The Way to Dusty Death (12 page)

‘No need. Mr. Neubauer and I will take him up.’

The policeman said: ‘I’m sorry. We will require a statement from — ‘

He halted as most people did when they were on the receiving end of Tracchia’s most intimidating scowl. He said: ‘Leave your station number with this young lady. You will be called when the doctor gives Mr. Dunnet permission to talk. Not before. Meantime, he must get to bed immediately. Do you understand?’

They understood, nodded and left without another word. Tracchia and Neubauer, followed by a Rory whose puzzlement was matched only by his apprehension, took Dunnet to his room and were in the process of putting him to bed when a doctor arrived. He was young, Italian, clearly highly efficient and extremely polite when he asked them to leave the room.

In the corridor Rory said: ‘Why would anyone do that to Mr. Dunnet?’

‘Who knows?’ Tracchia said. ‘Robbers, thieves, people who would sooner rob and half-kill than do an honest day’s work.’ He flicked a glance at Neubauer, one that Rory was not intended to miss. there are lots of unpleasant people in the world, Rory. Let’s leave it to the police, shall we?’

‘You mean that you’re not going to bother — ‘

 ‘We’re drivers, my boy,’ Neubauer said. ‘‘We’re not detectives.’

‘I’m not a boy! I’ll soon be seventeen. And I’m not a fool.’ Rory brought his anger under control and looked at them speculatively. there’s something very fishy, very funny going on. I’ll bet Harlow is mixed up in this somewhere.’

‘Barlow?’ Tracchia raised an amused eyebrow in a fashion that was little to Rory’s liking. ‘Come off it, Rory.
You
were the person who overheard Harlow and Dunnet having their confidential little
‘Ste-ci-tete.’

‘Aha! That’s just the point. I
didn’t
overhear what they said. I just heard their voices, not what they said. They could have been saying anything. Maybe Harlow was threatening him.’ Rory paused to consider this fresh and intriguing prospect and conviction burgeoned on the instant. ‘Of course that was what it was. Harlow was threatening him because Dunnet was either double-crossing or blackmailing him.’

Tracchia said kindly: ‘Rory, you really must give up reading those horror comics of yours. Even if Dunnet were double-crossing or blackmailing Harlow, how would beating up Dunnet help in any way? He’s still around, isn’t he? He can still carry on this double-crossing or blackmailing of yours. I’m afraid you’ll have to come up with a better one than that, Rory.’

Rory said slowly: ‘Maybe I can. Dunnet did say he was beaten up in that narrow alleyway leading towards the main street. Do you know what lies at the far end of the alleyway? The Post Office. Maybe Dunnet was going down there to dispose of some evidence he had on Harlow. Maybe he thought it was too dangerous to carry that evidence around with him any more. So Harlow made good and sure that Dunnet never got the chance to post it.’

Neubauer looked at Tracchia then back at Rory. He wasn’t smiling any more. He said: ‘What kind of evidence, Rory?’

‘How should I know?’ Rory’s irritation was marked. ‘I’ve been doing all the thinking up till now. How about you two trying to do a little thinking for once?’

‘We might just at that.’ Tracchia, like Neubauer, was now suddenly serious and thoughtful. ‘Now don’t go talking around about this, lad. Apart from the fact that we haven’t a single shred of proof, there’s such a thing as the law of libel.’

‘I’ve told you once,’ Rory said with some acerbity, ‘I’m not a fool. Besides, it wouldn’t look too good for you two if it was known that you were trying to put the finger on Johnny Harlow.’

That you can say again,’ Tracchia said. ‘Bad news travels fast. Here comes Mr. MacAlpine.’

MacAlpine arrived at the head of the stairs, his face, much thinner now and far more deeply lined than it had been two months previously, was grim and tight with anger. He said: this is true? I mean about Dunnet?’

Tracchia said : ‘I’m afraid so. Some person or persons have given him a pretty thorough going over.’

‘In God’s name, why?’

‘Robbery, it looks like.’

‘Robbery! In broad daylight. Jesus, the sweet joys of civilization. When did this happen?’

‘Couldn’t have been much more than ten minutes ago. Willi and I were at the bar when he went out. It was exactly five o’clock because I happened to be checking a phone call with the barman at the time. We were at the bar when he came back and when he came back I checked my watch — thought it might be useful for the police to know. It was exactly twelve minutes past five. He couldn’t have got very far in that time.’

