Алистер Маклин - The Way to Dusty Death

MacAlpine smiled faintly. ‘Not Mr MacAlpine?’

‘I said “Thank you, James”.’

Both men smiled at each other. Dunnet left, closing the door with a quiet hand, went down in to the lobby where Harlow and Mary were seated side by side, untouched drinks before them. The aura of profound despondency that overhung their table was almost palpable. Dunnet picked up a drink from the bar, joined Harlow and Mary, smiled broadly, lifted his glass and said: ‘Cheers. Here’s to the fastest transporter driver in Europe.’

Harlow left his drink untouched. He said: ‘Alexis, I’m in one of my less humorous moods this evening.’

Dunnet said cheerfully: ‘Mr James MacAlpine has had a sudden and complete change of mind and heart. His final words were “Go and tell him he can have any blasted job he likes on the Coronado – mine, if he so cares.” ’ Harlow shook his head. Dunnet went on: ‘God’s sake, Johnny, I’m not having you on.’

Harlow shook his head again. ‘I’m not doubting you, Alexis. I’m just flabbergasted. How on earth did you manage – well, perhaps it’s just as well you don’t tell me.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I don’t think I really want Mr MacAlpine’s job.’

‘Oh, Johnny!’ There were tears in her eyes but not tears of sorrow, not in that radiant face. She rose, flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. Harlow, though slightly startled, was not noticeably embarrassed.

‘That’s my girl,’ Dunnet said approvingly. ‘A last long farewell to the fastest lorry driver in Europe.’

She stared at him. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘The transporter leaves for Marseilles tonight. Someone has to drive it there. This is a job usually reserved for the transporter driver.’

Harlow said: ‘My God! I’d rather overlooked that part of it. Now?’

‘As ever was. There appears to be a considerable degree of urgency. I think you’d better see James now.’

Harlow nodded, rose and left for his room where he changed into dark trousers, navy roll-neck sweater and leather jacket. He went to see MacAlpine and found him stretched out on his bed looking ill and pale and little short of positively haggard.

MacAlpine said: ‘I have to admit, Johnny, that the reason for my decision is based largely on self-interest. Tweedledum and Tweedledee, good mechanics though they are, couldn’t drive a wheelbarrow. Jacobson has already left for Marseilles to make loading arrangements for the morning. It’s asking a lot, I know, but I must have number four, the new X car and the spare engine at the Vignolles test track by noon tomorrow – we have the track for two days only. A lot of driving, I know, and you’ll have only a few hours’ sleep, if that. You’ll have to start loading in Marseilles by 6 a.m.’

‘Fine. Now what shall I do with my own car?’

‘Ah! The only transporter driver in Europe with his own Ferrari. Alexis will take my Aston while I, personally, will drive your rusty old bucket of bolts to Vignolles tomorrow. Then you’ll have to take it to our Marseilles garage and leave it there. For keeps, I’m afraid.’

‘I understand, Mr MacAlpine.’

‘Mr MacAlpine, Mr MacAlpine. Are you sure this is what you want to do, Johnny?’

‘Never surer, sir.’

Harlow went down to the lounge to find that Mary and Dunnet were no longer there. He went upstairs again, found Dunnet in his room and asked: ‘Where’s Mary?’

‘Gone for a walk.’

‘Bloody chilly evening to go for a walk.’

‘I don’t think she’s in any condition to feel the cold,’ Dunnet said drily. ‘Euphoria, I believe they call it. Seen the old boy?’

‘Yes. The old boy, as you call him, really is becoming an old boy. He’s put on five years in the last six months.’

‘More like ten years. Understandable with his wife vanishing just like that. Maybe if you’d lost someone to whom you’ve been married for twenty-five years–’

‘He’s lost more than that.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I don’t even know myself. His nerve, his self-confidence, his drive, his will to fight and win.’ Harlow smiled. ‘Some time this week we’ll give him those lost ten years back again.’

‘You’re the most incredibly arrogant, self-confident bastard I’ve ever known,’ Dunnet said admiringly. When Harlow made no reply, he shrugged and sighed. ‘Well, to be a world champion I suppose you have to have some little belief in yourself. And now what?’

‘Off. On my way out I’ll pick up from the hotel safe this little bauble that I’m going to deliver to our friend in the rue St Pierre – seems a damned sight safer than trying to walk to the Post Office. How about having a drink in the bar and seeing if anyone’s interested in me?’

‘Why should they be? They have the right cassette – or think they have, which amounts to the same thing.’

‘That’s as maybe. But it’s just possible that the ungodly might change their minds when they see me taking this envelope from the hotel safe, rip it open, throw the envelope away, examine the cassette and stick it in my pocket. They know they’ve been fooled once. You can bet your life that they’ll be more than prepared to believe that they’ve been fooled twice.’

For long seconds Dunnet stared at Harlow in total disbelief. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. He said: ‘This isn’t just asking for trouble. This is ordering your own pine box.’

‘Only the best of oak for world champions. With gold-plated handles. Come on.’

They went down the stairs together. Dunnet turned off towards the bar while Harlow went to the desk. As Dunnet’s eyes roved round the lobby, Harlow asked for and received his envelope, opened it, extracted the cassette and examined it carefully before putting it in an inside pocket of his leather jacket. As he turned away from the desk, Dunnet wandered up almost casually and said in a quiet voice. ‘Tracchia. His eyes almost popped out of his head. He almost ran to the nearest phone booth.’

Harlow nodded, said nothing, passed through the swing doors, then halted as his way was barred by a leather-coated figure. He said: ‘What are you doing here, Mary? It’s bitterly cold.’

‘I just wanted to say goodbye, that’s all.’

‘You could have said goodbye inside.’

‘I’m a very private person.’

‘Besides, you’ll be seeing me again tomorrow. In Vignolles.’

‘Will I, Johnny? Will I?’

‘Tsk! Tsk! Someone else who doesn’t believe I can drive.’

‘Don’t try to be funny, Johnny, because I’m not feeling that way. I’m feeling sick. I’ve this awful feeling that something dreadful is going to happen. To you.’

Harlow said lightly: ‘It’s this half-Highland blood of yours. Fey is what they call it. Having the second sight. If it’s any consolation to you the second-sighters have an almost perfect 100 per cent record of failure.’

‘Don’t laugh at me, Johnny.’ There were tears in her voice.

He put an arm round her shoulders.

‘Laugh at you? With you, yes. At you, never.’

‘Come back to me, Johnny.’

‘I’ll always come back to you, Mary.’

‘What? What did you say, Johnny?’

‘A slip of the tongue.’ He squeezed her shoulders, pecked her briskly on the cheek and strode off into the gathering darkness.

The giant Coronado transporter, its vast silhouette outlined by at least a score of lights on the sides and back, not to mention its four powerful head-lamps, rumbled through the darkness and along the almost wholly deserted roads at a speed which would not have found very much favour with the Italian police speed patrols, had there been any such around that night which, fortunately, there weren’t.