Алистер Маклин: The Way to Dusty Death

‘Doing what, Mr Harlow? I mean, Mr Dunnet doesn’t seem to be doing very much, does he?’

‘Mr Dunnet is a coordinator. I suppose I’m what might be called his field man.’

‘Yes. But doing what? ’

‘Investigating other Grand Prix drivers. Keeping an eye on them, rather. And mechanics – anyone connected with racing.’

‘I see.’ Rory, clearly, did not see at all. ‘I’m not being rude, Mr Harlow, but why pick you? Why not investigate you?’

‘A fair question. Probably because I’ve been so very lucky in the last two years or so that they figured that I was making more money honestly than I possibly could dishonestly.’

‘That figures.’ Rory was in a very judicial mood. ‘But why were you investigating?’

‘Because something has been smelling and smelling badly on the Grand Prix circuits for over a year now. Cars were losing that seemed a certainty to win. Cars were winning that shouldn’t have had a chance. Cars had mysterious accidents. Cars went off the track where there was no earthly reason why they should have gone off the track. They ran out of petrol when they shouldn’t have run out of petrol. Engines over-heated through a mysterious loss of oil or coolant or both. Drivers fell ill at the most mysterious times – and the most inconvenient times. And as there is so much prestige, pride, power and above all profit in running a highly successful racing car, it was at first thought that a manufacturer or, more likely, a race team owner was trying to corner the market for himself.’

‘But he wasn’t?’

‘As you so brightly remark, he wasn’t. This became clear when manufacturers and team owners discovered that they were all being victimized. They approached Scotland Yard only to be told that they were powerless to intervene. The Yard called in Interpol. In effect, Mr Dunnet.’

‘But how did you get on to people like Tracchia and Neubauer?’

‘In the main, illegally. Round the clock telephone switchboard watch, maximum surveillance of all suspects at every Grand Prix meeting and interception of all incoming and out-going mail. We found five drivers and seven or eight mechanics who were stashing away more money than they could have possibly earned. But it was an irregular sort of thing for most of them. It’s impossible to fix every race. But Tracchia and Neubauer were stashing it away after every race. So we figured they were selling something – and there’s only one thing you can sell for the kind of money they were getting.’

‘Drugs. Heroin.’

‘Indeed.’ He pointed ahead and Rory caught the sign ‘BANDOL’ picked up by the headlights. Harlow slowed, lowered his window, poked his head out and looked up. Bands of cloud were beginning to spread across the sky but there was still much more starlit sky than cloud. Harlow withdrew his head and said: ‘We could have picked a better night for the job. Far too damn bright. They’re bound to have a guard, maybe two, for your mother. Point is, will they be keeping a watch – not only seeing that your mother doesn’t escape but that no one comes aboard? No reason why they should assume that anyone should try to board The Chevalier – I can’t think of any way they can have heard of the misfortune that has happened to Neubauer and his pals. But that’s the way an organization like the Marzio brothers has survived so long – by never taking chances.’

‘So we assume there is a guard, Mr Harlow?’

‘That is what we assume.’

Harlow drove into the little town, parked the car in an empty high-walled builder’s yard where it could not possibly be seen from the narrow alleyway outside. They left the car and soon, keeping in deep shadow, were cautiously picking their way along the small waterfront and harbour. They halted and scanned the bay to the east.

‘Isn’t that her?’ Although there was no one within earshot, Rory’s voice was a tense whisper. ‘Isn’t that her?’

‘The Chevalier for sure.’

There were at least a dozen yachts and cruisers anchored in the brilliantly moonlit and almost mirror-smooth little bay. The one nearest the shore was a rather splendid motor yacht, nearer fifty feet than forty, and had very definitely a blue hull and white topsides.

‘And now?’ Rory said. ‘What do we do now?’ He was shivering, not because of cold or, as had been the case in the Villa Hermitage, of apprehension, but because of sheer excitement. Harlow glanced thoughtfully upwards. The sky was still heavily overcast although there was a bar of cloud moving in the direction of the moon.

‘Eat. I’m hungry.’

‘Eat? Eat? But – but, I mean–’ Rory gestured towards the yacht.

‘All things in their time. Your mother’s hardly likely to vanish in the next hour. Besides, if we were to – ah – borrow a boat and go out to The Chevalier … I don’t much fancy being picked out in this brilliant moonlight. There are clouds moving across. Let’s bide a wee.’

‘Let’s what?’

‘An old Scottish phrase. Let’s wait a little while Festina lente.’

Rory looked at him in bafflement. ‘Festina what?’

‘You really are an ignorant young layabout.’ Harlow smiled to rob his words of offence. ‘An even older Latin phrase. Make haste slowly.’

They moved away and brought up at a waterside café which Harlow inspected from the outside. He shook his head and they walked on to a second café, where the same thing happened. The third café they entered. It was three-parts empty. They took seats by a curtained window.

Rory said: ‘What’s this place got that the others haven’t?’

Harlow twitched back the curtain. ‘A view.’ Their vantage point commanded an excellent view of The Chevalier.

‘I see.’ Rory consulted his menu without enthusiasm. ‘I can’t eat a thing.’

Harlow said encouragingly: ‘Let’s try a little something.’

Five minutes later two enormous dishes of bouillabaisse were set before them. Five minutes after that Rory’s dish was completely empty. Harlow smiled at both the empty plate and Rory, then his smile abruptly vanished.

‘Rory. Look at me. Don’t look elsewhere. Especially don’t look at the bar. Act and speak naturally. Bloke’s just come in whom I used to know very slightly. A mechanic who left the Coronado team a few weeks after I joined. Your father fired him for theft. He was very friendly with Tracchia and from the fact that he’s in Bandol it’s a million to one that he still is.’

A small dark man in brown overalls, so lean and scrawny as to be almost wizened, sat at the bar with a full glass of beer before him. He took his first sip of it and as he did so his eyes strayed to the mirror at the back of the bar. He could clearly see Harlow talking earnestly to Rory. He spluttered and half-choked over his beer. He lowered his glass, put coins on the counter and left as unobtrusively as possible.

Harlow said: ‘ “Yonnie” they used to call him. I don’t know his real name. I think he’s certain we neither saw nor recognized him. If he’s with Tracchia, and he must be, this makes it for sure that Tracchia is already aboard. Either Tracchia’s temporarily relieved him of guard duties so that he could come ashore for a much-needed drink or Tracchia’s sent him away because he doesn’t want any witnesses around when he picks me off when I go out to the boat.’

Harlow pulled back the curtains and they both looked out. They could see a small outboard-powered dinghy heading directly towards The Chevalier. Rory looked questioningly at Harlow.

Harlow said: ‘Our Nicolo Tracchia is an impulsive, not to say impetuous lad, which is why he’s not quite the driver he could be. Five minutes from now he’ll be in the shadows somewhere outside waiting to gun me down the moment I step out of here. Run up to the car, Rory. Bring me some of that twine – and adhesive tape. I think we may need it. Meet me about fifty yards along the quay there, at the head of the landing steps.’