The Way to Dusty Death (8 page)

‘You took -the bottles away.’ Her voice was slow and dull and uncomprehending. ‘But he’ll know. He’ll report the theft. There’ll be police. There’ll be fingerprints -your fingerprints. Then — ‘

MacAlpine said: ‘Can you imagine Johnny Harlow ever admitting to anyone in the world that he’d five bottles of scotch in his room? Run along, girl, and get dressed. We’ve got to leave for -this bloody reception in twenty minutes — without, it seems, your precious Johnny.’

She remained seated, her face quite without expression, her unblinking eyes irremovably fixed on MacAlpine’s. After a few moments his expression softened and he smiled. He said: Tm sorry. That was quite uncalled for.’

Dunnet held the door while she hobbled from the room. Both men watched her go with pity in their eyes.

CHAPTER
FIVE

To the Grand Prix racing fraternity of the world, as to seasoned travellers everywhere, a hotel is a hotel is a hotel, a place to sleep, a place to eat, a stopover to the next faceless anonymity. The newly-built Villa- Hotel Cessni on the outskirts of Monza, however, could fairly claim to be an exception to the truism. Superbly designed, superbly built and superbly landscaped, its huge airy rooms with their immaculately designed furniture, their luxurious bathrooms, splendidly sweeping balconies, sumptuous food and warmth of service, here one would have thought was the caravanserai nonpareil for the better-heeled millionaire.

And so it would be, one day, but not yet. The Villa-Hotel Cessni had as yet to establish its clientele, its image, its reputation and, hopefully and eventually, its traditions and for the achievement of -those infinitely desirable ends, the fair uses of publicity, for luxury hotels as for hotdog stands, could be very sweet indeed. No sport on earth has a more international following and it was with this in mind that the management had deemed it prudent to invite the major Grand Prix teams to accommodate themselves in this palace, for a ludicrously low nominal fee, for the duration of the Italian Grand Prix. Few teams had failed to accept the invitation and fewer still cared to exercise their minds with the philosophical and psychological motivations of the management: all they knew and cared about was that the Hotel-Villa Cessni was infinitely more luxurious and fractionally cheaper than the several Austrian hotels they had so gratefully abandoned only twelve days ago. Next year, it seemed likely, they wouldn’t even be allowed to sleep stacked six-deep in the basement: but that was next year.

That Friday evening late in August was warm but by no means warm enough to justify air-conditioning. Nevertheless, the air-conditioning in the lobby of the Hotel-Villa Cessni was operating at the top of its bent making the temperature in that luxuriously appointed haven from the lower classes almost uncomfortably cool. Common sense said that this interior climatic condition was wholly unnecessary: the prestige of an up and coming status symbol said that it was wholly necessary. The management was concerned with prestige to the point of obsession: the air-conditioning remained on.
The
Cessni was going to be the place to go when the sun rode high.

MacAlpine and Dunnet, sitting side by side but almost concealed from each other’s sight by virtue of the imposing construction of the vast velvet-lined arm-chairs in which they reclined rather than sat, had more important things on their minds than a few degrees of temperature hither and yonder. They spoke but seldom and then with a marked lack of animation: they gave the air of those who had precious little to get animated about. Dunnet stirred.

‘Our wandering boy is late on the road tonight.’

He has an excuse,’ MacAlpine said. ‘At least, I hope to hell he has. One thing, he was always a conscientious workman. He wanted a few more extra laps to adjust the suspension and gear ratios of this new car of his.’

Dunnet was gloomy. ‘It wouldn’t have been possible, I suppose, to give it to Tracchia instead?’

‘Quite impossible, Alexis, and you know it. The mighty law of protocol. Johnny’s not only Coronado’s number one, he’s still the world’s. Our dear sponsors, without which we couldn’t very well operate — I could, but I’ll be damned if I’ll lay out a fortune like that — are highly sensitive people. Sensitive to public opinion, that is. The only reason they paint the names of their damned products on the outside of our cars is that the public will go out and buy those same damned products. They’re not benefactors of racing except purely incidentally: they are simply advertisers. An advertiser wants to reach the biggest market. Ninety-nine point repeater nine per cent of that market lies outside the racing world and it doesn’t matter a damn if they know nothing about what goes on inside the racing world. It’s what they believe that matters. And they believe that Harlow still stands alone. So, Harlow gets the best and newest car. If he doesn’t, the public lose their faith in Harlow, in Coronado and in the advertisers, and not necessarily in that order.’