‘Where is he now?’

There. In his room.’

Then why are you three —
⁹

‘Doctor’s in there with him. He threw us out.’

‘He
will not,’ MacAlpine predicted with certainty, ‘throw me out.’

Nor did he. Five minutes later it was the doctor who was the first to emerge followed in another five by MacAlpine, his face at once thunderous and deeply worried. He went straight to his own room.

Tracchia, Neubauer and Rory were sitting by a wall table in the foyer when Harlow entered. If he saw them he paid no heed but walked straight across the length of the foyer to the stairs. He smiled faintly once or twice in response to tentative approaches and deferential smiles of greeting, but otherwise his face remained its normal impassive self.

Neubauer said: ‘Well, you must admit that our Johnny doesn’t look all that concerned about life.’

‘You bet he doesn’t.’ Rory could not have been accused of snarling, because he hadn’t yet mastered the art, but he was obviously getting close. ‘I’ll bet he’s not very concerned about death either. I’ll bet if it was his own grandmother he’d —’

‘Rory.’ Tracchia held up a restraining hand. ‘You’re letting your imagination run wild. The Grand Prix Drivers’ Association is a very respectable body of men. We have what people call a good public image and we don’t want to spoil it. Sure, we like to have you on our side : but wild >talk like this can only damage everyone concerned.’

Rory scowled at each man in turn, rose and walked stiffly away. Neubauer said, almost sadly: ‘I’m afraid, Nikki, that our young firebrand there is shortly about to experience some of the most painful moments of his life.’

‘It’ll do him no harm,’ Tracchia said. ‘And it certainly won’t do us any either.’

Neubauer’s prophecy was confirmed in remarkably short order.

Harlow closed the door behind him and looked down at the prostrate figure of Dunnet who, although he had been duly and efficiently doctored, had a face that looked as if it had emerged from a major road accident within the past few minutes. Allowing for the areas covered by bruises and a variety of plasters, there was, in all conscience, little enough of his face to be seen, just a nose double its usual size, a completely-closed rainbow-coloured right eye and stitches on the forehead and upper lip, but sufficient to lend credence to his recent life and hard times. Harlow clucked his tongue in the usual sympathetic if rather perfunctory fashion, took two silent steps towards the door and jerked it open. Rory literally fell into the room and measured his length on the splendid marble tiles of the Villa-Hotel Cessni.

Wordlessly, Harlow bent over him, wound his fingers in Rory’s thick black curling hair and hauled him to his feet. Rory had no words either, just a piercing heartfelt scream of agony. Still without speaking, Harlow transferred his grip to Rory’s ear, marched him along the corridor to MacAlpine’s room, knocked and went inside, dragging Rory with him: tears of pain rolled down the unhappy Rory’s face. MacAlpine, lying on top of his bed, propped himself up on one elbow: his outrage that his only son should be so cruelly mishandled was clearly outweighed by the fact that it was Harlow who was ‘doing the mishandling.

Harlow said: ‘I know I’m not very much in the grace and favour line with Coronado at the moment. I also know he is your son. But the next time I find this spying young tramp eavesdropping outside the door of a room I’m in I’ll well and truly clobber him.’

MacAlpine looked at Harlow, then at Rory, then back to Harlow. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.’ The voice was flat and singularly lacking in conviction.

‘I don’t care whether you believe me or not.’ Harlow’s anger had gone, he’d slipped on his old mask of indifference. ‘But I know you would believe Alexis Dunnet. Go and ask him. I was with him in his room when I opened the door a bit unexpectedly for our young friend here. He had been leaning so heavily against it that he fell flat to the floor. I helped him up. By his hair. That’s why there’s tears in his eyes.’

MacAlpine looked at Rory in a less than paternal fashion. ‘Is this true?’

Rory wiped his sleeve across his eyes, concentrated sullenly on the examination of the toes of his shoes and prudently said nothing.

. ‘Leave him to me, Johnny.’ MacAlpine didn’t look particularly angry or upset, just very very tired. ‘My apologies if I seemed to doubt you — I didn’t.’

Harlow nodded, left, returned to Dunnet’s room, closed and locked the door then, as Dunnet watched in silence, proceeded to search the room thoroughly. A few minutes later, apparently still not satisfied, he moved into the adjacent bathroom, turned a tap and the shower on to maximum then went out, leaving the door wide open behind him. It is difficult for even the most sensitive microphone to pick up with any degree of clarity the sound of human voices against a background of running water.

