The Way to Dusty Death

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘Yes.’ They went back into the saloon. Pauli was still huddled in a settee, moaning. Harlow said: ‘The key to Mrs MacAlpine’s cabin.’

  Pauli nodded in the direction of a cabinet drawer. Harlow found the key, removed the first-aid box from its clip on the bulkhead, ushered Pauli below at the point of his gun, opened the first cabin door, gestured Pauli inside and threw in the first-aid box. He said: ‘I’ll have a doctor here within half an hour. Meantime, I don’t care a damn whether you live or die.’ He left and locked the cabin door from the outside.

  In the next cabin, a woman of about forty sat on a stool by her bunk. Pale and thin from her long confinement, she was still quite beautiful. The resemblance to her daughter was startling. She was listless, totally apathetic, the epitome of resignation and despair. The sound of the gun and the commotion on the upper deck could not have gone unregistered, but no signs of registration showed in her face.

  A key turned in the lock, the door opened and Harlow came in. She made no move. He walked to within three feet of her and still she gazed uncaringly downwards.’

  Harlow touched her shoulder and said, very gently: ‘I’ve come to take you home, Marie.’

  She turned her head in slow and unbelieving wonderment, initially and understandably not recognizing the battered face before her. Then, slowly, almost incredulously, recognition dawned upon her. She rose unsteadily to her feet, half smiled at him, then tremblingly took a step forward, put her thin arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

  ‘Johnny Harlow,’ she whispered. ‘My dear, dear Johnny. Johnny Harlow. What have they done to your face?’

  ‘Nothing that time won’t cure,’ Harlow said briskly. ‘After all, it wasn’t all that hot to begin with.’ He patted her back as if to reassure her of his actual presence, then gently disengaged himself. ‘I think there’s someone else who would like to see you, Marie.’

  For someone who claimed that he could not swim, Tracchia was cleaving through the water like a torpedo. He reached the landing steps, scrambled up to the quay, and headed for the nearest phone booth. He put through a reverse charge call to Vignolles and had to stand there for almost five minutes before his call came through: the French telephone service is not world renowned. He asked for Jacobson and finally reached him in his bedroom. Tracchia’s account of the evening’s happenings were succinct and to the point but could have been shorter as it was heavily burdened with a wide range of expletives. ‘So that’s it, Jake,’ Tracchia finished up. ‘That bastard has outsmarted us all’

  Jacobson’s face, as he sat on his bed, was tight with anger but he was clearly in control of himself. He said: ‘Not quite yet. So we’ve lost our ace in the hole. We’ll just have to get ourselves another one, won’t we? You understand? Meet you at Bandol inside the hour. Usual place.’

  ‘Passport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In my bedside table drawer. And for Christ’s sake bring me a set of dry clothing or I’ll have pneumonia before the night is out.’

  Tracchia emerged from the phone booth. He was actually smiling. He went to take up position among some crates and barrels, seeking a safe position where he could keep The Chevalier under observation and, in the process of doing so, literally tripped over the prostrate Yonnie.

  ‘Good God, Yonnie, I’d forgotten just where you were.’ The bound and gagged man looked up with pleading eyes. Tracchia shook his head. ‘Sorry, can’t untie you yet. That bastard Harlow, young MacAlpine rather, has shot Pauli, I had to swim for it. The two of them will be coming ashore any minute. Harlow may check whether you’re still here. If he does, and you’re gone, he’ll raise a hue and cry immediately: if you’re still here he’ll reckon that you can be left in cold storage for a while. Gives us more time to play with. When they’ve landed and gone take the dinghy out to The Chevalier. Find a bag and stuff it with all the papers in the two top drawers of the chart-table. God, if the police were ever to lay hands on that lot! Among other things, your days would be numbered. You’ll take them to your place in Marseilles in my car and wait there. If you get those papers you’re in the clear. Harlow didn’t recognize you, it was too dark in the shadows here, nobody even knows your name. Understand?’