‘Ah, well. The days of miracles may not yet He behind us. After all, he hasn’t been observed or known to take a drink in the past twelve days. Maybe he’s going to surprise us all. And there’s only two days to go to the Italian Grand Prix.’

‘So why did he have those two bottles of scotch which you removed from his room only an hour ago?’

‘I could say he was trying to test his moral fibre but I don’t think you would believe it.’

‘Would you?’

‘Frankly, James, no.’ Dunnet relapsed into another period of gloom from which he emerged to say: ‘Any word from your agents in the south, James?’

‘Nothing. I’m afraid, Alexis, I’ve just about given up hope. Fourteen weeks now since Marie disappeared. It’s too long, it’s just too long. Had there been an accident, I would have heard. Had there been foul play, then I’m sure I would have heard. Had I been kidnap and ransom-well, that’s ridiculous, of course I would have heard. She’s just vanished. Accident, boating-I don’t know.’

‘And we’ve talked so often about amnesia.’

‘And I’ve told you so often, without immodesty, that no one as well known as Marie MacAlpine, no matter what her mental trouble, could go missing so long without being picked up.’

‘I know. Mary’s taking that pretty badly now, isn’t she?’

‘Especially in the past twelve days. Harlow. Alexis, we broke her heart — sorry, that’s quite unfair — I broke her heart in Austria. If I’d known how far she was gone — ah, but I’d no option.’

Taking her to the reception tonight?’

‘Yes. I insisted. To take her out of herself, that’s what I tell myself— or is it just to ease my conscience? Again, I don’t know. Maybe I’m making another mistake.’

‘It seems to me that that young fellow Harlow has a great deal to answer for. And this is his last chance, James? Any more crazy driving, any more fiascos, any more drinking - then it’s the chopper? That’s it?’

‘That’s entirely it.’ MacAlpine nodded in the direction of the revolving entrance doors. Think we should tell him now?’

Dunnet looked in the direction indicated. Harlow was walking across the Carrara-marbled flags. He was still clad in his customarily immaculate white racing overalls. A young and rather beautiful young girl at the desk smiled at him as he passed by. Harlow flicked her an expressionless glance and the smile froze. He continued on his way across the vast lobby and such is the respect that men accord the gods when they walk the earth that a hundred conversations died as he passed by. ‘Harlow seemed unaware of the presence of any of them, for he looked neither to left nor to right, but it was a safe assumption that those remarkable eyes missed nothing, an assumption borne out by the fact that, apparently without noticing them, he veered direction towards where MacAlpine and Dunnet sat. MacAlpine said: ‘No scotch or menthol, that’s for sure. Otherwise, he’d avoid me like the plague.’

Harlow stood before them. He said, without any inflection of irony or sarcasm : ‘Enjoying the quiet even-fall, gentlemen?’

MacAlpine answered. ‘You could say that. We might enjoy it even more if you could tell us how the new Coronado is coming along.’

‘Shaping up. Jacobson —for once —agrees with me that a slight alteration in the ratios and the rear suspension is all that’s necessary. It’ll be all right for Sunday.’

‘No complaints, then?’

‘No. It’s a fine car. Best Coronado yet. And fast.’

‘How fast?’

‘I haven’t found out yet. But we equaled the lap record the last two times out.’

‘Well, well.’ MacAlpine looked at his watch. ‘Better hurry. We have to leave for the reception in half an hour.’

‘I’m tired. I’m going to have a shower, two hours’ sleep, then some dinner. I’ve come here for the Grand Prix, not for mingling with high society.’

‘You definitely refuse to come?’

‘I refused to come last time out too. Setting a precedent, if you like.’

‘It’s obligatory, you know.’

‘In my vocabulary, obligation and compulsion are not the same things.’

‘There are three or four very important people present tonight especially just to see you.’

‘I know.’

MacAlpine paused before speaking, ‘How do you know. Only Alexis and I know.’

‘Mary told me.’ Harlow turned and walked away.

‘Well.’ Dunnet pressed his lips tightly together. the arrogant young bastard. Walking in here to tell us he’s just equalled the lap record without even trying. Thing is, I believe him. That’s why he stopped by, isn’t it?’

