The Way to Dusty Death. Alistair MacLean

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СКАЧАТЬ might be interesting to see if Jacobson has turned up anything.’

      The garage was very long, low, heavily skylighted, brilliantly lit with hanging spotlights and, for a garage, was remarkably clean and tidy. Jacobson was at the inner end, stooped over Harlow’s wrecked Coronado, when the metal door screeched open. He straightened, acknowledged the presence of MacAlpine and Dunnet with a wave of his hand, then returned to his examination of the car.

      Dunnet closed the door and said quietly: ‘Where are the other mechanics?’

      MacAlpine said: You should know by this time. Jacobson always works alone on a crash job. A very low opinion of other mechanics, has Jacobson. Says they either overlook evidence or destroy it by clumsiness.’

      The two men advanced and watched in silence as Jacobson tightened a connection in the hydraulic brake line. They were not alone in watching him. Directly above them, through an open skylight, the powerful lamps in the garage reflected on something metallic. The metallic object was a hand-held eight millimetre camera and the hands that held them were very steady indeed. They were the hands of Johnny Harlow. His face was as impassive as his hands were motionless, intent and still and totally watchful. He was also totally sober.

      MacAlpine said: ‘Well?’

      Jacobson straightened and tenderly massaged an obviously aching back.

      ‘Nothing. Just nothing. Suspension, brakes, engine, transmission, tyres, steering – all OK.’

      ‘But the steering – ’

      ‘Sheared. Impact fracture. Couldn’t be anything else. It was still working when he pulled out in front of Jethou. You can’t tell me that the steering suddenly went in that one second of time, Mr MacAlpine. Coincidence is coincidence, but that would be just a bit too much.’

      Dunnet said: ‘So we’re still in the dark?’

      ‘It’s broad daylight where I stand. The oldest reason in the business. Driver error.’

      ‘Driver error.’ Dunnet shook his head. ‘Johnny Harlow never made a driver error in his life.’

      Jacobson smiled, his eyes cold. ‘I’d like to have the opinion of Jethou’s ghost on that one.’

      MacAlpine said: ‘This hardly helps. Come on. Hotel. You haven’t even eaten yet, Jacobson.’ He looked at Dunnet. ‘A night-cap in the bar, I think, then a look-in on Johnny.’

      Jacobson said: ‘You’ll be wasting your time, sir. He’ll be paralytic.’

      MacAlpine looked at Jacobson consideringly, then said very slowly and after a long pause: ‘He’s still world champion. He’s still Coronado’s number one.’

      ‘So that’s the way of it, is it?’

      ‘You want it some other way?’

      Jacobson crossed to a sink, began to wash his hands. Without turning he said: ‘You’re the boss, Mr MacAlpine.’

      MacAlpine made no reply. When Jacobson had dried his hands the three men left the garage in silence, closing the heavy metal door behind them.

      Only the top half of Harlow’s head and supporting hands were visible as he clung to the ridgepole of the garage’s V-roof and watched the three men walk up the brightly lit main street. As soon as they had turned a corner and disappeared from sight, he slid gingerly down towards the opened skylight, lowered himself through the opening and felt with his feet until he found a metal cross-beam. He released his grip on the skylight sill, balanced precariously on the beam, brought out a small flashlight from an inner pocket – Jacobson had switched off all the lights before leaving – and directed it downwards. The concrete floor was about nine feet below him.

      Harlow stooped, reached for the beam with his hands, slid down over it, hung at the full stretch of his hand, then released his grip. He landed lightly and easily, headed for the door, switched on all the lights then went directly to the Coronado. He was carrying not one but two strap-hung cameras, his eight millimetre cine and a very compact still camera with flashlight attachment.

      He found an oily cloth and used it to rub clean part of the right suspension, a fuel line, the steering linkage and one of the carburettors in the engine compartment. Each of these areas he flash-photographed several times with the still camera. He retrieved the cloth, coated it with a mixture of oil and dirt from the floor, swiftly smeared the parts he had photographed and threw the cloth into a metal bin provided for that purpose.

      He crossed to the door and tugged on the handle, but to no avail. The door had been locked from the outside and its heavy construction precluded any thought or attempt to force it: and Harlow’s last thought was to leave any trace of his passing. He looked quickly around the garage.

      On his left hand side was a light wooden ladder suspended from two right-angle wall brackets – a ladder almost certainly reserved for the cleaning of the very considerable skylight area. Below it, and to one side, lay, in a corner, the untidy coil of a towrope.

      Harlow moved to the corner, picked up the rope, lifted the ladder off its brackets, looped the rope round the top rung and placed the ladder against the metal cross-beam. He returned to the door and switched off the lights. Using his flashlight, he climbed up the ladder and straddled the beam. Grasping the ladder while still maintaining his grip on the rope, he manoeuvred the former until the lower end hooked on to one of the right-angle wall brackets. Using the looped rope, he lowered the other end of the ladder until, not without some difficulty, he managed to drop it into the other bracket. He released one end of the rope, pulled it clear of the ladder, coiled it up and threw it into the corner where it had been previously lying. Then, swaying dangerously, he managed to bring himself upright on the beam, thrust himself head and shoulders through the opened skylight, hauled himself up and disappeared into the night above.

      MacAlpine and Dunnet were seated alone at a table in an otherwise deserted lounge bar. They were seated in silence as a waiter brought them two scotches. MacAlpine raised his glass and smiled without humour.

      ‘When you come to the end of a perfect day. God, I’m tired.’

      ‘So you’re committed, James. So Harlow goes on.’

      ‘Thanks to Jacobson. Didn’t leave me much option, did he?’

      Harlow, running along the brightly lit main street, stopped abruptly. The street was almost entirely deserted except for two tall men approaching his way. Harlow hesitated, looked around swiftly, then pressed into a deeply recessed shop entrance. He stood there immobile as the two men passed by: they were Nicolo Tracchia, Harlow’s team-mate, and Willi Neubauer, engrossed in low-voiced and clearly very earnest conversation. Neither of them saw Harlow. They passed by. Harlow emerged from the recessed doorway, looked cautiously both ways, waited until the retreating backs of Tracchia and Neubauer had turned a corner, then broke into a run again.

      MacAlpine and Dunnet drained their glasses. MacAlpine looked questioningly at Dunnet. Dunnet said: ‘Well, I suppose we’ve got to face it some time.’

      MacAlpine said: ‘I suppose.’ Both men rose, nodded to the barman, and left.

      Harlow, now moving at no more than a fast walk, crossed the street in the direction of a neon-signed hotel. Instead of using the main entrance, he went down a side alleyway, turned to his right and started to climb a СКАЧАТЬ