  Yonnie nodded glumly then turned his head in the direction of the harbour. Tracchia nodded. The sound of the outboard was unmistakable and soon the dinghy appeared in sight round the bows of The Chevalier. Tracchia prudently withdrew twenty or thirty yards along the waterfront. The dinghy came alongside the landing steps and Rory was the first out, painter in hand. As he secured the dinghy, Harlow helped Marie ashore, then followed himself, her suitcase in his hand. His gun was in his other hand. Tracchia toyed briefly with the idea of way-laying Harlow in the shadows but almost immediately and very prudently changed his mind. He knew that Harlow would be in no mood to be taking any chances and, if necessary, would shoot and shoot to kill without the slightest compunction.

  Harlow came straight to where Yonnie lay, bent over him, straightened, and said: ‘He’ll keep.’ The three crossed the road to the nearest phone booth – the one that Tracchia had lately occupied – and Harlow went inside. Tracchia moved stealthily along behind the cover of barrels and crates until he reached Yonnie. He produced a knife and cut him free. Yonnie sat up and he had the expression of a man who would have given a great deal to be able to shout in pain. He rubbed hands and wrists in agony: Rory was no respecter of circulations. By and by, gingerly and clearly not enjoying the process, he removed the insulated tape from his face. He opened his mouth but Tracchia clapped his hand across it to prevent what would be doubtless a torrential outpouring of imprecations.

  ‘Quiet,’ Tracchia whispered. ‘They’re just on the other side of the road. Harlow’s in the phone booth.’ He removed his hand. ‘When they leave, I’m going to follow them to see that they do really leave Bandol. As soon as they’re out of sight, get down to the dinghy. Use the oars. We don’t want Harlow hearing the outboard start up and coming back to investigate.’

  ‘Me? Row?’ Yonnie said huskily. He flexed his fingers and winced. ‘My hands are dead.’

  ‘You’d better get them back to life fast,’ Tracchia said unfeelingly. ‘Or you’re going to be dead. Ah, now.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘He’s just left the phone box. Be dead quiet. That bastard Harlow can hear a leaf drop twenty feet away.’

  Harlow, Rory and Mrs MacAlpine walked up a street away from the waterfront. They turned a corner and disappeared. Tracchia said: ‘Get going.’

  He watched Yonnie head for the landing steps then followed quickly after the trio in front. For about three minutes he trailed them at a very discreet distance indeed, then lost sight of them as they turned another left corner. He peered cautiously round the corner, saw that it was a cul-de-sac, hesitated and then stiffened as he heard the unmistakable sound of a Ferrari engine starting up. Shivering violently in his still soaking clothes, he pressed himself into the darkness of a recessed and unlit alleyway. The Ferrari emerged from the cul-de-sac, turned left and headed north out of Bandol. Tracchia watched it go then hurried back to the phone booth.

  There was the usual frustrating delay in getting through to Vignolles. Eventually, he succeeded in reaching Jacobson. He said: ‘Harlow’s just left with Rory and Mrs MacAlpine. He made a phone call before he left – almost certainly to Vignolles to tell MacAlpine that he’s got his wife back. I’d leave by the back door if I were you.’

  ‘No worry,’ Jacobson sounded confident. ‘I am leaving by the back door. The fire-escape. I’ve already got our cases in the Aston and our passports in my pocket. I’m now on my way to collect our third passport. See you.’

  Tracchia replaced the receiver. He was about to open the booth door when he stopped and stood as if a man turned to stone. A large black Citroën had slid silently down to the waterfront, showing only side-lights. Even those were switched off before the car came to a halt. No flashing lights, no howling sirens – but it was indisputably a pol
ice car and one paying a very private visit. Four uniformed policemen came out of the car. Tracchia pried open the door of the booth so that the automatic light went out, then leaned as far back as possible, praying that he wouldn’t be seen. He wasn’t. The four policemen at once disappeared behind the barrels where Yonnie had been, two of them with lit torches in hand, and reappeared within ten seconds, one of them carrying some unidentifiable objects in his hand. Tracchia did not need to see it to know what the man was carrying – the twine and black tape that had immobilized and silenced Yonnie. The four policemen held a brief conference then headed for the landing steps. Twenty seconds later a rowing boat was heading purposefully but silently towards The Chevalier.

