Алистер Маклин: The Way to Dusty Death

MacAlpine and his wife stood together, listening to the howl of the Ferrari engine die away in the distance. In what was almost a whisper, Marie MacAlpine said: ‘What did that mean, James? “All I said is that I would bring Mary back.” ’

‘I’ve got to phone Nice and at once. Then the biggest drink the château can offer, a small dinner then bed. There’s nothing more we can do now.’ He paused, then went on almost sadly: ‘I have my limitations. I do not operate in Johnny Harlow’s class.’

‘What did he mean, James?’

‘What he said.’ MacAlpine tightened his arm around his wife’s shoulder. ‘He brought you back, didn’t he? He’ll bring our Mary back. Don’t you know they’re in love?’

‘What did he mean, James?’

MacAlpine said in a dead voice: ‘He meant that neither of us would ever see Jacobson and Tracchia again.’

The nightmare journey to the Col de Tende, a journey that would live in the minds of Dunnet and Rory for ever, was conducted, with only one exception, in absolute conversational silence, partially because Harlow was completely concentrated on the job on hand, partially because both Dunnet and Rory had been reduced to a state pretty close to abject terror. Harlow was not only driving the Ferrari to its limits – in the opinions of his two passengers he was driving it far beyond its limits. As they drove along the autoroute between Cannes and Nice, Dunnet looked at the speedometer. It read 260 kph – something over 160 miles per hour.

He said: ‘May I say something?’

For a flicker of a second Harlow glanced at him. ‘But of course.’

‘Jesus Christ Almighty. Superstar, if you want. The best driver in the world, like enough the best driver who’s ever lived. But in all bloody hell–’

‘Language,’ Harlow said mildly. ‘My young future brother-in-law is sitting behind us.’

‘This is the way you earn a living?’

‘Well, yes.’ While the seat-belted Dunnet clung in desperate apprehension to any available hand-hold, Harlow braked, changed down, and with all four wheels in a screaming slide and at just under a hundred miles an hour, rounded a corner that few other drivers, however competent, would have attempted at seventy. ‘But you must admit it’s better than working.’

‘Jesus!’ Dunnet lapsed into a semi-stunned silence and closed his eyes like a man in prayer. Very probably he was.

The N204, the road between Nice and La Giandola, where it links up with the road from Ventimiglia, is a very winding one, with some spectacular hairpins and rising in places to over three thousand feet, but Harlow treated it all as if he were driving along the autoroute. Presently, both Dunnet and Rory had their eyes closed: it could have been exhaustion but, more likely, they didn’t want to see what was going on.

The road was entirely empty. They crossed over the Col de Braus, went through Sospel at a ludicrously illegal speed, passed through the Col de Brouis and reached La Giandola without having met a single car, which was perhaps just as well for the nerves of any driver who might have been coming the other way. Then they went north through Saorge, Fontan and finally the township of Tende itself. It was just beyond Tende that Dunnet stirred and opened his eyes.

He said: ‘Am I still alive?’

‘I think so.’

Dunnet rubbed his eyes. ‘What was that you just said about your brother-in-law?’

‘ “Just” was a long time ago.’ Harlow pondered. ‘Looks as if someone has to look after the MacAlpine family. I might as well make it official.’

‘You secretive so-and-so. Engaged?’

‘Well, no. I haven’t asked her yet. And I have news for you, Alexis. You’re going to drive this car back to Vignolles while I sleep the sleep of the just. In the back seat. With Mary.’

‘You haven’t even asked her yet and you’re certain you’re going to get her back.’ Dunnet looked at Harlow in disbelief and shook his head. ‘You, Johnny Harlow, are the most arrogant human being I’ve ever known.’

‘Don’t you knock my future brother-in-law, Mr Dunnet,’ Rory said sleepily from the back. ‘By the way, Mr Harlow, if I am going to be your brother-in-law, can I call you Johnny?’

Harlow smiled. ‘You can call me anything you like. Just as long as it’s said in a tone of proper respect.’

‘Yes, Mr Harlow. Johnny, I mean.’ Suddenly his voice was no longer sleepy. ‘Do you see what I see?’

Ahead of them were the headlights of a car negotiating the vicious hairpins of the lower end of the Col de Tende.

‘I’ve been seeing it for quite some time. Tracchia.’

Dunnet looked at him. ‘How can you tell?’

‘Two things.’ Harlow dropped two gears as he approached the first hairpin. ‘There aren’t half a dozen people in Europe who can drive a car the way that car is being driven.’ He dropped another gear and slid round the hairpin with all the calm relaxation of a man sitting in a pew in a church. ‘Show an art expert fifty different paintings, and he’ll immediately tell you who the artist is. I’m not talking about anything so wildly different as Rembrandt and Renoir. The same school of painters. I can recognize the driving technique of any Grand Prix driver in the world. After all, there are fewer Grand Prix drivers than there are painters. Tracchia has the habit of braking slightly early for a corner then accelerating quickly through it.’ He threw the Ferrari, tyres shrieking in protest, round the next corner. ‘That’s Tracchia.’

It was indeed Tracchia. Seated beside him, Jacobson was peering anxiously through the rear window. He said: ‘There’s someone coming up behind.’

‘It’s a public road. Anyone can use it.’

‘Believe me, Nikki, this is not just anyone.’

In the Ferrari, Harlow said: ‘I think we better get ready.’ He pressed a button and the windows slid down. Then he reached for his gun and placed it beside him. ‘And I’ll be greatly obliged if neither of you shoot Mary.’

Dunnet said: ‘I just hope to hell that tunnel’s blocked.’ He brought out his own gun.

The tunnel was indeed blocked, completely and solidly blocked. A very large furniture van was jammed diagonally and apparently immovably into its mouth.

The Aston Martin rounded the last hairpin. Tracchia swore bitterly and braked the car to a halt. Both men gazed apprehensively through the rear window. Mary looked too, though with hope, not fear.

Jacobson said: ‘Don’t tell me that damned truck jammed there is sheer coincidence. Turn the car, Nikki. God, there they are!’

The Ferrari came sliding round the last corner and accelerated towards them. Tracchia tried desperately to turn his car, a maneuver made more difficult when Harlow, braking heavily, rammed his Ferrari into the side of the Aston. Jacobson had his gun out and was firing at apparent random.

‘Jacobson,’ Harlow said urgently. ‘Not Tracchia. You’ll kill Mary.’

Both men leaned out of their windows and fired just as their windscreen smashed and starred. Jacobson ducked low for safety but he ducked too late. He screamed in agony as two bullets lodged in his left shoulder. In the confusion and noise Mary opened the door and jumped out as quickly as her crippled leg would permit her. Neither man, for the moment, even noticed that she was gone.

Tracchia, only the top of his head visible above the windscreen, eventually managed to wrench his car round and clear then accelerated desperately away. Four seconds later, with Dunnet having practically dragged Mary inside, the Ferrari was in pursuit. Harlow, apparently oblivious to the inflicted cuts, had already smashed his fist through the shattered windscreen. Dunnet completed the work with the butt of his pistol.