The Way To Dusty Death Part 9

'Laugh at you? With you, yes. At you, never.'

'Come back to me, Johnny.'

'I'll always come back to you, Mary.'

What? What did you say, Johnny?'

'A slip of the tongue.' He squeezed her shoulders, pecked her briskly on the cheek and strode off into the gathering darkness.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The giant Coronado transporter, its vast silhouette outlined by at least a score of lights on the sides and back, not to mention its four powerful headlamps, rumbled through the darkness and along the almost wholly deserted roads at a speed which would not have found very much favour with the Italian police speed patrols, had there been any such around that night which, fortunately, there weren't.

Harlow had elected to take the autostrada across to Turin then turned south to Cuneo and was now approaching the Col de Tende, that fearsome mountain pa.s.s with the tunnel at the top which marks the boundary between Italy and France. Even in an ordinary car, in daylight and in good dry driving conditions, it calls for the closest of care and attention: the steepness of the ascent and descent and the seemingly endless series of murderous hairpin bends on both sides of the tunnel make it as dangerous and difficult a pa.s.s as any in Europe, But to drive a huge transporter, at the limit of its adhesion and road-holding in rain that was now beginning to fall quite heavily, was an experience that was hazardous to a degree.

For some, it was plainly not only hazardous but harrowing to a degree. The red-haired twin mechanics, one curled up in the bucket seat beside Harlow, the other stretched out on the narrow bunk behind the front seats, though quite exhausted were clearly never more wide awake in their lives. Not to put too fine a point on it, they were frankly terrified, either staring in horror at each other or closing their eyes as they slid and swayed wildly on each successive hairpin bend. And if they did leave the road it wouldn't be just to b.u.mp across the surrounding terrain: it would be, to fall a , very long way indeed and their chances- < p="">

If Harlow was aware of the very considerable inner turmoil he was causing, he gave no signs of it. His entire being was concentrated on his driving and on scanning the road two, even three hairpin bends ahead. Tracchia and, by now, Tracchia's a.s.sociates knew that he was carrying the ca.s.sette and that they intended to separate him from that ca.s.sette Harlow did not for a moment doubt. When and where they would make their attempt was a matter for complete conjecture. Crawling round the hairpins leading to the top of the Col de Tende made them the perfect target for an ambush. Whoever his adversaries were, Harlow was convinced they were based in Ma.r.s.eilles. It was unlikely that they would care to take the risk of running foul of the Italian law. He was certain that he hadn't been trailed from Monza. The chances were that they didn't even know what route he was taking. They might wait until he was much nearer their home base or even arrived at it. On the other hand they might be considering the possibility that he was getting rid of the ca.s.sette en route. Speculation seemed not only unrewarding but useless. He put the wide variety of possibilities out of his mind and concentrated on his driving while still keeping every sense alert for danger. As it was they made the top of the Col without incident, pa.s.sed through the Italian and French Customs and started on the wickedly winding descent on the other side.

When he came to La Giandola, he hesitated briefly. He could take the road to Ventimiglia thus taking advantage of the new autoroutes westwards along the Riviera or take the shorter but more winding direct route to Nice. He took into account that the Ventimiglia route would entail encountering the Italian and French Customs not once but twice again and decided on the direct route.

He made Nice without incident, followed the auto-route past Cannes, reached Toulon and took the N8 to Ma.r.s.eilles. It was about twenty miles out of Cannes, near the village of Beausset, that it happened.

As they rounded a bend they could see, about a quarter of a mile ahead, four lights, two stationary, two moving. The two moving lights were red and obviously hand-held, for they swung steadily through arcs of about ninety degrees.

There was an abrupt change in the engine note as Harlow dropped a gear. The sound brought the dozing twins to something like near wakefulness just in time to identify, a bare second after Harlow, the legends on the two stationary lights, red and blue and flas.h.i.+ng alternately : one said STOP, the other POLICE. There were at least five men behind the lights, two of them standing in the middle of the road.

Harlow was hunched far forward over the wheel, his eyes narrowed until even the pupils seemed in danger of disappearing. He made an abrupt decision, arm and leg moved in swift and perfect unison, and again the engine note changed as the big diesel dropped another gear. Ahead, the two moving red lamps stopped swinging. It must have been evident to those wielding them that the transporter was slowing to a halt.