  Tracchia emerged from the booth, fists clenched, his face black with anger and softly but audibly swearing to himself. The only printable word, and one that was repeated many times, was ‘Harlow’. The bitter realization had come to Tracchia that Harlow had not phoned Vignolles: he had phoned the local police.

  In her room in Vignolles Mary was getting ready for dinner when a knock came at her door. She opened it to find Jacobson standing there. He said: ‘Can I have a private word with you, Mary? It’s very important.’

  She regarded him with mild astonishment then opened the door for him to enter. Jacobson closed the door behind him.

  She said curiously: ‘What’s so important? What do you want?’

  Jacobson pulled a gun from his waist-band. ‘You. I’m in trouble and I need some form of security to make sure that I don’t get into more trouble. You’re the security. Pack an overnight bag and give me your passport.’

  She gave him her passport and packed the bag. Jacobson crossed to the bed and snapped shut the catches of her case. ‘You’d better come now.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Now, I said.’ He lifted his gun menacingly.

  ‘Then you’d better shoot me now. Number eight.’

  ‘Cuneo. Then parts beyond.’ His voice was harsh but had the ring of sincerity. ‘I never make war on women. You’ll be released within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘I’ll be dead in twenty-four hours.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘May I go to the bathroom? I feel sick.’

  Jacobson opened the bathroom door and looked inside. ‘No window. No telephone. OK.’

  Mary entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She took a pen from her handbag, scribbled a few shaky words on a piece of paper, placed the paper face down on the floor behind the door and left. Jacobson was waiting for her. He had her case in his left hand, a gun in the other. Both gun and right hand were buried deep in his jacket pocket.

  On board The Chevalier, Yonnie thrust the last of the documents from the chart-table into a large briefcase. He returned to the saloon, placed the briefcase on a settee and went down the companionway to the accommodation quarters. He went to his own cabin and there spent a hurried five minutes in cramming his own most personal possessions into a canvas bag. He then made a tour of the other cabins, rifling the drawers for whatever money or articles of value that he might find. He found a considerable amount, returned to his own cabin and stuffed them inside his bag. He zipped the bag shut and climbed up the companionway. Four steps from the top he stopped. His face should have been masked in disbelief and terror but it wasn’t. Yonnie had run out of emotions and the capacity to display them.

  Four very large armed policemen were resting comfortably on the settees in the saloon. A sergeant, with the briefcase on his knees, his elbow on the case and a gun in his hand pointing approximately in the direction of Yonnie’s heart, said genially: ‘Going some place Yonnie?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Once again, the Ferrari was moving through the darkness. Harlow was not idling but neither was he pushing the car hard. As on the trip from Marseilles to Bandol, it seemed that the need for urgency was not there. Mrs MacAlpine was in the front passenger seat wearing, at Harlow’s insistence, a double safety belt. A rather drowsy Rory was stretched out on the back seats,

  Harlow said: ‘So, you see, it was all quite simple, really. Jacobson was the master-mind behind this particular operation. It will turn out that the Marzio brothers were the ones that really mattered. Anyway, it was Jacobson’s idea to gamble on the Grand Prix drivers and he altered the odds in his favour by suborning no fewer that five drivers. Plus even more mechanics. He paid them plenty – but he made a fortune himself. I was the thorn in his flesh – he knew better than to try to get at me, and as I was winning the majority of the races it was making his business very difficult indeed. So he tried to kill me at Clermont-Ferrand. I have proof – both stills and cine film.’

  In the rear Rory stirred sleepily. ‘But how could he do that to you while you were on the track?’

  ‘Me? And a lot of others? Two ways. A radio-controlled explosive device on a suspension strut or a chemically operated explosive device on the hydraulic brake lines. Both devices, I imagine, would blow clear on detonation and leave no trace of their presence. Anyway, it’s on film record that Jacobson replaced both a strut and a brake line.’

  Rory said: ‘Which is why he always insisted on being alone when inspecting smashed cars?’

