Temporarily out of Tracchia’s line of vision, Harlow, all signs of insobriety vanished, moved rapidly into the first darkened doorway round the corner. From a back pocket he withdrew an article not normally carried by racing drivers – a woven leather black-jack with a wrist thong. Harlow slipped the thong over his hand and waited.
He had little enough time to wait. As Tracchia rounded the corner the contempt on his face gave way to consternation when he saw that the ill-lit street ahead was empty. Anxiously, he increased his pace and within half a dozen paces was passing by the shadowed and recessed doorway where Harlow waited.
A Grand Prix driver needs timing, accuracy and eyesight. All of those Harlow had in superabundance. Also he was extremely fit. Tracchia lost consciousness instantly. Without as much as a glance at it, Harlow stepped over the prostrate body and strode briskly on his way. Only, it wasn’t the way he had been going. He retraced his tracks for about a quarter of a mile, turned left and almost at once found himself in the transporter parking lot. It seemed extremely unlikely that Tracchia, when he came to, would have even the slightest idea as to where Harlow had been headed.
Harlow made directly for the nearest transporter. Even through the rain and near darkness the name, in two feet high golden letters, was easily distinguishable: CORONADO. He unlocked the door, passed inside and switched on the lights and very powerful lights they were too, as they had to be for mechanics working on such delicate engineering. Here there was no need for glowing red lights, stealth and secrecy: there was no one who was going to question Johnny Harlow’s right to be inside his own transporter. Nevertheless, he took the precaution of locking the door from the inside and leaving the key half-turned in the lock so that it couldn’t be opened from the outside. Then he used ply to mask the windows so that he couldn’t be seen from outside: only then did he make for the tool-rack on the side and select the implements he wanted.
MacAlpine and Dunnet, not for the first time, were illegally in Harlow’s room and not feeling too happy about it: not about the illegality but what they had found there. More precisely, they were in Harlow’s bathroom. Dunnet had the cistern cover in his hand while MacAlpine held up a dripping bottle of malt whisky. Both men regarded each other, at a momentary loss for words, then Dunnet said: ‘Resourceful lad is our Johnny. He’s probably got a crate hidden under the driving seat of his Coronado. But I think you’d better leave that bottle where you found it.’
‘Why ever should I? What’s the point in that?’
‘That way we may know his daily consumption. If he can’t get it from that bottle he’ll sure as hell get it elsewhere – you know his uncanny way of vanishing in that red Ferrari of his. And then we’ll never know how much he drinks.’
‘I suppose so, I suppose so.’ He looked at the bottle and there was pain in his eyes. ‘The most gifted driver of our time, perhaps the most gifted driver of all time, and now it’s come to this. Why do the gods strike a man like Johnny Harlow down, Alexis? Because he’s beginning to walk too close to them.’
‘Put the bottle back, James.’
Only two doors away was another pair of unhappy men, one of them markedly so. Tracchia, from the incessant way in which he massaged the back of his neck, appeared to be in very considerable pain. Neubauer watched him with a mixture of sympathy and anger.
Neubauer said: ‘Sure it was that bastard Harlow?’
‘I’m sure. I’ve still got my wallet.’
‘That was careless of him. I think I’ll lose my room key and borrow the master.’
Tracchia momentarily ceased to massage his aching neck. ‘What the hell for?’
‘You’ll see. Stay here.’
Neubauer returned within two minutes, a key ring whirling round his finger. He said: ‘I’m taking the blonde at reception out on Sunday night. I think I’ll ask for the keys of the safe next time.’
Tracchia said in agonized patience: ‘Willi, there is a time and a place for comedy.’
‘Sorry.’ He opened the door and they passed out into the corridor. It was deserted. Less than ten seconds later they were both inside Harlow’s room, the door locked behind them.
Tracchia said: ‘What happens if Harlow comes along?’
‘Who would you rather be? Harlow or us?’
They had spent no more than a minute in searching when Neubauer suddenly said: ‘You were quite right, Nikki. Our dear friend Johnny is just that little bit careless.’
He showed Tracchia the cine-camera with the crisscross of scratches round each of the four screws securing the plate at the back, produced a pocket-knife, selected a small screw-driver, removed the plate and extracted the micro camera. Neubauer then extracted the cassette from the micro camera and examined it thoughtfully. He said: ‘We take this?’
