Алистер Маклин: The Way to Dusty Death

MacAlpine hesitated. The fact that Jacobson had made a perfect lap circuit was no proof of anything one way or another. In the nature of things he would have been unable to drive the Coronado at anything like the speed Harlow had done. Again, the fault may have occurred only when the engine had heated to its maximum and it was unlikely that Jacobson could have reached that in a single lap: finally, those highly-bred racing engines, which could cost up to eight thousand pounds, were extraordinarily fickle creatures and quite capable of developing and clearing up their own faults without the hand of man going anywhere near them. Jacobson, inevitably, regarded MacAlpine’s silence as either doubt or outright agreement. He said: ‘Maybe you’re coming round to my way of thinking, Mr MacAlpine?’

MacAlpine didn’t say whether he was or he wasn’t. He said instead: ‘Just leave the car where she is. We’ll send Henry and the two boys down with the transporter to pick it up. Come along. Dinner. I think we’ve earned it. And a drink. I think we’ve earned that, too. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever earned so many drinks as I have in the past four weeks.’

‘I wouldn’t disagree with you on that, Mr MacAlpine.’

MacAlpine’s blue Aston Martin lay parked in the rear of the pits. Both men climbed in and drove off down the track.

Harlow watched the car depart. If he had been disturbed by the conclusions Jacobson had arrived at or MacAlpine’s apparent acceptance of them no signs of any such anxiety were reflected in his untroubled face. He waited until the car had disappeared into the gathering darkness, looked round carefully to make sure that he was entirely alone and unobserved, then moved into the back of the Cagliari pits. There he opened a canvas bag he was carrying, produced a flat-based lamp-light with a large swivelling head, a hammer, cold chisel and screwdriver and set them on top of the nearest crate. He pressed the switch on the handle of the lamp-light and a powerful white beam illuminated the back of the Cagliari pits. A flick on the lever on the base of the swivelling head and the white dazzle was at once replaced by a red muted glow. Harlow took hammer and chisel in hand and set resolutely to work.

Most of the crates and boxes did not, in fact, have to be forced for the esoteric collection of engine and chassis spares inside them could not conceivably have been of any interest to any passing thief: he almost certainly wouldn’t have known what to look for and, in the remote event of his so knowing, he would quite certainly have been unable to dispose of them. The few crates that Harlow did have to open he did so carefully, gently and with the minimum of noise.

Harlow spent the minimum of time on his examination, presumably because delay always increased the danger of discovery. He also appeared to know exactly what he was looking for. The contents of some boxes were disposed of with only the most cursory of glances: even the largest of the crates merited no more than a minute’s inspection. Within half an hour after beginning the operation he had begun to close all the crates and boxes up again. Those he had been compelled to force open he closed with a cloth-headed hammer to reduce noise to a minimum and leave the least perceptible traces of his passing. When he was finished, he returned his torch and tools to the canvas bag, emerged from the Cagliari pits and walked away into the near darkness. If he was disappointed with the results of his investigation he did not show it: but, then, Harlow rarely showed any emotion.

Fourteen days later Nicolo Tracchia achieved what he promised MacAlpine he would achieve – the ambition of his life. He won the Austrian Grand Prix. Harlow, by now predictably, won nothing. Worse, not only did he not finish the race, he hardly even began it, achieving only four more laps than he had in England – and there he had crashed on the first lap.

He had begun well enough by any standards, even his own, he had made a brilliantly successful start and was leading the field by a clear margin after the end of the fifth lap. Next time round he pulled his Coronado into the pits. As he stepped out of his car he seemed normal enough with no trace of undue anxiety and nothing even closely resembling a cold sweat. But he had his hands thrust deeply into his overall pockets and his fists were tightly balled: this way you can’t tell whether a man’s hands are shaking or not. He removed one hand long enough to make a dismissive gesture towards all the pit crew – with the exception of the still chair-borne Mary – who came hurrying towards him.

‘No panic.’ He shook his head. ‘And no hurry. Fourth gear’s gone.’ He stood looking out moodily over the track. MacAlpine stared at him closely then looked at Dunnet who nodded without even appearing to have seen the glance that MacAlpine had directed at him. Dunnet was staring at the clenched hands inside Harlow’s pockets.

MacAlpine said: ‘We’ll pull Nikki in. You can have his car.’

Harlow didn’t answer immediately. There came the sound of an approaching racing engine and Harlow nodded towards the track. The others followed his line of sight. A lime-green Coronado flashed by but still Harlow stared out over the track. At least another fifteen seconds elapsed before the next car, Neubauer’s royal blue Cagliari came by. Harlow turned and looked at MacAlpine. Harlow’s normally impassive face had come as near as it was possible for it to register a degree of incredulity.

‘Pull him in? Good God, Mac, are you mad? Nikki’s got fifteen clear seconds now that I’m out. There’s no way he can lose. Our Signor Tracchia would never forgive me – or you – if you were to pull him in now. It’ll be his first Grand Prix – and the one he most wanted to win.’

Harlow turned and walked away as if the matter was settled. Both Mary and Rory watched him go, the former with dull misery in her eyes, the latter with a mixture of triumph and contempt at which he was at no pains at all to conceal. MacAlpine hesitated, made as if to speak, then he too turned and walked away, although in a different direction. Dunnet accompanied him. The two men halted in a corner of the pits.

MacAlpine said: ‘Well?’

Dunnet said: ‘Well what, James?’

‘Please. I don’t deserve that from you.’

‘You mean, did I see what you saw? His hands?’

‘He’s got the shakes again.’ MacAlpine made a long pause then sighed and shook his head. ‘I keep on saying it. It happens to them all. No matter how cool or brave or brilliant – hell, I’ve said it all before. And when a man has icy calm and iron control like Johnny – well, when the break comes it’s liable to be a pretty drastic one.’

‘And when does the break come?’

‘Pretty soon, I think. I’ll give him one more Grand Prix. Do you know what he’s going to do now? Later tonight, rather – he’s become very crafty about it.’

‘I don’t think I want to know.’

‘He’s going to hit the bottle.’

A voice with a very powerful Glasgow accent said: ‘The word is that he already has.’

Both MacAlpine and Dunnet turned slowly round. Coming out of the shadows of the hut behind was a small man with an incredibly wizened face, whose straggling white moustache contrasted oddly with his monk’s tonsure. Even odder was the long, thin and remarkably bent black cigar protruding from one corner of his virtually toothless mouth. His name was Henry, he was the transporter’s old driver – long long past retiring age – and the cigar was his trademark. It was said that he occasionally ate with the cigar in his mouth.

MacAlpine said without inflection: ‘Eavesdropping, eh?’

‘Eavesdropping!’ It was difficult to say whether Henry’s tone and expression reflected indignation or incredulity but in either event they were on an Olympian scale. ‘You know very well that I would never eavesdrop, Mr MacAlpine. I was just listening. There’s a difference.’