The Way to Dusty Death

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘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 evenstephen, 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. ‘Jacobson 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 by 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 flat-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 think 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.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  At the roundabout south of Vignolles, a black Citroën braked to give precedence to Harlow’s red Ferrari. As the Ferrari swept by, Jacobson, at the wheel of the Citroën, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, turned his car towards Vignolles and stopped by the first roadside telephone booth.

  In the Vignolles canteen MacAlpine and Dunnet were finishing a meal in the now almost deserted room. They were both looking towards the door, watching Mary leave.

  MacAlpine sighed. ‘My daughter is in low spirits tonight.’

  ‘Your daughter is in love.’

  ‘I fear so. And where the hell has that young devil Rory got to?’

  ‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Harlow caught that young devil eavesdropping.’

  ‘Oh, no. Not again?’

  ‘Again. The ensuing scene was quite painful really. I was there. I rather think that Rory was afraid that he might find Johnny here. Johnny, in fact, is in bed – I don’t think he’d any sleep last night.’

  ‘And that sounds a very attractive proposition to me. Bed, I mean. I feel unaccountably tired tonight. If you will excuse me, Alexis.’

  He half rose to his feet, then sat down again as Jacobson entered and approached their table. He looked very tired indeed.

  MacAlpine said: ‘What luck?’

  ‘Zero. I’ve searched everywhere within five miles of here. Nothing. But I’ve just had a report from the police that two people answering closely to their descriptions have been seen in Le Beausset – and there can’t be many people around like the terrible twins. I’ll just have a bite and go there. Have to find a car first, though. Mine’s on the blink – hydraulics gone.’

  MacAlpine handed Jacobson a set of car keys. ‘Take my Aston.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr MacAlpine. Insurance papers?’

  ‘Everything in the glove box. Very kind of you to go to such trouble, I must say.’

  ‘They’re my boys too, Mr MacAlpine.’

  Dunnet gazed expressionlessly into the middle distance.

  The Ferrari’s speedometer registered 180 kph. Harlow was clearly paying scant attention to the French 110 kph restriction, but from time to time, purely from instinct, for it seemed unlikely that there was any police car in France capable of overtaking him, he consulted his rear mirror. But there was at no time anything to be seen except the coils of rope, hook and first-aid box on the back seat and the hump of a dirty white tarpaulin which had been clearly flung carelessly on the floor.

  An incredible forty minutes after leaving Vignolles the Ferrari passed the Marseilles sign. A kilometre farther on the Ferrari pulled up as traffic lights changed to red. Harlow’s face was so battered and bruised and covered in plaster that it was impossible to tell what expression it wore. But the eyes were as calm and steady and watchful as ever, his posture as immobile as ever: no impatience, no drumming of fingers on the wheel. But even Harlow’s total relaxation could be momentarily upset.

  ‘Mr Harlow.’ The voice came from the rear of the car.

  Harlow swung round and stared at Rory, whose head had just emerged from its cocoon of canvas tarpaulin. When Harlow spoke it was with slow, deliberate, spaced words.

  ‘What the hell are you doing there?’

  Rory said defensively: ‘I thought you might be needing a bit of a hand, like.’

  Harlow restrained himself with what was obviously an immense effort.

  ‘I could say “This is all I need” but I don’t think that would help much.’ From an inner pocket he fished out some of the money that Dunnet had given him. ‘Three hundred francs. Get a hotel and phone Vignolles for a car in the morning.’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Harlow. I made a terrible mistake about you. I’m just plain stupid, I guess. I won’t say sorry, for all the sorries in the world are not enough. The best way to say “sorry” is to help. Please, Mr Harlow.’

  ‘Look, laddie, I’ll be meeting people tonight, people who would kill you soon as look at you. And now I’m responsible for you to your father.’

  The lights changed and the Ferrari moved on. What little could be seen of Harlow’s face looked slightly bemused.

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ Rory said. ‘What’s wrong with him? My father, I mean.’

  ‘He’s being blackmailed.’

  ‘Dad? Blackmailed?’ Rory was totally incredulous.

  ‘Nothing he’s ever done. I’ll tell you some time.’

  ‘Are you going to stop those people from blackmailing him?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘And Jacobson. The man who crippled Mary. I must have been mad to think it was your fault. Are you going to get him, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t say “I hope so” this time. You said “Yes”.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Rory cleared his throat and said diffidently: ‘You going to marry Mary, Mr Harlow?’

  ‘The prison walls appear to be closing round me.’

  ‘Well, I love her too. Different like, but just as much. If you’re going after the bastard who crippled Mary I’m coming too.’

  ‘Watch your language,’ Harlow said absently. He drove some way in silence then sighed in resignation. ‘OK. But only if you promise to stay out of sight and keep safe.’

  ‘I’ll stay out of sight and keep safe.’

  Harlow made to bite his upper lip and winced as he bit the gash in that lip. He looked in the rear mirror. Rory, now sitting on the back seat, was smiling with considerable satisfaction. Harlow shook his head in what might have been disbelief or despair or both.

  Ten minutes later Harlow parked the car in an alleyway about three hundred yards away from the rue Georges Sand, packed all the equipment into a canvas bag, slung it over his shoulder and set off, accompanied by a Rory whose expression of complacency had now changed to one of considerable apprehension. Other factors apart, there was a sound enough reason for Rory’s nervousness. It was a bad night for the purposes Harlow had in mind. A full
moon hung high in a cloudless starlit Riviera sky. The visibility was at least as good as it would have been on an overcast winter’s afternoon. The only difference was that moon-shadows are much darker.

  Harlow and Rory were now pressed close into the shadow of one of the ten-foot high walls that surrounded the Villa Hermitage. Harlow examined the contents of the bag.

  ‘Now then. Rope, hook, tarpaulin, twine, insulated wire-cutters, chisels, first-aid box. Yes, the lot.’

  ‘What is that lot for, Mr Harlow?’

  ‘First three for getting over that wall. Twine for tying things up or together, like thumbs. Wire-cutters for electric alarms – if I can find the wires. Chisels for opening things. First-aid box – well, you never know. Rory, will you kindly stop your teeth from chattering? Our friends inside could hear you forty feet away.’

  ‘I can’t help it, Mr Harlow.’

  ‘Now, remember, you’re to stay here. The last people we want here are the police but if I’m not back in thirty minutes go to the phone box on the corner and tell them to come here at the double.’ Harlow secured the hook to the end of the rope. For once, the bright moonlight was of help. With his first upward cast the hook sailed over the branch of a tree within the grounds. He pulled cautiously until the hook engaged firmly round the branch, slung the white tarpaulin over his shoulder, climbed the few feet that were necessary, draped the tarpaulin over the broken glass embedded in the concrete, pulled himself farther up, sat gingerly astride and looked at the tree that had provided this convenient branch: the lower branches extended to within four feet of the ground.

  Harlow glanced down at Rory. ‘The bag.’

  The bag came sailing upwards. Harlow caught it and dropped it on the ground inside. He took the branch in his hands, swung inwards and was on the ground in five seconds.

  He passed through a small thicket of trees. Lights shone from the curtained windows of a ground floor room. The massive oaken door was shut and almost certainly bolted. In any event Harlow considered that a frontal entry was as neat a way as any of committing suicide. He approached the side of the house, keeping to shadows wherever possible. The windows on the ground floor offered no help – all were heavily barred. The back door, predictably, was locked: the ironic thought occurred to Harlow that the only skeleton keys which could have probably opened that door were inside that house.