Fifty yards distant from the road-block Harlow stamped the accelerator pedal flat to the floor. The transporter, designedly, had been in the correct gear to pick up maximum acceleration and it was in that gear that Harlow held it, the engine revolutions climbing as the distance between the transporter and the flas.h.i.+ng lights ahead steadily and rapidly decreased. The two men with the red lights moved rapidly apart: it had dawned on them, and a very rude awakening it must have been, that the transporter had no intention of stopping.

Inside the cab the faces of Tweedledum and Tweedledee registered identical expressions of horrified and incredulous apprehension. Harlow's face registered no expression at all as he watched the shadowy figures who had been standing so confidently in the middle of the road fling themselves to safety towards either verge. Above the still mounting roar of the diesel could be heard the sound of the splintering of gla.s.s and the screeching of buckling metal as the transporter over-ran the pedestal-mounted flas.h.i.+ng lights in the middle of the road. Twenty yards farther on there came a series of heavy thuds from the rear of the transporter, a drumming sound that continued for another thirty or forty yards until Harlow swung the swaying transporter round a forty-five turn in the road. Harlow changed up once and then again into top gear. He appeared to be quite unconcerned which was considerably more than could be said for the twins.

Tweedledum said in a stricken voice: 'Jesus, Johnny, are you mad? You'll have us all in prison before the night is out. That was a police block, man!'

'A police block without police cars, police motorcycles or police uniforms : I wonder why the good Lord gave you pair two eyes apiece?'

Tweedledee said : 'But those police signs -'

'I will refrain from giving you pitying looks,' Harlow said kindly. Please do not overtax your minds. I would also point out that the French police do not wear masks, which this lot did, nor do they fix silencers to their guns.' .' 'Silencers?' The twins spoke as one.

'You heard those thumps and b.u.mps on the back of the transporter? What do you think they were doing -throwing stones after us?'

Tweedledum said : then what -'

'Hi-jackers. Members of an honoured and respected profession in these parts.' Harlow trusted he would be forgiven for this wicked slur on the honest citizens of Provence. But it was the best he could think of on the spur of the moment and, besides, the twins, though excellent mechanics, were of a rather simple cast of mind who would readily believe anything that a person of the stature of Johnny Harlow were to tell them.

'But how could they have known we were coming?'

They didn't.' Harlow was improvising rapidly. they're usually in radio contact with lookouts posted a kilometre or so on either side of them. We've probably just pa.s.sed the second one. When a likely-looking prospect - such as us - comes along it takes only a few seconds to have the lights in position and working.'

'A backward lot, those Froggies,' Tweedledum observed.

'Aren't they just? They haven't even got round to great train robberies yet.'

The twins composed themselves for slumber. Harlow,, apparently tireless, was as alert and watchful as ever. After a few minutes, in his outside rear mirror, he caught sight of a pair of powerful headlights approaching at high speed. As they closed, Harlow briefly considered moving out to the middle of the road to block its pa.s.sage just in case the occupant or occupants belonged to whatever opposition there might be but he dismissed the idea immediately. If they were ill-disposed, all they would have to do would be to shoot holes in his rear tyres at their leisure, as effective a way as any of bringing the transporter to a halt.

As it happened, the person or persons showed no signs of hostility, but one curious event occurred. As it overtook the transporter all the car's lights, both front and rear, went out and remained out until it was at least a hundred yards ahead, the driver of the car seeing by courtesy of the transporter's headlights: when its lights did come on again it was too far away for its rear numberplate to be identified.

Only seconds later, Harlow saw another pair of powerful headlights closing at even higher speed. This oar did not cut its lights as it overtook the transporter and it would have been most improbable had it done so for it was a police car with both siren and flas.h.i.+ng blue light in splendid working order. Harlow permitted himself an almost beatific smile, and, just over a mile later, still had an expression of pleased antic.i.p.ation on his face as he gently braked the transporter.

Ahead, the police car, blue lamp still flas.h.i.+ng, was parked by the side of the road. Immediately ahead of it was another car, with a policeman, pad in hand, interrogating the driver through an opened window. There could be little question what the interrogation was about. Except on the autoroutes, the legal speed limit in France is 110 kph : the man being interrogated must have been doing at least 150 when he had pa.s.sed the transporter. The transporter, still moving slowly, pulled out to the left to overtake both cars and Harlow had no difficulty in making out the number-plate of the front car. It read PNIIIK.

