Алистер Маклин - The Way to Dusty Death

MacAlpine said: ‘Impossible. Quite impossible. You mean to tell me there is no alcohol in his blood?’

‘Impossible or not, I mean what I say. An experienced colleague has just carried out a double-check. He has no more alcohol in his blood than you would find in that of a life-long abstainer.’

MacAlpine shook his head. ‘Impossible,’ he repeated. ‘Look, Professor, I have proof–’

‘To us long-suffering doctors nothing is impossible. The speed with which different individuals metabolize alcohol varies beyond belief. With an obviously extremely fit young man like your friend outside–’

‘But his eyes! You saw his eyes. Bleary, bloodshot–’

‘There could be half a dozen reasons for that.’

‘And the double vision?’

‘His eyes seem normal enough. How well he is seeing it’s hard to say yet. There exists always the possibility that the eyes themselves are sound enough but that some damage may have been done to an optical nerve.’ The doctor stood up. ‘A spot check is not enough. I’d need a series of tests, a battery of tests. Unfortunately, not now – I’m already overdue at the theatre. Could he come along about seven this evening?’

MacAlpine said he could, expressed his thanks and left. As he approached Harlow, he looked at the cigarette in his hand, then at Harlow, then back at the cigarette but said nothing. Still in silence, the two men left the hospital, got into MacAlpine’s Aston and drove back in the direction of Monza.

Harlow broke the silence. He said mildly: ‘As the principal concerned, don’t you think you should tell me what the doctor said?’

MacAlpine said shortly: ‘He’s not sure. He wants to carry out a series of tests. The first is at seven o’clock tonight.’

Still mildly, Harlow said: ‘I hardly think that will be necessary.’

MacAlpine glanced at him in brief speculation. ‘And what’s that meant to mean?’

‘There’s a lay-by half a kilometre ahead. Pull in, please. There’s something I want to say.’

At seven o’clock that evening, the hour when Harlow was supposed to be in hospital, Dunnet sat in MacAlpine’s hotel room. The atmosphere was funereal. Both men had large glasses of scotch in their hands.

Dunnet said: ‘Jesus! Just like that? He said his nerve was gone, he knew he was finished and could he break his contract?’

‘Just like that. No more beating about the bush, he said. No more kidding – especially kidding himself. God knows what it cost the poor devil to say so.’

‘And the scotch?’

MacAlpine sampled his own and sighed heavily, more in sadness than weariness. ‘Quite humorous about it, really. Says he detests the damned stuff and is thankful for a reason never to touch it again.’

It was Dunnet’s turn to have recourse to his scotch. ‘And what’s going to happen to your poor devil now? Mind you, James, I’m not overlooking what this has cost you – you’ve lost the best driver in the world. But right now I’m more concerned about Johnny.’

‘Me, too. But what to do? What to do?’

The man who was the subject of all this concern was displaying a remarkable amount of unconcern. For a man who was the central figure in the greatest fall from grace in the history of motor racing, Johnny Harlow seemed most extraordinarily cheerful. As he adjusted his tie before the mirror in his room he whistled, albeit slightly tunelessly, to himself, breaking off occasionally to smile at some private thought. He shrugged into his jacket, left his room, went down to the lobby, took an orangeade from the bar and sat down at a nearby table. Before he was even able to sip his drink Mary came and sat beside him. She took one of his hands in both of hers.

‘Johnny!’ she said. ‘Oh, Johnny!’

Harlow gazed at her with sorrowful eyes.

She went on: ‘Daddy just told me. Oh, Johnny, what are we going to do?’

‘We?’

She gazed at him for long seconds without speaking, looked away and said: ‘To lose my two best friends in one day.’ There were no tears in her eyes but there were tears in her voice.

‘Your two – what do you mean?’

‘I thought you knew.’ Now the tears were trickling down her cheeks. ‘Henry’s got bad heart trouble. He has to go.’

‘Henry? Dear, oh dear, oh dear.’ Harlow squeezed her hands and gazed off into the middle distance. ‘Poor old Henry. I wonder what will happen to him?’

‘Oh, that’s all right.’ She sniffed. ‘Daddy’s keeping him on in Marseilles.’

‘Ah. Then it’s probably all for the best – Henry was getting past it anyway.’

Harlow remained thoughtful for some seconds, apparently lost in deep thought, then clasped Mary’s hands with his free one. He said: ‘Mary, I love you. Hang on, will you? Back in a couple of minutes.’

One minute later Harlow was in MacAlpine’s room. Dunnet was there and he had the appearance of a man who was with difficulty keeping his anger under control. MacAlpine was clearly highly distressed. He shook his head many times.

He said: ‘Not at any price. Not under any circumstances. No, no, no. It’s just not on. One day the world champion, the next trundling a lumbering transporter all over the place. Why, man, you’d be the laughing stock of Europe.’

‘Maybe.’ Harlow’s voice was quiet, without bitterness. ‘But not half as much a laughing stock as I’d be if people knew the real reason for my retiral, Mr MacAlpine.’

‘Mr MacAlpine? Mr MacAlpine? I’m always James to you, my boy. Always have been.’

‘Not any more, sir. You could explain about my so-called double vision, say that I’ve been retained as a specialist adviser. What more natural? Besides, you do need a transporter driver.’

MacAlpine shook his head in slow and complete finality. ‘Johnny Harlow will never drive any transporter of mine and that’s the end of it.’

MacAlpine covered his face with his hands. Harlow looked at Dunnet who jerked his head towards the door. Harlow nodded and left the room.

Dunnet let some seconds pass in silence, then he said, picking his words carefully and without emotion: ‘And that’s the end of me. I’ll say goodbye to you, then, James MacAlpine. I’ve enjoyed every minute of my assignment. Except for the last minute.’

MacAlpine removed his hands, slowly lifted his head and stared at Dunnet in wonderment. He said: ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘I mean this. Isn’t it obvious? I value my health too much to stay around and feel sick every time I think of what you’ve done. That boy lives for motor racing, it’s the only thing he knows and now he has no place left in the world to go. And I would remind you, James MacAlpine, that in the space of four short years the Coronado has been hauled up from the depths of near obscurity and made into the most successful and respected Grand Prix racing car in the world through one thing and one thing only – the incomparable driving genius of that boy to whom you have just shown the door. Not you, James, not you. Johnny Harlow made Coronado. But you can’t afford to be associated with failure, he’s no use to you any more so you drop him into the discard. I hope you sleep well tonight, Mr MacAlpine. You should do. You have every reason to be proud of yourself.’

Dunnet turned to leave. MacAlpine, with tears in his eyes, spoke softly. ‘Alexis.’

Dunnet turned.

MacAlpine said: ‘If you ever speak to me like that again I’ll break your blasted neck. I’m tired, I’m dead tired, and I want to sleep before dinner. Go tell him he can have any bloody job he likes on the Coronado – mine, if he so cares.’

Dunnet said: ‘I’ve been bloody rude. Please accept my apologies. And thank you very much, James.’