To tell me that he’s still the best in the business? Partly. Also to tell me to stuff my bloody reception. Also to tell me that he’ll speak to Mary whether I like it or not. And the final twist, to let me know -that Mary has no secrets from him. Where’s that damned daughter of mine?’

‘This should be interesting to see.’

‘What should be?’

‘To see if you can break a heart twice.’

MacAlpine sighed and slumped even farther back in his arm-chair. ‘I suppose you’re right, Alexis, I suppose you’re right. Mind you, I’d still like to knock their two damned young heads together.’

Harlow, clad in a white bath-robe and obviously recently showered, emerged from the bathroom and opened up his wardrobe. He brought out a fresh suit then reached up to a shelf above it. Clearly, he didn’t find what he expected to and his eyebrows lifted. He looked in a cupboard with similarly negative results. He stood in the middle of the room, pondering, then smiled widely.

He said softly: ‘Well, well, well Here we go again. Clever devils.’

From the still-smiling expression on his face, it was clear that Harlow didn’t believe his own words. He lifted the mattress, reached under, removed a flat half-bottle of scotch, examined and replaced it. From there he went into the bathroom, removed the cistern lid, lifted out a bottle of Glenfiddich malt, checked the level-it was about three-parts full, replaced it in a certain position and then put the cistern lid back in place. This he left slightly askew. He returned to his bedroom, put on a light grey suit and was just adjusting his tie when he heard the sound of a heavy engine below. He switched out the light, pulled back the curtains, opened his window and peered out cautiously.

A large coach was drawn up outside the hotel entrance and the various drivers, managers, senior mechanics and journalists who were headed for the official reception were filing aboard. Harlow checked to see that all those whose absence that evening he considered highly desirable were. among those present, and they were — Dunnet, Tracchia, Neubauer, Jacobson and MacAlpine, the last with a very pale and downcast Mary clinging to his arm. The door closed and the bus moved off into the night.

Five minutes later, Harlow sauntered up to the reception desk. Behind it was the very pretty young girl he’d ignored on the way in. He smiled widely at her — his colleagues wouldn’t have believed it — and she, recovering quickly from the shock of seeing the other side of Harlow’s nature, smiled in return, almost blushing in embarrassed pleasure. For those outside immediate racing circles, Harlow was still -the world’s number one.

Harlow said : ‘Good evening.’

‘Good evening, Mr. Harlow, sir.’ The smile faded. ‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed your bus.’

‘I have my own private transport.’

The smile came back on again. ‘Of course, Mr. Harlow. How silly of me. Your red Ferrari. Is there something —’

‘Yes, please. I have four names here—MacAlpine, Neubauer, Tracchia and Jacobson. I wonder if you could give me their room numbers?’

‘Certainly, Mr. Harlow. But I’m afraid those gentlemen have all just left.’

‘I know. I
waited
until they had left.’

‘I don’t understand, sir. ‘

‘I just want to slip something under their doors. An old pre-race custom.’

‘You race drivers and your practical jokes.’ She’d almost certainly never seen a race driver until that evening but that didn’t prevent her from giving him a look of roguish understanding. The numbers you want are 202, 208, 204 and 206.’

That’s in the order of the names I gave you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Thank you.’ Harlow touched a finger to his lips. ‘Now, not a word.’

‘Of
course
not, Mr. Harlow.’ She smiled conspiratorially at him as he turned away. Harlow had a sufficiently realistic assessment of his own fame to appreciate that she would talk for months about this brief encounter: just as long as she didn’t talk until that weekend was over.

He returned to his own room, took a movie camera from a suitcase, unscrewed its back, carefully scratching the dull metallic black as he did so, removed the plate and pulled out a small miniaturized camera not much larger than a packet of cigarettes. He pocketed -this, re-screwed in place the back plate of the movie camera, replaced it in his suitcase and looked thoughtfully at the small canvas bag of tools that lay there. Tonight, he would not require those: where he was going he knew where to find all the tools and flashlights he wanted. He took the bag with him and left the room.

He moved along the corridor to room 202 — MacAlpine’s room. Unlike MacAlpine, Harlow did not have to resort to devious means to obtain hotel room keys — he had some excellent sets of keys himself. He selected one of these and with the fourth key the door opened. He entered and locked the door behind him.