Like most major cities, Ma.r.s.eilles has places well worth looking at and others that do not qualify in that category. Certain sections of north-west Ma.r.s.eilles unmistakably belong in the latter category, seedy and run-'down ex-suburban areas, now more industrial than they are residential. The rue Gerard was typical of such an area. While it might barely escape being described as an eye-sore, it was a singularly unprepossessing street almost entirely given over to small factories and large garages. The largest building in the street was a brick and corrugated iron monstrosity about half-way along on the left. Above the huge ribbed metal door was, in foot-high letters, the single word CORONADO.

As Harlow trundled the transporter down the rue Gerard he seemed unmoved by the unlovely spectacle before him. The twins were sound asleep. As Harlow approached the garage the metal door began to roll upwards and as Harlow swung out to make his approach, lights came on inside.

The garage was a cavernous place, eighty feet long and about fifty in width. It seemed ancient in construction and appearance but was about as well-kept, well-swept and clean as anyone could reasonably expect such a garage to be. Lined up against the right-hand wall were no fewer than three Coronado Formula 1 cars, and, pedestal-mounted beyond those, three unmistakable Ford-Cosworth V-8 engines. Nearest the door, on the same side, was a black Citroen DS21. The left-hand side of the garage was given over to rows of lavishly equipped work-benches while at the rear of the garage, stacked head-high, were dozens of crates of spares and tyres. Running both longitudinally and laterally were overhead beams for moving the engines about and for loading up the transporter.

Harlow eased the transporter in and stopped it precisely under the main longitudinal loading beam. He stopped the engine, shook the sleeping twins and climbed down to the garage floor. Jacobson was there to meet him. He didn't seem particularly glad to meet him but then Jacobson never seemed particularly glad to meet anyone. He looked at his watch and said grudgingly: Two o'clock. Fast trip.'

'Empty road. What now?'

'Bed. We've an old villa just round the corner. It's not much but it serves. We'll be here in the morning to start loading - after we unload, that is. The two resident mechanics will be here to help us.'

'Jacques and Harry?'

They've left.' Jacobson looked even more sour than usual. 'Homesick, they said. They're always getting homesick. Homesick means too much hard work. New boys are Italian. Not half bad, though.'

Jacobson did not appear to have noticed the back of the transporter until then. He said: 'What the h.e.l.l are those marks?'

'Bullets. Somebody tried to hi-jack us this side of Toulon. At least I think it was an attempted hi-jack but if it was they weren't very good at their job.'

'And why the h.e.l.l should anyone want to hi-jack you? What good could a couple of Coronados be to anyone?'

'None. Maybe their information was wrong. This is the kind of wagon they use for transporting those very large cargoes of scotch or cigarettes. A million, two million francs a load - something really worth hi-jacking. Anyway, no harm done. Fifteen minutes with a panel-beater and a spray gun and she'll be as good as new.'

'I'll report this to the police in the morning,' Jacob-son said. 'Under French law it's an offence not not to report such an incident. Not,' he added bitterly, that it will do any b.l.o.o.d.y good.' to report such an incident. Not,' he added bitterly, that it will do any b.l.o.o.d.y good.'

The four men left the garage. As they did, Harlow glanced casually at the black Citroen. The number-plate read PNIIIK.

As Jacobson had said the old villa round the corner was not much but it served. Barely. Harlow sat in a chair by the side of a spa.r.s.ely furnished room which, apart from a narrow bed and some worn linoleum, had as its only other item of furniture another chair which served as a bedside table. The window of the bedroom, which was on street level, had no curtains, just thin gauze netting. Although the room light was out, some faint degree of illumination was afforded by the weak . street lights outside. Harlow twitched the netting fractionally aside and peered out. The mean, narrow little street outside, compared to which the rue Gerard was an arterial highway, was completely deserted.

Harlow glanced at his watch. The luminous hands said that it was two fifteen. Suddenly Harlow c.o.c.ked his head, listening intently. It could have been his imagination, he thought; or perhaps what he heard was the sound of faint footfalls in the pa.s.sageway outside. Noiselessly, he crossed to his bed and lay down on it. It did not creak because it was a flock mattress that had a long if probably dishonourable history behind it. His hand reached under the pillow, which was of the same vintage as the mattress, and brought out his black-jack. He slipped the thong over his right wrist then returned his right hand under the pillow.