Tracchia shook his head and instantly screwed up his face in the agony caused by the thoughtless movement. When he had recovered, he said: ‘No. He would have known we were here.’
Neubauer said: ‘So there’s only one thing for it then?’
Tracchia nodded and again winced in pain. Neubauer lifted off the cover of the cassette, unreeled the film and passed it under a strong desk lamp, then, not without some difficulty, rewound the film, replaced the cover, put the cassette back in the micro camera and the micro camera in the cine.
Tracchia said: ‘This proves nothing. We contact Marseilles?’
Neubauer nodded. Both men left the room.
Harlow had a Coronado pushed back by about a foot. He peered at the section of floor-board revealed, reached for a powerful torch, knelt and examined the floor intently. One of the longitudinal planks appeared to have two transverse lines on it, about fifteen inches apart. Harlow used an oily cloth to rub the front line, whereupon it became evident that the front line was no line at all but a very fine sharp cut. The revealed heads of the two holding nails were bright and clear of any marks. Harlow brought a chisel to bear and the front of the inlet wooden section lifted with surprising ease. He reached down an arm to explore the depth and length of the space beneath. A fractional lifting of the eyebrows expressed some degree of surprise, almost certainly as to the unseen extent of area available. Harlow brought out his arm and touched fingertips to mouth and nose: there was no perceptible change in his expression. He replaced the board section and gently tapped it into place, using the butt of a chisel on the gleaming nail-heads. With a suitably oiled and dirty cloth he smeared the cuts and nails.
Forty-five minutes had elapsed between the time of Harlow’s departure from the Villa-Hotel Cessni and his return there. The vast foyer looked semi-deserted but there must, in fact, have been over a hundred people there, many of them from the official reception party, all of them, probably, waiting to go in for late dinner. The first two people Harlow saw were MacAlpine and Dunnet, sitting alone at a small table with short drinks. Two tables away Mary sat by herself, a soft drink and a magazine in front of her. She didn’t give the impression of reading and there was a certain stiff aloofness in her bearing. Harlow wondered towards whom the hostility was directed. Towards himself, likely enough, but on the other hand there had grown up an increasing estrangement between Mary on the one hand and MacAlpine on the other. Of Rory there was no sign. Probably out spying somewhere, Harlow thought.
The three of them caught sight of Harlow at almost the same instant as he saw them. MacAlpine immediately rose to his feet.
‘I’d be grateful, Alexis, if you could take Mary in to dinner. I’m going into the dining-room. I’m afraid if I were to stay – ’
‘It’s all right, James. I understand.’
Harlow watched the calculated snub of the departing back without expression, an absence of outward feeling that quickly changed to a certain apprehension as he saw Mary bearing down on him. No question now as to whom the unspoken hostility had been directed. She gave the very distinct impression of having been waiting for him. That bewitching smile that had made her the sweetheart of the race-tracks was, Harlow observed, in marked abeya
nce. He braced himself for what he knew was going to be a low but correspondingly fierce voice.
‘Must you let everybody see you like this? And in a place like this.’ Harlow frowned in puzzlement. ‘You’ve been at it again.’
He said: ‘That’s right. Go ahead. Wound an innocent man’s feelings. You have my worded bond – I mean my bonded word – ’
‘It’s disgusting! Sober men don’t fall flat on their faces in the street. Look at the state of your clothes, your filthy hands. Go on! Just look at yourself.’
Harlow looked at himself.
‘Oh! Aha! Well, sweet dreams, sweet Mary.’
He turned towards the stairs, took five steps and halted abruptly when confronted by Dunnet. For a moment the two men looked at each other, faces immobile, then there was an almost imperceptible lift of Dunnet’s eyebrow. When Harlow spoke, his voice was very quiet.
He said: ‘We go now.’
‘The Coronado?’
‘Yes.’
‘We go now.’
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, overalled 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 it. 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 cafés faced each other across the narrow street. They had in common the same peeling paint façade, hanging reed curtains, chequered cloth-covered sidewalk tables and bare, functional and splendidly uninspired interiors. And both of them, as was so common in cafés 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 café 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? I wish to God I 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 a
n alco to have the stamina, the reactions, the nerve to last the pace? He’ll crack.’ He looked away from the other café 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 café, he could catch only snatches of the conversation from the next booth.
The Way to Dusty Death Page 8
