The Way to Dusty Death (16 page)

He said : ‘Alexis Dunnet warned me, but you
do
come at a most inconvenient hour, John Harlow. Pray, a seat.’

‘I have come upon most inconvenient business, Giancarlo, and I haven’t time to sit down.’ He produced the film cassette and handed it over. ‘How long to develop this and give me separate enlargements of each?’

‘How many?’

‘Frames, you mean?’ Giancarlo nodded. ‘Sixty. Give or take.’

‘You do not ask for much.’ Giancarlo was heavily sarcastic. ‘This afternoon.’

Harlow said: ‘Jean-Claude is in town?’

Tsk! Tsk! Tsk! Code?’ Harlow nodded. ‘He is. I will see what he can do.’

Harlow left. On the way back to the villa he pondered the problem of Jacobson. Almost certainly the first thing that Jacobson would have done on his return to the villa would have been to check his, Harlow’s, room. The absence of Harlow would have caused him no surprise at all: no worthwhile assassin was going to incriminate his employer by leaving a corpse in the room next to his: there were acres of water in and around Marseilles and heavy lead weights would not be difficult to come by if one knew where to look and Luigi die Light-fingered had given the distinct impression of one who wouldn’t have had to look too far.

Jacobson was going to have a mild heart attack whether he met Harlow now or at the arranged meeting time of 6 a.m. But if he did not meet Harlow until 6 he was going to assume that Harlow had been absent until that time, and Jacobson, who was nothing if not suspicious, was going to wonder like fury what Harlow had been up to in the long watches of the night. It would be better to confront Jacobson now.

In the event, he had no option. He entered the villa just as Jacobson was about to leave it. Harlow regarded two things with interest: the bunch of keys dangling from Jacobson’s hand — no doubt he was en route for the garage to perform some double-crossing operation on his friends and colleagues — and the look of utter consternation on the face of Jacobson, who must have been briefly and understandably under the impression that Harlow’s ghost had come back to haunt him. But Jacobson was tough and his recovery, if not immediate, was made in a commendably short time.

‘Four o’clock in the bloody morning !’ Jacobson’s shock showed through in his strained and over-loud voice. ‘Where the hell have you been, Harlow?’

‘You’re not my keeper, Jacobson.’

‘I bloody well am, too. I’m the boss now, Harlow. I’ve been looking and waiting for you for an hour. I was just about to contact the police.’

‘Well, now, that
would
have been ironic. I’ve just come from them.’

‘You’ve —what do you mean, Harlow?’

‘What I say. I’m just back from handing over a thug to the police, a lad who came calling on me in the still watches of the night, gun and knife in hand. I don’t think he came to tell me bed-time stories. He wasn’t very good at his job. He’ll be in bed now, a hospital bed, under heavy police guard.’

Jacobson said: ‘Come inside. I want to hear more about this.’

They went inside and Harlow told Jacobson as much as he thought it was prudent for Jacobson to know of his night’s activities, then said: ‘God, I’m tired. I’ll be asleep in one minute flat.’

Harlow returned to his spartan accommodation and took up watch by the window. In less than three minutes Jacobson appeared in the street, the bunch of keys still in his hand and headed in the direction of the rue Gerard, headed, presumably, for the Coronado garage. What his intentions were Harlow for the moment neither knew nor cared.

Harlow left the house and drove off in Luigi’s Renault in a direction opposite to that which Jacobson had taken. After about four blocks, he turned into a narrow lane, stopped the engine, ensured that the doors were locked from the inside, set his wrist alarm for 5.45 a.m., and composed himself for a very brief sleep. As a place to lay his weary head Johnny Harlow had developed a powerful and permanent aversion to the Coronado villa.

CHAPTER
NINE

It was just coming up for dawn when Harlow and the twins entered the Coronado garage. Jacobson and an unknown mechanic were already there. They looked, Harlow reflected, just as exhausted as he himself felt.

Harlow said: thought you told me you had two new boys?’

‘One of them didn’t turn up. When he does,’ Jacob-son said grimly, ‘he’s out. Come on, let’s empty the transporter and load up.’

The brilliant early morning sun, which presaged rain later in the day, was over the roof-tops when Harlow backed the transporter out into the rue Gerard. Jacobson said: ‘On your way then, the three of you. I’ll be in Vignolles about a couple of hours after you. Some business to attend to first.’