Without any by-your-leave, he searched through the outer clothing that Dunnet had been wearing. He replaced the clothing and looked at Dunnet’s torn shirt and the white band that a wrist watch had left on a sun-tanned wrist.

‘Has it occurred to you, Alexis,’ Harlow said, that some of your activities are causing displeasure in certain quarters and that they are trying to discourage you?’

‘Funny. Bloody funny.’ Dunnet’s voice was, understandably, so thick and slurred that in his case the use of any anti-microphone devices was almost wholly superfluous. ‘Why didn’t they discourage me permanently?’

‘Only a fool kills unnecessarily. We are not up against fools. However, who knows, one day? Well, now. Wallet, loose change, watch, cuff-links, even your half-dozen fountain pens and car keys —all gone. Looks like a pretty professional roll job, doesn’t it?’

The hell with that.
^’
Dunnet spat blood into a handful of tissue. ‘What matters is that the cassette is gone.’

Harlow hesitated then cleared his throat in a diffident fashion.

‘Well, let’s say that
a
cassette is missing.’

The only really viable feature in Dunnet’s face was his unblemished right eye: this, after a momentary puzzlement, he used most effectively to glower at Harlow with the maximum of suspicion.

‘What the hell do you mean?’

Harlow gazed into the middle distance.

‘Well, Alexis, I do feel a little bit apologetic about this, but the cassette that matters is in the hotel safe. The one our friends now have — the one I gave to you - was a plant.’

Dunnet, with what little could be seen of his sadly battered face slowly darkening in anger, tried to sit up: gently but firmly Harlow pushed him down again.

Harlow said : ‘Now, now, Alexis, don’t do yourself an injury. Another one, I mean. They were on to me and I had to put myself in the clear or I was finished — although God knows I never expected them to do this to you.’ He paused. ‘I’m in the clear now.’

‘You’d better be sure of that, my boy.’ Dunnet had subsided but his anger hadn’t.

‘I’m sure. When they develop that film spool they’ll find it contains micro photos - about a hundred - of line drawings of a prototype gas turbine engine. They’ll conclude I’m as much a criminal as they are, but as my business is industrial espionage, there can be no possible conflict of interests. They’ll lose interest in me.’

Dunnet looked at him balefully. ‘Clever bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am, rather.’ He went to the door, opened it and turned round. ‘Especially, it seems, when it is at other people’s expense.’

CHAPTER
SEVEN

In the Coronado pits on the following afternoon a heavily panting MacAlpine and a still sadly battered Dunnet argued in low and urgent tones. The faces of both men were marked with worry.

MacAlpine made no attempt to conceal the savagery he felt inside him. He said: ‘But the bottle’s empty, man. Drained to the last drop. I’ve just checked. Jesus, I can’t just let him go out there and kill another man.’

‘If you stop him you’ll have to explain why to the press. It’ll be a sensation, the international sporting scandal of the last decade. It’ll kill Johnny. Professionally, I mean.’

‘Better have him killed professionally than have him kill another driver for real.’

Dunnet said : ‘Give him two laps. If he’s in the lead, then let him go. He can’t kill anyone in that position. If not, flag him in. We’ll cook up something for the press. Anyway, remember what he did yesterday with the same skinful inside him?’

‘Yesterday he was lucky. Today-’

Today it’s too late.’

Even at a distance of several hundred feet the sound of twenty-four Grand Prix racing engines accelerating away from the starting grid was startling, almost shattering, both in its unexpectedness and ear-cringing fury of sound. MacAlpine and Dunnet looked at each other and shrugged simultaneously. There seemed to be no other comment or reaction to meet the case.

The first driver past the pits, already pulling fractionally clear of Nicolo Tracchia, was Harlow in his lime-green Coronado. MacAlpine turned to Dunnet and said heavily: ‘One swallow does not make a summer.’

Eight laps later MacAlpine was beginning to question his ornithological expertise. He was looking slightly dazed while Dunnet was indulging in considerable eyebrow-lifting, Jacobson’s expression was not one indicative of any marked internal pleasure while Rory was positively scowling although manfully trying not to. Only Mary expressed her true emotion and that without inhibition. She looked positively radiant.