The door opened stealthily. Breathing deeply and evenly, Harlow partly opened his eyes. A faint shadow stood in the doorway, but it was impossible to recognize who it was. Harlow remained as he was, perfectly relaxed and apparently soundly asleep. After a few seconds, the intruder closed the door as stealthily as he had opened it and Harlow's now highly attuned hearing could distinguish the soft sound of footsteps fading away. Harlow sat up, rubbing his chin in puzzled indecision, then left his bed and took up his 'vantage point by the window.' A man, this time clearly identifiable as Jacobson, had just left the house. He crossed the street and as he did so a dark car, a small Renault, rounded the corner and stopped almost directly opposite. Jacobson stooped and talked to the driver, who opened the door and stepped out. He removed his dark overcoat, folded it neatly - there was an unpleasant and rather menacing certainty about all his movements - placed it in the back seat, patted his pockets as if to rea.s.sure himself that nothing was missing, nodded to Jacobson and began to cross the street. Jacobson walked away.

Harlow retreated to his bed, where he lay with his black-jacked right hand under his pillow, facing the window, his eyes fractionally open. Almost at once he saw a shadowy figure, his features indistinguishable because he was illuminated from behind, appear at the window and peer in. He brought up his right hand and examined what it held : there was nothing indistinguishable about this, it was a large and very unpleasant looking pistol, and as Harlow watched he slid back a catch on the side. It was then that Harlow saw that the gun had a lengthy cylindrical object screwed on to the end of the muzzle. A silencer, a piece of equipment designed to silence a shot for a fraction of a second and Harlow for ever. The figure disappeared.

Harlow left his bed with considerable alacrity. A blackjack, as compared to a silenced gun, had its distinct limitations. He crossed the room and took up position against the wall about two feet from the hinged side of the door.

For ten long seconds, which even Harlow found rather wearing on the nerves, there was total silence. Then there came the barely audible creak from a floor-board - the villa didn't go in much for deep-piled carpeting - in the pa.s.sageway outside. The door handle depressed with almost millimetric stealth then slowly returned to position as the door, very very smoothly and gently, began to open. The gap between the door and jamb widened until it was about ten inches. Momentarily, the door ceased to move. A head began to poke its way cautiously through the gap. The intruder had a thin swarthy face, black hair plastered close to his narrow head and a pencil-line moustache.

Harlow leaned back on his left leg, raised his right leg and smashed the heel of his right foot against the door, just below the key-hole, from which the key had been thoughtfully and earlier removed. There was a m.u.f.fled half-cough, half-scream of agony. Harlow jerked the door wide open and a short, thin dark-suited man stumbled into the room. Both hands, the right still clutching the gun, were clasped to the blood-masked shattered middle of his face. The nose was certainly broken : what had happened to cheekbones and teeth were, at the moment, a matter for the most idle conjecture.

It certainly didn't concern Harlow. His face was entirely without pity. He swung his black-jack, none too lightly, and brought it down over the intruder's right ear. Moaning, the man sank to his knees. Harlow took the gun from an unresisting hand and ran his free band over the man's body. At his belt he discovered a sheath knife, which he withdrew. It was six inches long, double-edged, needle-pointed and razor-sharp. Gingerly, Harlow slipped the knife into his outside leather jacket pocket, changed his mind, switched over gun and knife, entwined his hand in the man's black greasy hair and pulled him ruthlessly to his feet. Equally ruthlessly, he pressed the blade of the knife into his back until he was sure the tip had penetrated the skin.

Harlow said : 'Outside.'

With the knife pressing ever deeper into his spine, Harlow's would-be killer had little option. The two men emerged from the villa and crossed the deserted street towards the little black Renault. Harlow pushed the man into the front seat while he himself got into the back. '

Harlow said : 'Drive. Police.'

When the man spoke it was, understandably, with some m.u.f.fled difficulty. He said: 'No can drive.'

Harlow reached for his black-jack and struck the man with approximately the same force as before but this time Over the left ear. The man sagged wearily against the wheel.

Harlow said: 'Drive. Police.'

He drove, if his performance could be called driving. It was, understandably, the most erratic and harrowing journey Harlow had ever experienced. Apart from the fact that the man was barely conscious, he had to drive with one hand only, having to take his hand off the wheel to change gear, using the other hand to hold a blood-saturated handkerchief against his shattered face. Fortunately, the streets were deserted and the police station only ten minutes away.

