The Way to Dusty Death. Alistair MacLean

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      MacAlpine said: ‘He avoids me like the plague nowadays – and you know how close Johnny and myself used to be. Whenever he does get close to me he smells powerfully of menthol throat tablets. Doesn’t that say something to you?’

      ‘Come off it, James. That’s no evidence.’

      ‘Perhaps not. But Tracchia, Jacobson and Rory swear to it.’

      ‘Oh, brother, are they unbiased witnesses. If Johnny is forced to step down who’s going to be Coronado’s number one driver with a good chance of being the next champion? Who but our Nikki. Jacobson and Johnny have never been on good terms and now the relationship is going from bad to worse: Jacobson doesn’t like having his cars smashed up and what he likes even less is Harlow’s contention that the smashes have nothing to do with him which brings into question Jacobson’s ability to prepare a car thoroughly. As for Rory, well, frankly, he hates Johnny Harlow’s guts: partly because of what Johnny did to Mary, partly because she’s never allowed the accident to make the slightest difference in her attitude towards him. I’m afraid, James, that your daughter is the only person left on the team who is still totally devoted to Johnny Harlow.’

      ‘Yes, I know.’ MacAlpine was momentarily silent then said dully: ‘Mary was the first person to tell me.’

      ‘Oh, Jesus!’ Dunnet looked miserably out on the track and without looking at MacAlpine said: ‘You’ve no option now. You have to fire him. For preference, today.’

      ‘You’re forgetting, Alexis, that you’ve just learnt this while I’ve known it for some time. My mind has been made up. One more Grand Prix.’

      The parking lot, in the fading light, looked like the last resting place of the behemoths of a bygone age. The huge transporters that carried the racing cars, spare parts and portable workshops around Europe, parked, as they were, in a totally haphazard fashion, loomed menacingly out of the gloom. They were completely devoid of life as evinced by the fact that no light showed from any of them. The car park itself was equally deserted except for a figure that had just appeared from out of the gathering dusk and passed through the entrance to the transporter parking lot.

      Johnny Harlow made no apparent attempt to conceal his presence from any chance observer, if any such there had been. Swinging his little canvas bag he made his way diagonally across the parking lot until he brought up at one of the huge behemoths: written large on the side and back was the word FERRARI. He didn’t even bother to try the door of the transporter but produced a bunch of curiously shaped keys and had the door open in a matter of a few seconds. He passed inside and closed and locked the door behind him. For five minutes he did nothing other than move from window to window on either side of the transporter checking patiently, continuously, to see if his unauthorized entrance had been observed. It was apparent that it had not been. Satisfied, Harlow withdrew the flash-lamp from the canvas bag, switched on the red beam, stooped over the nearest Ferrari racing car and began to examine it minutely.

      There were about thirty people in the hotel lobby that evening. Among them were Mary MacAlpine and her brother, Henry and the two red-haired Rafferty twins. The sound level of the conversation was notably high: the hotel had been taken over for the weekend by several of the Grand Prix teams and the racing fraternity is not particularly renowned for its inhibitions. All of them, mainly drivers but with several mechanics, had discarded their workaday clothes and were suitably attired for their evening meal which was as yet an hour distant. Henry, especially, was exceptionally resplendent in a grey pin-striped suit with a red rose in his buttonhole. Even his moustache appeared to have been combed. Mary sat beside him with Rory a few feet away, reading a magazine, or at least appearing to do so. Mary sat silently, unsmiling, constantly gripping and twisting one of the walking sticks to which she had now graduated. Suddenly, she turned to Henry.

      ‘Where does Johnny go each evening. We hardly ever see him after dinner nowadays.’

      ‘Johnny?’ Henry adjusted the flower in his button, hole. ‘No idea, miss. Maybe he prefers his own company. Maybe he finds the food better elsewhere. Maybe anything.’

      Rory still held the magazine before his face. Clearly however he was not reading for his eyes were very still. But, at the moment, his whole being was not in his eyes but in his ears.

      Mary said: ‘Maybe it’s not just the food that he finds better elsewhere.’

      ‘Girls, miss? Johnny Harlow’s not interested in girls.’ He leered at her in what he probably imagined to be a roguish fashion in keeping with the gentlemanly splendour of his evening wear. ‘Except for a certain you-know-who.’

      Don’t be such a fool.’ Mary MacAlpine was not always milk and roses. ‘You know what I mean.’

      ‘What do you mean, miss?’

      ‘Don’t be clever with me, Henry.’

      Henry assumed the sad expression of the continuously misjudged.

      ‘I’m not clever enough to be clever with anybody.’

      Mary looked at him in cold speculation then abruptly turned away. Rory just as quickly averted his own head. He was looking very thoughtful indeed and the expression superimposed upon the thoughtfulness could hardly be described as pleasant.

      Harlow, the hooded red light giving all the illumination he required, probed the depths of a box of spares. Suddenly, he half straightened, cocked his head as if to listen, switched off the torch, went to a side window and peered out. The evening darkness had deepened until it was now almost night, but a yellowish half-moon drifting behind scattered cloud gave just enough light to see by. Two men were heading across the transporter park, heading straight towards the Coronado unit, which was less than twenty feet from where Harlow stood watching. There was no difficulty at all in identifying them as MacAlpine and Jacobson. Harlow made his way to the Ferrari transporter’s door, unlocked it and cautiously opened it just sufficiently to give him a view of the Coronado transporter’s door. MacAlpine was just inserting his key in the lock. MacAlpine said:

      ‘So there’s no doubt then. Harlow wasn’t imagining things. Fourth gear is stripped.’

      ‘Completely.’

      ‘So he may be in the clear after all?’ There was a note almost of supplication in MacAlpine’s voice.

      ‘There’s more than one way of stripping a gear.’ Jacobson’s tone offered very little in the way of encouragement.

      ‘There’s that, I suppose, there’s that. Come on, let’s have a look at this damned gear-box.’

      Both men passed inside and lights came on. Harlow, unusually half-smiling, nodded slowly, closed and gently locked the door and resumed his search. He acted with the same circumspection as he had in the Cagliari pits, forcing open crates and boxes, when this was necessary, with the greatest of care so that they could be closed again to show the absolute minimum of offered violence. He operated with speed and intense concentration, pausing only once at the sound of a noise outside. He checked the source of the noise, saw MacAlpine and Jacobson descending the steps of the Coronado transporter and walk away across the deserted compound. Harlow returned to his work.

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