Алистер Маклин - The Way to Dusty Death

Dunnet was gloomy. ‘It wouldn’t have been possible, I suppose, to give it to Tracchia instead?’

‘Quite impossible, Alexis, and you know it. The mighty law of protocol. Johnny’s not only Coronado’s number one, he’s still the world’s. Our dear sponsors, without which we couldn’t very well operate – I could, but I’ll be damned if I’ll lay out a fortune like that – are highly sensitive people. Sensitive to public opinion, that is. The only reason they paint the names of their damned products on the outside of our cars is that the public will go out and buy those same damned products. They’re not benefactors of racing except purely incidentally: they are simply advertisers. An advertiser wants to reach the biggest market. Ninety-nine point repeater nine per cent of that market lies outside the racing world and it doesn’t matter a damn if they know nothing about what goes on inside the racing world. It’s what they believe that matters. And they believe that Harlow still stands alone. So, Harlow gets the best and newest car. If he doesn’t, the public lose their faith in Harlow, in Coronado and in the advertisers, and not necessarily in that order.’

‘Ah, well. The days of miracles may not yet lie behind us. After all, he hasn’t been observed or known to take a drink in the past twelve days. Maybe he’s going to surprise us all. And there’s only two days to go to the Italian Grand Prix.’

‘So why did he have those two bottles of scotch which you removed from his room only an hour ago?’

‘I could say he was trying to test his moral fibre but I don’t think you would believe it.’

‘Would you?’

‘Frankly, James, no.’ Dunnet relapsed into another period of gloom from which he emerged to say: ‘Any word from your agents in the south, James?’

‘Nothing. I’m afraid, Alexis, I’ve just about given up hope. Fourteen weeks now since Marie disappeared. It’s too long, it’s just too long. Had there been an accident, I would have heard. Had there been foul play, then I’m sure I would have heard. Had it been kidnap and ransom – well, that’s ridiculous, of course I would have heard. She’s just vanished. Accident, boating – I don’t know.’

‘And we’ve talked so often about amnesia.’

‘And I’ve told you so often, without immodesty, that no one as well known as Marie MacAlpine, no matter what her mental trouble, could go missing so long without being picked up.’

‘I know. Mary’s taking that pretty badly now, isn’t she?’

‘Especially in the past twelve days. Harlow. Alexis, we broke her heart – sorry, that’s quite unfair – I broke her heart in Austria. If I’d known how far she was gone – ah, but I’d no option.’

‘Taking her to the reception tonight?’

‘Yes. I insisted. To take her out of herself, that’s what I tell my self – or is it just to ease my conscience? Again, I don’t know. Maybe I’m making another mistake.’

‘It seems to me that that young fellow Harlow has a great deal to answer for. And this is his last chance, James? Any more crazy driving, any more fiascos, any more drinking – then it’s the chopper? That’s it?’

‘That’s entirely it.’ MacAlpine nodded in the direction of the revolving entrance doors. ‘Think we should tell him now?’

Dunnet looked in the direction indicated. Harlow was walking across the Carrara-marbled flags. He was still clad in his customarily immaculate white racing overalls. A young and rather beautiful young girl at the desk smiled at him as he passed by. Harlow flicked her an expressionless glance and the smile froze. He continued on his way across the vast lobby and such is the respect that men accord the gods when they walk the earth that a hundred conversations died as he passed by. Harlow seemed unaware of the presence of any of them, for he looked neither to left nor to right, but it was a safe assumption that those remarkable eyes missed nothing, an assumption borne out by the fact that, apparently without noticing them, he veered direction towards where MacAlpine and Dunnet sat. MacAlpine said: ‘No scotch or menthol, that’s for sure. Otherwise, he’d avoid me like the plague.’

Harlow stood before them. He said, without any inflection of irony or sarcasm: ‘Enjoying the quiet evenfall, gentlemen?’

MacAlpine answered. ‘You could say that. We might enjoy it even more if you could tell us how the new Coronado is coming along.’

‘Shaping up. Jacobson – for once – agrees with me that a slight alteration in the ratios and the rear suspension is all that’s necessary. It’ll be all right for Sunday.’

‘No complaints, then?’

‘No. It’s a fine car. Best Coronado yet. And fast’

‘How fast?’

‘I haven’t found out yet. But we equalled the lap record the last two times out.’

‘Well, well.’ MacAlpine looked at his watch. ‘Better hurry. We have to leave for the reception in half an hour.’

‘I’m tired. I’m going to have a shower, two hours’ sleep, then some dinner. I’ve come here for the Grand Prix, not for mingling with high society.’

‘You definitely refuse to come?’

‘I refused to come last time out too. Setting a precedent, if you like.’

‘It’s obligatory, you know.’

‘In my vocabulary, obligation and compulsion are not the same things.’

‘There are three or four very important people present tonight especially just to see you.’

‘I know.’

MacAlpine paused before speaking. ‘How do you know. Only Alexis and I know.’

‘Mary told me.’ Harlow turned and walked away.

‘Well.’ Dunnet pressed his lips tightly together. ‘The arrogant young bastard. Walking in here to tell us he’s just equalled the lap record without even trying. Thing is, I believe him. That’s why he stopped by, isn’t it?’

‘To tell me that he’s still the best in the business? Partly. Also to tell me to stuff my bloody reception. Also to tell me that he’ll speak to Mary whether I like it or not. And the final twist, to let me know that Mary has no secrets from him. Where’s that damned daughter of mine?’

‘This should be interesting to see.’

‘What should be?’

‘To see if you can break a heart twice.’

MacAlpine sighed and slumped even farther back in his armchair. ‘I suppose you’re right, Alexis, I suppose you’re right. Mind you, I’d still like to knock their two damned young heads together.’

Harlow, clad in a white bath-robe and obviously recently showered, emerged from the bathroom and opened up his wardrobe. He brought out a fresh suit then reached up to a shelf above it. Clearly, he didn’t find what he expected to and his eyebrows lifted. He looked in a cupboard with similarly negative results. He stood in the middle of the room, pondering, then smiled widely.

He said softly: ‘Well, well, well. Here we go again. Clever devils.’

From the still-smiling expression on his face, it was clear that Harlow didn’t believe his own words. He lifted the mattress, reached under, removed a flat half-bottle of scotch, examined and replaced it. From there he went into the bathroom, removed the cistern lid, lifted out a bottle of Glenfiddich malt, checked the level – it was about three-parts full, replaced it in a certain position and then put the cistern lid back in place. This he left slightly askew. He returned to his bedroom, put on a light grey suit and was just adjusting his tie when he heard the sound of a heavy engine below. He switched out the light, pulled back the curtains, opened his window and peered out cautiously.

A large coach was drawn up outside the hotel entrance and the various drivers, managers, senior mechanics and journalists who were headed for the official reception were filing aboard. Harlow checked to see that all those whose absence that evening he considered highly desirable were among those present, and they were – Dunnet, Tracchia, Neubauer, Jacobson and MacAlpine, the last with a very pale and downcast Mary clinging to his arm. The door closed and the bus moved off into the night.