The Way to Dusty Death. Alistair MacLean

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СКАЧАТЬ easily its reluctance was not directed against Tracchia. In the space of one brief month MacAlpine, even though he still couldn’t conceivably be called a thin person, had noticeably lost weight in both body and face, the already trenched lines in the latter seemed to have deepened and it was possible even to imagine an increase in the silver on that magnificent head of hair. It was difficult to imagine that even the precipitous fall from grace of his superstar could have been responsible for so dramatic a change but it was equally difficult to imagine that there could have been any other reason. MacAlpine said:

      ‘Overlooking the fact, aren’t we, that there’ll be a real live Austrian at the Austrian Grand Prix. Chap called Willi Neubauer. You have heard of him?’

      Tracchia was unperturbed. ‘Austrian our Willi may be, but the Austrian Grand Prix is not his circuit. He’s never come in better than fourth. I’ve been second in the last two years.’ He glanced away as another Coronado entered the pits then looked back at MacAlpine. ‘And you know who came in first both times.’

      ‘Yes, I know.’ MacAlpine turned away heavily and approached the other car as Harlow got out, removed his helmet, looked at his car and shook his head. When MacAlpine spoke there was no bitterness or anger or accusation in either voice or face, just a faint resignation and despair.

      ‘Well, Johnny, you can’t win them all.’

      Harlow said: ‘Not with this car I can’t.’

      ‘Meaning?’

      ‘Loss of power in the higher revs.’

      Jacobson had approached and his face was still without expression as he heard Harlow’s explanation. He said: ‘From the start?’

      ‘No. Nothing to do with you, Jake, I know that. It was bloody funny. Kept coming and going. At least a dozen times I got full power back. But never for long.’ He turned away and moodily examined his car again. Jacobson glanced at MacAlpine, who gave him an all but imperceptible nod.

      By dusk that evening the race-track was deserted, the last of the crowds and officials gone. MacAlpine, a lonely and brooding figure, his hands thrust deeply in the pockets of his tan gaberdine suit, stood at the entrance of the Coronado pits. He wasn’t, however, quite as alone as he might justifiably have imagined. In the neighbouring Cagliari pits a figure clad in a dark roll-neck pullover and dark leather jacket stood hidden in a shadowed corner. Johnny Harlow had a remarkable capacity for maintaining an absolute stillness and that capacity he was employing to the full at that moment. But apart from those two figures the entire track seemed quite empty of life.

      But not of sound. There came the deepening clamour of the sound of a Grand Prix engine and a Coronado, lights on, appeared from the distance, changed down through the gears, slowed right down as it passed the Cagliari pits and came to a halt outside the entrance to the Coronado pits. Jacobson climbed out and removed his helmet.

      MacAlpine said: ‘Well?’

      ‘Damn all the matter with the car.’ His tone was neutral but his eyes were hard. ‘Went like a bird. Our Johnny certainly knows how to use his imagination. We’ve got something more than just driver error here, Mr MacAlpine.’

      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 СКАЧАТЬ