Читать книгу The Way to Dusty Death - Alistair MacLean, Alistair MacLean, John Denis - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

As the crowded weeks after the Clermont-Ferrand race rushed by there appeared to be little change in Johnny Harlow. Always a remote, withdrawn and lonely figure, remote and withdrawn he still remained, except that he was now more lonely than ever. In his great days, at the peak of his powers and the height of his fame, he had been a man relaxed to the point of abnormality, his inner self under iron control: and so, in his quietness, he seemed to be now, as aloofly remote and detached as ever, those remarkable eyes – remarkable in the quality of their phenomenal eyesight, not in appearance – as clear and calm and unblinking as ever and the aquiline face quite devoid of expression.

The hands were still now, hands that bespoke a man at peace with himself, but it would seem likely that the hands belied and did not bespeak for it seemed equally that he was not at peace with himself and never would be again for to say that Johnny Harlow’s fortunes steadily declined from that day he had killed Jethou and crippled Mary one would be guilty of a sad misuse of the English language. They hadn’t declined, they had collapsed with what must have been for him – and most certainly for his great circle of friends, acquaintances and admirers – a complete and shattering finality.

Two weeks after the death of Jethou – and this before his own home British crowd who had come, almost to a man, to forgive him for the dreadful insults and accusations heaped upon him by the French press and to cheer their idol home to victory – he had suffered the indignity, not to say the humiliation, of running off the track in the very first lap. He had caused no damage either to himself or any spectator but his Coronado was a total write-off. As both front tyres had burst it was assumed that at least one of them had gone before the car had left the track: there could not, it was agreed, have been any other explanation for Harlow’s abrupt departure into the wilderness. This agreement was not quite universal. Jacobson, predictably, had privately expressed his opinion that the accepted explanation was a very charitable assumption indeed. Jacobson was becoming very attached to the phrase ‘driver error’.

Two weeks after that, at the German Grand Prix – probably the most difficult circuit in Europe but one of which Harlow was an acknowledged master – the air of gloom and despondency that hung like a thundercloud over the Coronado pits was almost palpable enough, almost visible enough to take hold of and push to one side – were it not for the fact that this particular cloud was immovable. The race was over and the last of the Grand Prix cars had vanished to complete the final circuit of the track before coming into their pits.

MacAlpine, looking both despondent and bitter, glanced at Dunnet, who lowered his eyes, bit his lower lip and shook his head. MacAlpine looked away and lost himself in his own private thoughts. Mary sat on a canvas chair close beside them. Her left leg was still in heavy plaster and crutches were propped up against her chair. She held a lap-time note-pad in one hand, a stop watch and pencil in the other. She was gnawing a pencil and her pale face held the expression of one who was pretty close to tears. Behind her stood Jacobson, his two mechanics, and Rory. Jacobson’s face, if his habitual saturnine expression were excepted, was quite without expression. His mechanics, the red-haired Rafferty twins, wore, as usual, identical expressions, in this case a mixture of resignation and despair. Rory’s face registered nothing but a cold contempt.

Rory said: ‘Eleventh out of twelve finishers! Boy, what a driver. Our world champion – doing his lap of honour, I suppose.’

Jacobson looked at him speculatively.

‘A month ago he was your idol, Rory.’

Rory looked across at his sister. She was still gnawing her pencil, the shoulders were drooped and the tears in her eyes were now unmistakable. Rory looked back at Jacobson and said: ‘That was a month ago.’

A lime-green Coronado swept into the pits, braked and stopped, its crackling exhaust fading away into silence. Nicolo Tracchia removed his helmet, produced a large silk handkerchief, wiped his matinée-idol face and started to remove his gloves. He looked, and with reason, particularly pleased with himself, for he had just finished second and that by only a car’s length. MacAlpine crossed to him and patted the still-seated Tracchia on the back.

‘A magnificent race, Nikki. Your best ever – and on this brute of a course. Your third second place in five times out.’ He smiled. ‘You know, I’m beginning to think that we may make a driver of you yet.’

Tracchia grinned hugely and climbed from the car.

‘Watch me next time out. So far, Nicolo Tracchia hasn’t really been trying, just trying to improve the performance of those machines our chief mechanic ruins for us between races.’ He smiled at Jacobson, who grinned back: despite the marked differences in the natures and interests, there was a close affinity between the two men. ‘Now, when it comes to the Austrian Grand Prix in a couple of weeks – well, I’m sure you can afford a couple of bottles of champagne.’

MacAlpine smiled again and it was clear that though the smile did not come 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 the clenched hands inside Harlow’s pockets.

MacAlpine said: ‘We’ll pull Nikki in. You can have his car.’

Harlow didn’t answer immediately. There came the sound of an approaching racing engine and Harlow nodded towards the track. The others followed his line of sight. A lime-green Coronado flashed by but still Harlow stared out over the track. At least another fifteen seconds elapsed before the next car, Neubauer’s royal blue Cagliari came by. Harlow turned and looked at MacAlpine. Harlow’s normally impassive face had come as near as it was possible for it to register a degree of incredulity.

‘Pull him in? Good God, Mac, are you mad? Nikki’s got fifteen clear seconds now that I’m out. There’s no way he can lose. Our Signor Tracchia would never forgive me – or you – if you were to pull him in now. It’ll be his first Grand Prix – and the one he most wanted to win.’

Harlow turned and walked away as if the matter was settled. Both Mary and Rory watched him go, the former with dull misery in her eyes, the latter with a mixture of triumph and contempt at which he was at no pains at all to conceal. MacAlpine hesitated, made as if to speak, then he too turned and walked away, although in a different direction. Dunnet accompanied him. The two men halted in a corner of the pits.