Harlow didn’t even bother to make the natural inquiry as to what that business might be. In the first place he knew that whatever answer he got would be a lie. In the second place he knew what the answer was anyway: Jacobson would have an urgent appointment with his associates in The Hermitage in the rue Georges Sand to acquaint them with the misfortunes of Luigi the Light-fingered. So he merely contented himself with a nod and drove off.

To the twins’ vast relief, the journey to Vignolles was not a replica of the hair-raising trip between Monza and Marseilles. Harlow drove almost sedately. In the first place, he had time in hand. Then again he knew he was so tired that he had lost the fine edge of his concentration. Finally, within an hour of leaving Marseilles, it had begun to rain, lightly at first then with increasing intensity, which drastically reduced visibility. Nevertheless, the transporter reached its destination by 11.30.

Harlow pulled the transporter to a stop mid-way between the stands and a large chalet-like building and climbed down, followed by the twins. It was still raining, and the skies were heavily overcast. Harlow gazed round the grey and empty desolation of the Vignolles track, stretched his arms and yawned.

‘Home, sweet home.
God,
I’m tired. And hungry. Let’s see what the canteen has to offer.’

The canteen had not, in fact, a great deal to offer but all three men were too hungry to complain. As they ate, the canteen slowly began to fill up, mainly with officials and employees of the track. Everyone knew Harlow, but almost no one acknowledged his presence. Harlow, remained quite indifferent. At noon he pushed back his chair and made for the door and as he reached for the handle the door opened and Mary entered. She more than over-compensated for the general lack of welcome shown by the others. She smiled at him in delight, wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. Harlow cleared his throat and looked round the canteen where the diners were now showing a vast degree more interest in him.

He said : ‘I thought you said you were a very private person.’

‘I am. But I hug everyone. You know that.’

‘Well, thank you very much.’

She rubbed her cheek. ‘You’re scruffy, filthy and unshaven.’

‘What do you expect of a face that hasn’t seen water or felt a blade for twenty-four hours?’

She smiled. ‘Mr. Dunnet would like to see you in the chalet, Johnny. Though why he couldn’t come to see you in the canteen — ‘

‘I’m sure Mr. Dunnet has his reasons. Such as not wanting to be seen in my company.’

She wrinkled her nose to show her disbelief and led the way out to -the rain. She clung to his arm and said: ‘I was so scared, Johnny. So scared.’

‘And so you’d every right to be,’ Harlow said solemnly. ‘It’s a perilous mission lugging a transporter to Marseilles and back.’ - ‘Johnny.’

‘Sorry.’

They hurried through the rain to the chalet, up the wooden steps, across -the porch and into the hall. As the door closed, Mary reached for Harlow and kissed him. As a kiss, it was neither sisterly nor platonic. Harlow blinked his unresisting astonishment.

She said: ‘But I don’t do
that
to everyone. Or anyone.’

‘You, Mary, are a little minx.’

‘Ah, yes. But a lovable little minx.’

‘I suppose so. I suppose so.’

Rory watched this scene from the head of the chalet stairs. He was scowling most dreadfully but had the wit to disappear swiftly as Mary and Harlow turned to mount the stairs : Rory’s last meeting with Harlow was still a very painful memory.

Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved, but still looking very tired, Harlow was in Dunnet’s room. The account of the night’s activities he’d given to Dunnet had been brief, succinct, but had missed out nothing of importance.

Dunnet said: ‘And now?’

‘Straight back into Marseilles in the Ferrari. I’ll check on Giancarlo and the films, then go and extend my sympathies to Luigi the Light-fingered.’

Will he sing?’

Take a linnet. If he talks, the police will forget that they ever saw his gun and knife which will save our friend from five years’ mail-bag sewing or breaking boulders in a quarry or whatever. Luigi does not strike me as the noblest Roman of them all.’

‘How do you get back here?’

‘By Ferrari.’

‘But I thought that James said that-’

‘That I was to leave it in Marseilles? I’m going to leave it in that disused farmyard down the road. I want the Ferrari tonight. I want to get into the Villa Hermitage tonight. I want a gun.
^’

For almost fifteen interminable seconds Dunnet sat quite still, not looking at Harlow, then he brought up his typewriter from beneath the bed, upended it and undipped the, base plate. This was lined with felt and was equipped with six pairs of spring clips. In the clips were held two automatic pistols, two silencers and two spare ammunition magazines. Harlow removed the smaller pistol, a silencer and a spare magazine. He pressed the magazine release switch, examined the magazine already in the gun and pressed it home again. He put all three items in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and zipped it up. He left the room without another word.