  Harlow nodded, temporarily lost in thought. Mrs MacAlpine said: ‘But how – how could you degrade yourself in this awful fashion?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t all that pleasant. But you know the blaze of publicity I live in. I couldn’t move privately, more or less to brush my teeth, than to do the job I was asked to. I had to take the heat off myself, step out of the limelight and become a loner. It wasn’t all that difficult. As for working my way down to the transporter job – well, I had to find out whether the stuff was coming from the Coronado garage or not. It was.’

  ‘The stuff?’

  ‘The dust. European jargon for heroin. My dear Marie, there are more ways to dusty death than losing control on a Grand Prix race-track.’

  ‘The way to dusty death.’ She shivered and repeated the words. ‘The way to dusty death. Did James know about this, Johnny?’

  ‘He knew six months ago that the transporter was being used – oddly enough, he never suspected Jacobson. They’d been together too long, I suppose. Some way, any way, they had to have the price of his silence. You were that price. And for good measure he was also being blackmailed for approximately twenty-five thousand pounds a month.’

  She was silent for almost a minute then she said: ‘Did James know I was still alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he knew about the heroin – all those months he knew. Think of all those people ruined, perhaps dead. Think of all – ’

  Harlow reached out his right hand and caught her left in his. ‘I think, Marie, that perhaps he loves you.’

  A car approached then, headlights dipped. Harlow dipped his. briefly, as if by mistake, the approaching car’s headlights came on full beam, then dipped again. As they passed each other, the driver of the other car turned to his passenger, a girl with her hands bound in front of her.

  ‘Tut! Tut! Tut!’ Jacobson sounded in almost high humour. ‘Young Lochinvar headed in the wrong direction.’

  In the Ferrari Mrs MacAlpine said: ‘And James will have to stand trial for his – complicity in this heroin traffic?’

  ‘James will never stand trial for anything.’

  ‘But heroin – ’

  Harlow said: ‘Heroin? Heroin? Rory, did you hear anyone mentioning the word “heroin”?’

  ‘Mother’s been through a pretty rough time, Mr Harlow. I think she is beginning to imagine things.’

  The Aston Martin pulled up outside a darkened café on the outskirts of Bandol. A violently shivering Tracchia emerged from the shadows and climbed into the back of the Aston Martin.

  He said: ‘Complete with insurance policy, I see. Now, for God’s sake, Jake, stop at the first clump of trees outside Bandol. Unless I change out of these clothes damn quick I’m going to freeze to death.’

  ‘Right. Where’s Yonnie?’


  ‘In gaol.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Even the abnormally phlegmatic Jacobson was shaken. ‘What in the hell happened?’

  ‘I’d sent Yonnie out in the dinghy while I was phoning you. I’d told him to bring ashore all the papers and documents in the two top drawers in the chart-table. You know how important those are, Jake?’

  ‘I know.’ There was no disguising die harsh edge of strain in Jacobson’s voice.

  ‘Remember I’d told you that I thought Harlow had phoned Vignolles? He hadn’t. The bastard had phoned the Bandol police. They arrived while I was still in the phone booth. There was nothing I could do. They rowed out to The Chevalier and nabbed him there.’

  ‘And the papers?’

  ‘One of the police was carrying a large attaché case.’

  ‘I don’t think that Bandol is a very healthy place for us to be.’ Jacobson was back on balance again. He drove off but not in a fashion ostentatious enough to attract attention. As they reached the outskirts of the town, he said: ‘That’s it, then. What with those papers and that cassette the whole operation’s blown. Termine. Fine. The end of the road.’ He seemed remarkably calm.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Operation fly-away. I’ve had it planned for months. First stop is our flat in Cuneo.’

  ‘Nobody knows about it?’

  ‘Nobody. Except Willi. And he won’t talk. Besides, it’s not under our names anyway.’ He pulled up alongside a thicket of trees. ‘The boot’s unlocked and the grey case is yours. Those clothes you’re wearing – leave them among the trees.’

  ‘Why? It’s a perfectly good suit and – ’

  ‘What’s’ going to happen if the Customs search us and find a suit of soaking wet clothes?’

  ‘You have a point,’ Tracchia said and got out of the car. When he returned in two or three minutes, Jacobson was in the back seat. Tracchia said: ‘You want me to drive?’