Алистер Маклин - The Way to Dusty Death

As Harlow signalled the waiter for his bill, Rory left, walking with some degree of restraint. As soon as he had passed through the bead-curtained doorway he broke into a dead run. Arrived at the Ferrari, he opened the boot, stuffed twine and tape into his pockets, closed the boot, hesitated, then opened the driver’s door and pulled out the four automatics from under the seat. He selected the smallest, pushed the other three back into concealment, studied the one he held in his hand, eased the safety catch off, looked guiltily around and stuffed the automatic into an inside pocket. He made his way quickly down to the waterfront.

Near the top of the landing steps was a double row of barrels, stacked two high. Harlow and Rory stood silently in the shadow, the former with a gun in his hand. They could both see and hear the outboard dinghy approaching. The engine slowed, then cut out: there came the sound of feet mounting the wooden landing steps, then two figures; appeared on the quay, Tracchia and Yonnie: Tracchia was carrying a rifle. Harlow moved out from the shadows.

‘Keep quite still,’ he said. ‘Tracchia, that gun on the ground. Hands high and turn your backs to me. I get tired of repeating myself but the first of you to make the slightest suspicious movement will be shot through the back of the head. At four feet I am not likely to miss. Rory, see what your former friend and his friend are carrying.’

Rory’s search produced two guns.

‘Throw them in the water. Come on, you two. Behind those barrels. Face down, hands behind your backs. Rory, attend to our friend Yonnie.’

With the expertise born of recent and intensive practice Rory had Yonnie trussed like a turkey in less than two minutes.

Harlow said: ‘You know what the tape is for?’

Rory knew what the tape was for. He used about a couple of feet of black insulated adhesive tape that effectively ensured Yonnie’s total silence.

Harlow said: ‘Can he breathe?’

‘Just.’

‘ “Just” is enough. Not that it matters. We’ll leave him here. Maybe someone will find him in the morning. Not that that matters either. Up, Tracchia.’

‘But aren’t you–’

‘Mr Tracchia we need. Who’s to say there isn’t another guard aboard? Tracchia here is a specialist in hostages so he’ll know what we want him for.’

Rory looked up at the sky. ‘That cloud that’s moving towards the moon is taking its time about it.’

‘It doesn’t appear to be in any great hurry about it. But we’ll take a chance on it. We have our life assurance with us.’

The outboard motor dinghy moved across the moonlit water. Tracchia was at the controls while Harlow, gun in hand, sat amidships facing him. Rory was in the bows, facing forward. At this point, the blue and white yacht was only a hundred yards away.

In the wheelhouse of the yacht a tall and powerfully built man had a pair of binoculars to his eyes. His face tightened. He laid down the binoculars, took a gun from a drawer, left the wheelhouse, climbed the ladder there and spreadeagled himself on the cabin roof.

The dinghy came alongside the water-skiing steps at the stern and Rory made fast. At a gesture from Harlow, Tracchia climbed the ladder first and moved back slowly as Harlow, the gun trained on him, climbed the steps in turn. Rory followed. Harlow made a gesture that Rory should remain where he was, thrust his gun in Tracchia’s back and moved off to search the boat.

One minute later Harlow, Rory and a blackly scowling Tracchia were in The Chevalier’s brightly lit saloon.

Harlow said: ‘No one aboard, it seems. I take it that Mrs MacAlpine is behind that locked door below. I want the key, Tracchia.’

A deep voice said: ‘Stand still. Don’t turn round. Drop that gun.’

Harlow stood still, didn’t turn round and dropped his gun. The seaman walked into the saloon from the after door.

Tracchia smiled, almost beatifically. ‘That was well done, Pauli.’

‘My pleasure, Signor Tracchia.’ He passed by Rory, gave him a contemptuous shove that sent him reeling into a corner of the settee and moved forward to pick up Harlow’s gun.

‘You drop your gun. Now!’ Rory’s voice had a most distinct quaver to it.

Pauli swung around, an expression of total astonishment on his face. Rory had a gun clutched in two very unsteady hands.

Pauli smiled broadly. ‘Well, well, well. What a brave little gamecock.’ He brought up his gun.

Rory’s hands and arms were trembling like an aspen leaf in an autumn gale. He compressed his lips, screwed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger. In that confined space the report of the gun was deafening but even so not loud enough to drown out Pauli’s shout of agony. Pauli stared down in stupefaction as the blood from his shattered right shoulder seeped down between the clutching fingers of his left hand. Tracchia, too, wore a similarly bemused expression, one that changed to one of considerable pain as Harlow’s vicious swinging left hook sank deeply into his stomach. He bent double, Harlow struck him on the back of the neck but Tracchia was tough and durable. Still bent almost double, he staggered through the after door out on to the deck. As he did so, he passed Rory, very pale and looking very faint and clearly through with shooting exploits for the night. It was as well. Harlow was in such close pursuit that he might well have been the victim of Rory’s extremely wobbly marksmanship.

Rory looked at the wounded Pauli then at the two guns lying at his feet. Rory rose and pointed his gun at Pauli. He said: ‘Sit down.’

Pain-wracked though he was, Pauli moved with alacrity to obey. There was no saying where Rory’s next unpredictable shot might lodge itself. As he moved to a corner of the saloon the sound of blows and grunts of pain could be clearly heard from outside. Rory scooped up the two guns and ran through the after door.

On deck, the fight had clearly reached its climax. Tracchia, his wildly flailing feet clear of the deck and his body arched like a bow, had his back on the guardrail and the upper half of his body over the water. Harlow’s hands were on his throat. Tracchia, in turn, was belabouring Harlow’s already sadly battered and bruised face, but the belabouring was of no avail. Harlow, his face implacable, pushed him farther and farther out. Suddenly changing his tactics, he removed his right hand from Tracchia’s throat, hooked it under his thighs and proceeded to tip him over the guard-rail. When Tracchia spoke, his voice came as a wholly understandable croak.

‘I can’t swim! I can’t swim!’

If Harlow had heard him there was not even the most minuscule change of expression on his face to register that fact. He gave a final convulsive heave, the flailing legs disappeared and Tracchia entered the water with a resounding splash that threw water as high as Harlow’s face. A barred cloud had at last crossed the moon. Harlow gazed down intently into the water for about fifteen seconds, produced his torch and made a complete circuit of the water around the yacht until he arrived back at his starting place. Again, still breathing deeply and quickly, he peered over the side, then turned to Rory. He said: ‘Maybe he was right at that. Maybe he can’t swim.’

Rory tore off his jacket. ‘I can swim. I’m a very good swimmer, Mr Harlow.’

Harlow’s iron hand grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. ‘You, Rory, are out of your mind.’

Rory looked at him for a long moment, nodded, picked up his jacket and put it on again. He said: ‘Vermin?’

‘Yes.’ They went back into the saloon. Pauli was still huddled in a settee, moaning. Harlow said: ‘The key to Mrs MacAlpine’s cabin.’

Pauli nodded in the direction of a cabinet drawer. Harlow found the key, removed the first-aid box from its clip on the bulkhead, ushered Pauli below at the point of his gun, opened the first cabin door, gestured Pauli inside and threw in the first-aid box. He said: ‘I’ll have a doctor here within half an hour. Meantime, I don’t care a damn whether you live or die.’ He left and locked the cabin door from the outside.