The Way to Dusty Death by Alistair MacLean Read Free Book Online Page B

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 buttonhole. ‘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.

CHAPTER FOUR
    When Harlow finally returned to the hotel, the lobby, which also served as the bar, was crowded with hardly a seat left vacant and a group of at least a dozen men pressing in close against the bar. MacAlpine and Jacob-son were sitting at a table with Dunnet.