The Way to Dusty Death

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘Where does Johnny go each evening. We hardly ever see him after dinner nowadays.’

  ‘Johnny?’ Henry adjusted the flower in his button, hole. ‘No idea, miss. Maybe he prefers his own company. Maybe he finds the food better elsewhere. Maybe anything.’

  Rory still held the magazine before his face. Clearly however he was not reading for his eyes were very still. But, at the moment, his whole being was not in his eyes but in his ears.

  Mary said: ‘Maybe it’s not just the food that he finds better elsewhere.’

  ‘Girls, miss? Johnny Harlow’s not interested in girls.’ He leered at her in what he probably imagined to be a roguish fashion in keeping with the gentlemanly splendour of his evening wear. ‘Except for a certain you-know-who.’

  ‘Don’t be such a fool.’ Mary MacAlpine was not always milk and roses. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘What do you mean, miss?’

  ‘Don’t be clever with me, Henry.’

  Henry assumed the sad expression of the continuously misjudged.

  ‘I’m not clever enough to be clever with anybody.’

  Mary looked at him in cold speculation then abruptly turned away. Rory just as quickly averted his own head. He was looking very thoughtful indeed and the expression superimposed upon the thoughtfulness could hardly be described as pleasant.

  Harlow, the hooded red light giving all the illumination he required, probed the depths of a box of spares. Suddenly, he half straightened, cocked his head as if to listen, switched off the torch, went to a side window and peered out. The evening darkness had deepened until it was now almost night, but a yellowish half-moon drifting behind scattered cloud gave just enough light to see by. Two men were heading across the transporter park, heading straight towards the Coronado unit, which was less than twenty feet from where Harlow stood watching. There was no difficulty at all in identifying them as MacAlpine and Jacobson. Harlow made his way to the Ferrari transporter’s door, unlocked it and cautiously opened it just sufficiently to give him a view of the Coronado transporter’s door. MacAlpine was just inserting his key in the lock. MacAlpine said:

  ‘So there’s no doubt then. Harlow wasn’t imagining things. Fourth gear is stripped.’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘So he may be in the clear after all?’ There was a note almost of supplication in MacAlpine’s voice.

  ‘There’s more than one way of stripping a gear.’ Jacobson’s tone offered very little in the way of encouragement.

  ‘There’s that, I suppose, there’s that. Come on, let’s have a look at this damned gear-box.’

  Both men passed inside and lights came on. Harlow, unusually half-smiling, nodded slowly, closed and gently locked the door and resumed his search. He acted with the same circumspection as he had in the Cagliari pits, forcing open crates and boxes, when this was necessary, with the greatest of care so that they could be closed again to show the absolute minimum of offered violence. He operated with speed and intense concentration, pausing only once at the sound of a noise outside. He checked the source of the noise, saw MacAlpine and Jacobson descending the steps of the Coronado transporter and walk away across the deserted compound. Harlow returned to his work.

  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 Jacobson 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 the 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 café and took a seat at an empty table where he could keep an eye on the ent
rance. 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 café. 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 café?’

  ‘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 reentered the café, 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?’

  ‘I 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 the 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. ‘Now 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.’