Алистер Маклин - The Way to Dusty Death

‘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 an 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.

Matters weren’t helped for Rory by the fact that Harlow and Dunnet were carrying on this conversation in very low tones indeed. Both of them had tall clear drinks in front of them, both drinks with ice and lemon in them: only one held gin. Dunnet looked consideringly at the tiny film cassette he was cradling in the palm of his hand then slipped it into a safe inside pocket.

‘Photographs of code? You’re sure?’

‘Code for sure. Perhaps even along with some abstruse foreign language. I’m afraid I’m no expert on those matters.’

‘No more than I am. But we have people who are experts. And the Coronado transporter. You’re sure about that too?’

‘No question.’

‘So we’ve been nursing a viper to our own bosom – if that’s the phrase I’m looking for.’

‘It is a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?’

‘And no question about Henry having any finger in the pie?’

‘Henry?’ Harlow shook his head positively. ‘My life on it.’

‘Even though, as driver, he’s the only person who’s with the transporter on every trip it makes?’

‘Even though.’

‘And Henry will have to go?’

‘What option do we have?’

‘So. Exit Henry – temporarily, though he won’t know it: he’ll get his old job back. He’ll be hurt, of course – but what’s one brief hurt to thousands of life-long ones?’

‘And if he refuses?’

‘I’ll have him kidnapped,’ Dunnet said matter-of-factly. ‘Or other wise removed – painlessly, of course. But he’ll go along. I’ve got the doctor’s certificate already signed.’

‘How about medical ethics?’

‘The combination of £500 and a genuine certificate of an already existing heart murmur makes medical scruples vanish like a snowflake in the river.’

The two men finished their drinks, rose and left. So, after what he presumably regarded as being a suitably safe interval, did Rory. In the café opposite, Neubauer and Tracchia rose hurriedly, walked quickly after Rory and overtook him in half a minute. Rory looked his surprise.

Tracchia said confidentially: ‘We want to talk to you, Rory. Can you keep a secret?’

Rory looked intrigued but he had a native caution which seldom abandoned him. ‘What’s the secret about?’

‘You are a suspicious young person.’

‘What’s the secret about?’

‘Johnny Harlow.’

‘That’s different.’ Tracchia had Rory’s instantaneous and cooperative attention. ‘Of course I can keep a secret.’

Neubauer said: ‘Well, then, never a whisper. Never one word or you’ll ruin everything. You understand?’

‘Of course.’ He hadn’t the faintest idea what Neubauer was talking about.

‘You’ve heard of the GPDA?’

‘Course. The Grand Prix Drivers’ Association.’

‘Right. Well, the GPDA has decided that for the safety of us all, drivers and spectators alike, Harlow must be removed from the Grand Prix roster. We want him taken off all the race tracks in Europe. You know that he drinks?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘He drinks so much that he’s become the most dangerous driver in Europe.’ Neubauer’s voice was low-pitched, conspiratorial and totally convincing. ‘Every other driver is scared to be on the same track as he is. None of us knows when he’s going to be the next Jethou.’

‘You – you mean–’

‘He was drunk at the time. That’s why a good man dies, Rory – because another man drinks half a bottle of scotch too many. Would you call that much different from being a murderer?’

‘No, by God I wouldn’t!’

‘So the GPDA has asked Willi and myself to gather the evidence. About drinking, I mean. Especially before a big race. Will you help us?’

‘You have to ask me?’

‘We know, boy, we know.’ Neubauer put his hand on Rory’s shoulder, a gesture at once indicative of consolation and understanding. ‘Mary is our girl, too. You saw Harlow and Mr Dunnet in that café just now. Did Harlow drink?’

‘I didn’t really see them. I was in the next booth. But I heard Mr Dunnet say something about gin and I saw the waiter bring two tall glasses with what looked like water in them.’

‘Water!’ Tracchia shook his head sadly. ‘Anyway, that’s more like it. Though I can’t believe that Dunnet – well, who knows. Did you hear them talk about drink?’

‘Mr Dunnet? Is there something wrong with him too?’

Tracchia said evasively, well aware that that was the surest way of arousing Rory’s interest: ‘I don’t know anything about Mr Dunnet. About drink, now.’

‘They spoke in very low voices. I caught something, not much. Not about drink. The only thing I heard was something about changed cassettes – film cassettes – or such-like, something Harlow had given to Mr Dunnet. Didn’t make any kind of sense to me.’