was clear that however damaged he might have been physically, mentally he was back on balance.

‘You and me, Alexis. I think we should have our photographs taken. For the family albums.

How do we compare for looks?’

Dunnet examined him judicially. ‘About even-stephen, I should say.’

True, true. Mind you, I think nature gave me an unfair start over you.’

‘Stop it, stop it, will you.’ Mary was openly crying. ‘He’s hurt, he’s terribly hurt. I’m going to get a doctor.’

‘No question.’ The bantering note had left Harlow’s voice and there was iron in it now. ‘No doctors. No stitches. Later. Not tonight.’

Mary, her eyes brimming with tears, gazed fixedly at the glass of brandy Harlow held in his hand. The hand was steady as that of a stone statue. She said, not with bitterness, only a dawning of understanding: ‘You fooled us all. The nerve-shattered world champion with the shaking hands. You fooled us all the time. Didn’t you, Johnny?’

‘Yes. Please leave the room, Mary.’

‘I swear I’ll never talk. Not even to Daddy.’

‘Leave the room.’

‘Leave her be,’ Dunnet said. ‘If you talk, Mary, you know he’d never look at you again. My God, it never rains but it pours. You’re our second alarm this afternoon. Tweedledum and Tweedledee are missing.’

Dunnet looked at Harlow for his reaction but there was none.

Harlow said: They were working on the transporter at the time.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘How the hell do you know?’

‘In the south hangar. With Jacobson.’

Dunnet nodded slowly.

They saw too much,’ Harlow said. too much. It must have been by accident because God knows they weren’t overburdened by intelligence. But they saw too much. What’s Jacobson’s story?’

The twins went for a tea-break. When they didn’t come back after forty minutes, he went looking for them. They’d just vanished.’

‘Did they, in fact, go to the canteen?’ Dunnet shook his head. Then if they’re ever found it will be in the bottom of a ravine or a canal. Remember Jacques and Henry in the Coronado garage?’

Dunnet nodded. ‘Jacob-son said they’d become homesick and gone home. They’ve gone home all right — in the same way that Tweedledum and Tweedledee have gone home. He’s got two new mechanics down there but only one turned up for work this morning. The other didn’t. I’ve no proof, but I’ll get it. The missing lad didn’t turn up because I put him in hospital in the middle hours of the night.’

Dunnet showed no reaction. Mary stared at Harlow with unbelieving horror in her eyes.

Harlow went on: ‘Sorry, Mary. Jacobson is a killer, murderer if you like. He’ll stop at nothing to protect his own interests. I know he was responsible for the death of my young brother in the first Grand Prix of this season. That was what first made Alexis persuade me to work for him.’

Mary said in total disbelief: ‘You work for Alexis? A journalist?’

Harlow went on as if he had not heard her. ‘He tried to kill me in the French Grand Prix. I have photographic proof. He was responsible for Jethou’s death. He tried to get me last night but using a fake police trap to stop the transporter. He was responsible for the murder of a man in Marseilles today.’

Dunnet said calmly: ‘Who?’

‘Luigi the Light-fingered. He was fed a pain-reliever in hospital today. It certainly removed him from all pain — permanently. Cyanide. Jacobson was the only person who knew about Luigi so he had him eliminated before he could sing to the police. My fault — I’d told Jacobson. My fault. But I’d no option at the time.’

‘I can’t believe it.’ Mary was totally bewildered. ‘I can’t believe it. This is a nightmare.’

‘Believe what you like. Just stay a mile away from Jacobson. He’ll read your face like a book and will begin to become very interested in you. I should hate for Jacobson to become very interested in you, I’d rather you didn’t end up in a gravel pit. And always remember — you’re crippled for life and Jacobson did it.’

While he had been talking, Harlow had been carrying out a thorough examination of his pockets.

‘Cleaned out,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Completely. Wallet, passport, driving licence, money, car keys — but I have spares. All my skeleton keys.’ He pondered briefly. That means I’ll require a rope, hook and tarpaulin from the transporter. And then — ‘

Mary interrupted, fear in her eyes. ‘You’re not — you can’t go out again tonight! You should be in hospital.’

Harlow glanced at her briefly, expressionlessly, then went on: ‘And then, of course, they took my gun. I shall require another, Alexis. And some money.’