Seconds later he was with MacAlpine. MacAlpine’s complexion was quite grey and he was unquestionably a very sick man with an illness insusceptible to physical diagnosis. He said: ‘Leaving now? You must be exhausted.’

Harlow said: ‘It’ll probably hit me tomorrow morning.’

MacAlpine glanced through the window. The rain was sheeting down. He turned back to Harlow and said : ‘Don’t envy you your trip to Marseilles. But the forecast says it’ll clear this evening. We’ll unload the transporter then.’

‘I think you’re trying to say something, sir.’

‘Well, yes.’ MacAlpine hesitated. ‘I believe you have been kissing my daughter.’

That’s a bare-faced lie. She was kissing me. Incidentally, one of -these days I’m going to clobber that boy of yours.’

‘You have my best wishes,’ MacAlpine said wearily. ‘Do you have designs upon my daughter, Johnny?’

‘I don’t know about that. But she sure as hell has designs on me.’

‘Harlow left and literally bumped into Rory in the corridor outside. They eyed each other, speculation in Harlow’s eyes, trepidation in Rory’s.

Harlow said : ‘Aha! Eavesdropping again. Almost as good as spying, isn’t it, Rory?’

‘What? Me? Eavesdrop? Never!’

Harlow put a kindly arm around his shoulder.

‘Rory, my lad, I have news. I not only have your father’s permission for but approval of my intention to clobber you one of these days. At my convenience, of course.’

Harlow gave Rory a friendly pat on the shoulder: there was considerable menace in the friendliness. Harlow, smiling, descended the stairs to find Mary waiting.

She said : ‘Speak to you, Johnny?’

‘Sure. But on the porch. That black-haired young monster has probably got the whole place wired for sound.’

They went out on the porch, closing the door behind them. The chill rain was falling so heavily that it was impossible to see more than half-way across the abandoned airfield.

Mary said : ‘Put your arm around me, Johnny.’

‘I obediently put my arm round you. In fact, as a bonus, I’ll put them both around you.’

‘Please don’t talk like that, Johnny. I’m scared. I’m scared all the time now, scared for you. There’s something terribly wrong, isn’t there, Johnny?’

‘What should be wrong?’

‘Oh, you are exasperating!’ She changed the subject — or appeared to. ‘Going to Marseilles?’

‘Yes.’

Take me with you.’

‘No’

‘That’s not very gallant.’

‘No.’

‘What
are
you, Johnny? What are you doing?’

She had been pressing closely against him but now she drew back, slowly, wonderingly. She put her hand inside his leather jacket, pulled the pocket zip and took out the automatic : she gazed down, hypnotized, at the blue metallic sheen of the gun.

‘Nothing that’s wrong, sweet Mary.’

She put her hand in his pocket again, took out the silencer and stared at it with eyes sick with worry and fear. She whispered : This is a silencer, isn’t it? This way you can kill people without making a noise.’

‘I said ‘Nothing that’s wrong, sweet Mary.’’

‘I know. I know you never would. But — I must tell Daddy.’

‘If you wish to destroy your father, then do so.’ It was brutal, Harlow realized, but he knew of no other way.
‘Go
ahead. Tell him.’

‘Destroy my —what do you mean?’

There’s something I want to do. If your father knew, he’d stop me. He’s lost his nerve. Everybody’s opinion to the contrary, I haven’t lost mine.’

‘What do you mean —destroy him?’

‘I don’t think he’d long survive the death of your mother.’

‘My mother?’ She stared at him for long seconds. ‘But my mother—’

‘Your mother’s alive. I know she is. I think I can find out where she is. If I do, I’ll go and get her tonight.’

‘You’re sure?’ The girl was weeping silently. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure, my sweet Mary.’ Harlow wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

There are police, Johnny.’

‘No. I could tell them where to get the information but they wouldn’t get it. They have to operate within the law.’

Instinctively, she dropped her brown tear-filled eyes from his and gazed at the gun and silencer in her hand. After a few moments she lifted her eyes again. Harlow nodded slightly, just once, took them gently from her, returned them to his pocket and closed the zip. She looked at him for a long moment, then took his leather lapels in her hands.