MacAlpine said: ‘Well?’

Dunnet said: ‘Well what, James?’

‘Please. I don’t deserve that from you.’

‘You mean, did I see what you saw? His hands?’

‘He’s got the shakes again.’ MacAlpine made a long pause then sighed and shook his head. ‘I keep on saying it. It happens to them all. No matter how cool or brave or brilliant – hell, I’ve said it all before. And when a man has icy calm and iron control like Johnny – well, when the break comes it’s liable to be a pretty drastic one.’

‘And when does the break come?’

‘Pretty soon, I think. I’ll give him one more Grand Prix. Do you know what he’s going to do now? Later tonight, rather – he’s become very crafty about it.’

‘I don’t think I want to know.’

‘He’s going to hit the bottle.’

A voice with a very powerful Glasgow accent said: ‘The word is that he already has.’

Both MacAlpine and Dunnet turned slowly round. Coming out of the shadows of the hut behind was a small man with an incredibly wizened face, whose straggling white moustache contrasted oddly with his monk’s tonsure. Even odder was the long, thin and remarkably bent black cigar protruding from one corner of his virtually toothless mouth. His name was Henry, he was the transporter’s old driver – long long past retiring age – and the cigar was his trademark. It was said that he occasionally ate with the cigar in his mouth.

MacAlpine said without inflection: ‘Eavesdropping, eh?’

‘Eavesdropping!’ It was difficult to say whether Henry’s tone and expression reflected indignation or incredulity but in either event they were on an Olympian scale. ‘You know very well that I would never eavesdrop, Mr MacAlpine. I was just listening. There’s a difference.’

‘What did you say just now?’

‘I know you heard what I said.’ Henry was still splendidly unperturbed. ‘You know that he’s driving like a madman and that all the other drivers are getting terrified of him. In fact, they are terrified of him. He shouldn’t be allowed on a racetrack again. The man’s shot, you can see that. And in Glasgow, when we say that a man’s shot, we mean – ’

Dunnet said: ‘We know what you mean. I thought you were a friend of his, Henry?’

‘Aye, I’m all that. Finest gentleman I’ve ever known, begging the pardon of you two gentlemen. It’s because I’m his friend that I don’t want him killed – or had up for manslaughter.’

MacAlpine said without animosity: ‘You stick to your job of running the transporter, Henry: I’ll stick to mine of running the Coronado team.’

Henry nodded and turned away, gravity in his face and a certain carefully controlled degree of outrage in his walk as if to say he’d done his duty, delivered his witch’s warning and if that warning were not acted upon the consequences weren’t going to be his, Henry’s, fault. MacAlpine, his face equally grave, rubbed his cheek thoughtfully and said: ‘He could be right at that. In fact, I have every reason for thinking he is.’

‘Is what, James?’

‘On the skids. On the rocks. Shot, as Henry would say.’

‘Shot by whom? By what?’

‘Chap called Bacchus, Alexis. The chap that prefers using booze to bullets.’

‘You have evidence of this?’

‘Not so much evidence of his drinking as lack of evidence of his not drinking. Which can be just as damning.’

‘Sorry, don’t follow. Can it be that you have been holding out on me, James?’

MacAlpine nodded and told briefly of his duplicity in the line of duty. It was just after the day that Jethou had died and Harlow had shown his lack of expertise both in pouring and drinking brandy that MacAlpine had first suspected that Harlow had forgone his lifelong abstention from alcohol. There had been, of course, no spectacular drinking bouts, for those would have been automatically responsible for having him banned from the race-tracks of the world: a genius for avoiding company, he just went about it quietly, steadily, persistently and above all secretly, for Harlow always drank alone, almost invariably in out of the way places, usually quite remote, where he stood little or no chance of being discovered. This MacAlpine knew for he had hired what was practically a full-time investigator to follow him but Harlow was either extremely lucky or, aware of what was going on – he was a man of quite remarkable intelligence and must have suspected the possibility of his being followed – extremely astute and skilled in his avoidance of surveillance, for he had been tracked down only three times to sources of supply, small Weinstuben lost in the forests near the Hocken-heim and Nurburgring circuits. Even on those occasions he had been observed to be sipping, delicately and with what appeared to be commendable restraint, a small glass of hock which was hardly sufficient to blunt even the highly-tuned faculties and reactions of a Formula One driver: what made this elusiveness all the more remarkable was that Harlow drove everywhere in his flame-red Ferrari, the most conspicuous car on the roads of Europe. But that he went to such extraordinary – and extraordinarily successful – lengths to escape surveillance was, for MacAlpine, all the circumstantial evidence he required that Harlow’s frequent, mysterious and unexplained absences coincided with Harlow’s frequent and solitary drinking bouts. MacAlpine finished by saying that a later and more sinister note had crept in: there was now daily and incontrovertible evidence that Harlow had developed a powerful affinity for scotch.

Dunnet was silent until he saw that MacAlpine apparently had no intention of adding to what he had said. ‘Evidence?’ he said, ‘What kind of evidence?’

‘Olfactory evidence.’

Dunnet paused briefly then said: ‘I’ve never smelt anything.’

MacAlpine said kindly: ‘That, Alexis, is because you are not capable of smelling anything. You can’t smell oil, you can’t smell fuel, you can’t smell burning tyres. How do you expect to be able to smell scotch?’

Dunnet inclined his head in acknowledgment. He said: ‘Have you smelt anything?’

MacAlpine shook his head.

‘Well, then.’

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.