Harlow pushed himself to his feet, walked quickly and quietly to the door and jerked it open.

Rory, who had clearly been listening with his ear pressed hard against the door, more or less fell into the room. Harlow seized him by the hair and Rory yelped in agony as Harlow straightened him up.

Harlow said: ‘Look at my face, Rory.’

Rory looked, winced and the colour drained from his own.

Harlow said: ‘You’re responsible for that, Rory.’

Suddenly, without warning, he struck Rory flatly handed across the left cheek. It was a heavy blow and would normally have sent Rory reeling but he couldn’t in this case because Harlow’s left hand was firmly entwined in his hair. Harlow struck him again, backhanded and with equal force, across the right cheek, then proceeded to repeat the process with metronomic regularity.

Mary screamed: ‘Johnny! Johnny! Have you gone mad?’ She made to throw herself at Harlow but Dunnet moved swiftly to pin her arms from behind. Dunnet appeared remarkably unperturbed by the turn events had taken.

‘I’m going to keep this up, Rory,’ Harlow said, ‘until you feel the way I look.’

Harlow kept it up. Rory made no attempt to resist or retaliate. His head was beginning to roll from side to side, quite helplessly, as Harlow continued to strike him repeatedly. Then, considering that the softening-up process had probably gone far enough, Harlow stopped.

Harlow said: ‘I want information. I want the truth. I want it now. You eavesdropped on Mr.

Dunnet and myself this afternoon, did you not?’

Rory’s voice was a trembling pain-wracked whisper. ‘No! No! I swear I didn’t. I swear—’

He broke off with a screech of pain as Harlow resumed the treatment. After a few seconds Harlow stopped again. A sobbing Mary, still securely held by Dunnet, was looking at him in stupefied horror.

Harlow said: ‘I was beaten up by some people who knew I was going to Marseilles to see about some very important pictures. They wanted those pictures very very badly. They also knew that I would be parking the Ferrari in a barn in a disused farmhouse a little way down the road.

Mr. Dunnet was the only other person who knew about the pictures and the farmyard. You dunk perhaps he told?’

‘Maybe.’ Like ‘his sister’s, Rory’s cheeks were now liberally streaked with tears. ‘I don’t know. Yes, yes, he must have done.’

Harlow spoke slowly and deliberately, interspersing every other few words with a resounding slap.

‘Mr. Dunnet is not a journalist. Mr. Dunnet has never been an accountant. Mr. Dunnet is a senior officer of the Special Branch of New Scotland Yard and a member of Interpol and he has accumulated enough evidence against you, for aiding and abetting criminals, to ensure that you’ll spend the next few years in a remand home and Borstal.’ He removed his left hand from Rory’s hair. ‘Whom did you tell, Rory?’

Tracchia.’

Harlow pushed Rory into an arm-chair where he sat hunched, his hands covering his aching scarlet face.

Harlow looked at Dunnet. ‘Where’s Tracchia?’

‘Gone to Marseilles. He said. With Neubauer.’

‘He was out here, too? He would be. And Jacobson?’

‘Out in his car. Looking for the twins. He said.’

‘He’s probably taken a spade with him. I’ll get the spare keys and fetch the Ferrari. Meet you at the transporter in fifteen minutes. With the gun. And money.’

Harlow turned and walked away. Rory, rising rather unsteadily to his feet, followed. Dunnet put an arm round Mary’s shoulders, pulled out a breast handkerchief and proceeded to clean her tear-ravaged face. Mary looked at him in wonderment.

‘Are you what Johnny said you were? Special Branch? Interpol?’

‘Well, yes, I’m a police officer of sorts.’

Then stop him, Mr. Dunnet. I beg of you. Stop him.’

‘Don’t you know your Johnny yet?’

Mary nodded miserably, waited until Dunnet had effected his running repairs, then said: ‘He’s after Tracchia, isn’t he?’

‘He’s after Tracchia. He’s after a lot of people. But the person he’s really after is Jacobson. If Johnny says that Jacobson is directly responsible for the deaths of seven people, then he’s directly responsible for the deaths of seven people. Apart from that he has two personal scores to settle with Jacobson.’

‘His young brother?’ Dunnet nodded. ‘And the other?’

‘Look at your left foot, Mary.’