Алистер Маклин - The Way to Dusty Death

‘You and me, Alexis. I think we should have our photographs taken. For the family albums. How do we compare for looks?’

Dunnet examined him judicially. ‘About evenstephen, I should say.’

‘True, true. Mind you, I think nature gave me an unfair start over you.’

‘Stop it, stop it, will you.’ Mary was openly crying. ‘He’s hurt, he’s terribly hurt. I’m going to get a doctor.’

‘No question.’ The bantering note had left Harlow’s voice and there was iron in it now. ‘No doctors. No stitches. Later. Not tonight.’

Mary, her eyes brimming with tears, gazed fixedly at the glass of brandy Harlow held in his hand. The hand was steady as that of a stone statue. She said, not with bitterness, only a dawning of understanding: ‘You fooled us all. The nerve-shattered world champion with the shaking hands. You fooled us all the time. Didn’t you, Johnny?’

‘Yes. Please leave the room, Mary.’

‘I swear I’ll never talk. Not even to Daddy.’

‘Leave the room.’

‘Leave her be,’ Dunnet said. ‘If you talk, Mary, you know he’d never look at you again. My God, it never rains but it pours. You’re our second alarm this afternoon. Tweedledum and Tweedledee are missing.’

Dunnet looked at Harlow for his reaction but there was none.

Harlow said: ‘They were working on the transporter at the time.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘How the hell do you know?’

‘In the south hangar. With Jacobson.’

Dunnet nodded slowly.

‘They saw too much,’ Harlow said. ‘Too much. It must have been by accident because God knows they weren’t overburdened by intelligence. But they saw too much. What’s Jacobson’s story?’

‘The twins went for a tea-break. When they didn’t come back after forty minutes, he went looking for them. They’d just vanished.’

‘Did they, in fact, go to the canteen?’ Dunnet shook his head. ‘Then if they’re ever found it will be in the bottom of a ravine or a canal. Remember Jacques and Henry in the Coronado garage?’ Dunnet nodded. ‘Jacobson said they’d become homesick and gone home. They’ve gone home all right – in the same way that Tweedledum and Tweedledee have gone home. He’s got two new mechanics down there but only one turned up for work this morning. The other didn’t. I’ve no proof, but I’ll get it. The missing lad didn’t turn up because I put him in hospital in the middle hours of the night.’

Dunnet showed no reaction. Mary stared at Harlow with unbelieving horror in her eyes.

Harlow went on: ‘Sorry, Mary. Jacobson is a killer, murderer if you like. He’ll stop at nothing to protect his own interests. I know he was responsible for the death of my young brother in the first Grand Prix of this season. That was what first made Alexis persuade me to work for him.’

Mary said in total disbelief: ‘You work for Alexis? A journalist?’

Harlow went on as if he had not heard her. ‘He tried to kill me in the French Grand Prix. I have photographic proof. He was responsible for Jethou’s death. He tried to get me last night by using a fake police trap to stop the transporter. He was responsible for the murder of a man in Marseilles today.’

Dunnet said calmly: ‘Who?’

‘Luigi the Light-fingered. He was fed a pain-reliever in hospital today. It certainly removed him from all pain – permanently. Cyanide. Jacobson was the only person who knew about Luigi so he had him eliminated before he could sing to the police. My fault – I’d told Jacobson. My fault. But I’d no option at the time.’

‘I can’t believe it.’ Mary was totally bewildered. ‘I can’t believe it. This is a nightmare.’

‘Believe what you like. Just stay a mile away from Jacobson. He’ll read your face like a book and will begin to become very interested in you. I should hate for Jacobson to become very interested in you, I’d rather you didn’t end up in a gravel pit. And always remember – you’re crippled for life and Jacobson did it.’

While he had been talking, Harlow had been carrying out a thorough examination of his pockets.

‘Cleaned out,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Completely. Wallet, passport, driving licence, money, car keys – but I have spares. All my skeleton keys.’ He pondered briefly. ‘That means I’ll require a rope, hook and tarpaulin from the transporter. And then–’

Mary interrupted, fear in her eyes. ‘You’re not – you can’t go out again tonight! You should be in hospital.’

Harlow glanced at her briefly, expressionlessly, then went on: ‘And then, of course, they took my gun. I shall require another, Alexis. And some money.’

Harlow pushed himself to his feet, walked quickly and quietly to the door and jerked it open. Rory, who had clearly been listening with his ear pressed hard against the door, more or less fell into the room. Harlow seized him by the hair and Rory yelped in agony as Harlow straightened him up.

Harlow said: ‘Look at my face, Rory.’

Rory looked, winced and the colour drained from his own.

Harlow said: ‘You’re responsible for that, Rory.’

Suddenly, without warning, he struck Rory flat-handed across the left cheek. It was a heavy blow and would normally have sent Rory reeling but he couldn’t in this case because Harlow’s left hand was firmly entwined in his hair. Harlow struck him again, backhanded and with equal force, across the right cheek, then proceeded to repeat the process with metronomic regularity.

Mary screamed: ‘Johnny! Johnny! Have you gone mad?’ She made to throw herself at Harlow but Dunnet moved swiftly to pin her arms from behind. Dunnet appeared remarkably unperturbed by the turn events had taken.

‘I’m going to keep this up, Rory,’ Harlow said, ‘until you feel the way I look.’

Harlow kept it up. Rory made no attempt to resist or retaliate. His head was beginning to roll from side to side, quite helplessly, as Harlow continued to strike him repeatedly. Then, considering that the softening-up process had probably gone far enough, Harlow stopped.

Harlow said: ‘I want information. I want the truth. I want it now. You eavesdropped on Mr Dunnet and myself this afternoon, did you not?’

Rory’s voice was a trembling pain-wracked whisper. ‘No! No! I swear I didn’t. I swear–’

He broke off with a screech of pain as Harlow resumed the treatment. After a few seconds Harlow stopped again. A sobbing Mary, still securely held by Dunnet, was looking at him in stupefied horror.

Harlow said: ‘I was beaten up by some people who knew I was going to Marseilles to see about some very important pictures. They wanted those pictures very very badly. They also knew that I would be parking the Ferrari in a barn in a disused farmhouse a little way down the road. Mr Dunnet was the only other person who knew about the pictures and the farmyard. You think perhaps he told?’

‘Maybe.’ Like his sister’s, Rory’s cheeks were now liberally streaked with tears. ‘I don’t know. Yes, yes, he must have done.’

Harlow spoke slowly and deliberately, interspersing every other few words with a resounding slap.

‘Mr Dunnet is not a journalist. Mr Dunnet has never been an accountant. Mr Dunnet is a senior officer of the Special Branch of New Scotland Yard and a member of Interpol and he has accumulated enough evidence against you, for aiding and abetting criminals, to ensure that you’ll spend the next few years in a remand home and Borstal.’ He removed his left hand from Rory’s hair.

‘Whom did you tell, Rory?’

‘Tracchia.’

Harlow pushed Rory into an arm-chair where he sat hunched, his hands covering his aching scarlet face.

Harlow looked at Dunnet. ‘Where’s Tracchia?’