Harlow half-pushed, half-carried the unhappy Italian into the station, deposited him not too gently on a bench, then went to the desk. Behind it were two large, burly and apparently genial policemen, both in uniform, one an inspector, the other a sergeant. They were studying with surprise and considerable interest the man on the bench who was now in a state of almost , complete collapse, holding both hands to his blood- ' smeared face.

Harlow said : 'I want to lodge a complaint about this-man.'

The inspector said mildly: 'It looks more to me that he should be lodging a complaint against you.'

Harlow said: 'You will be requiring some identification.' He pulled out his pa.s.sport and-driving licence but the inspector waved them away without even looking at them.

'Even to the police your face is better known than that of any criminal in Europe. But I had thought, Mr. Harlow, that your sport was motor racing, not boxing.'

The sergeant, who had been studying the Italian with some interest, touched the inspector on the arm.

'Well, well, well,' he said, < p="">

'He came visiting me. I'm sorry there was some violence.'

'Apologies are out of order,' the inspector said. 'Luigi should be beaten up regularly, preferably once a week. But this one should last him a couple of months. Was it - ah - necessary-?'

Wordlessly, Harlow produced the knife and gun from his pockets and laid them on the counter.

The inspector nodded. 'With his record, a minimum of five years. You will press charges of course?'

'Please do it for me. I have urgent business. I'll look in later, if I may. Incidentally, I don't think Luigi came to rob me. I think he came to kill me. I'd like to find out who sent him.'

'I think that could be arranged, Mr. Harlow.' There was a grim-faced thoughtfulness about the inspector that boded ill for Luigi.

Harlow thanked them, left, climbed into the Renault and drove off. Apart from the fact that he had no compunction in the world about borrowing Luigi's car, it was highly unlikely that its owner would be in any fit state to use it for quite some time to come. It had taken Luigi ten minutes to drive from the villa to the police station. It took Harlow just under four, and then less than another thirty seconds to be parked fifty' yards away from the big roller door of the Coronado garage. The door was closed but bars of light could be seen on either side of it.

Fifteen minutes later Harlow stiffened and leaned forward. A small side door let into the main door had opened and four men emerged. Even in the negligible street lighting provided for the rue Gerard, Harlow had no difficulty in recognizing Jacobson, Neubauer and Tracchia. The fourth man he had never seen before: presumably he was one of Jacobson's mechanics. Jacob-son left the closing and locking of the door to the others and walked quickly up the street in the direction of the villa. As he came abreast on the other side of the street, he didn't as much as glance in Harlow's direction. There are thousands of small black Renaults on the streets of Ma.r.s.eilles.

The other three men locked the door, climbed into a Citroen and drove off. Harlow's car, lightless, pulled away from the kerb and followed. It was to be in no sense a chase or pursuit, just two cars moving at a leisurely pace through the suburbs of the city, the one following the other at varying but always discreet distances. Only on one occasion did Harlow fall well back and switch on his side-lights at the sight of an approaching police car, but he had no difficulty in making up the lost ground.

Eventually, they came to a fairly broad tree-lined boulevard in an obviously well-to- do area. Large villas, hiding behind exceptionally high brick walls, lined both sides of the road. The Citroen rounded a right-angled corner. Fifteen seconds later Harlow did the same and immediately switched on his side-lights. About 150 yards ahead the Citroen had pulled up outside a villa and a man -it was Tracchia -had already left the car and was advancing towards the gates with a key in his hand. Harlow pulled out to overtake the parked car and as he did so he saw the gates swing open. The other two occupants of the Citroen ignored the pa.s.sing Renault.

Harlow turned into the first side street and parked. He got out, pulled on Luigi's dark coat and lifted the collar high. He walked back to the boulevard which bore the corner name plate of rue Georges Sand and made his way along it till he came to the villa where the Citroen had turned in. It was called The Hermitage, a name that Harlow considered singularly inappropriate in the circ.u.mstances. The walls on either side of the gate were at least ten feet high, topped with broken bottle gla.s.s embedded in concrete. The gates were of the same height and had what appeared to be very sharp spikes on top. Twenty yards beyond the gates was the villa itself, a rambling old-fas.h.i.+oned Edwardian building much behung with balconies. Lights showed through c.h.i.n.ks in the curtains on both floors.

Cautiously, Harlow tested the gates. They were locked. He glanced both ways to ensure that the boulevard was deserted, then produced a ring of fairly large keys. He studied the lock, studied the keys, selected one and tried it. It worked first time. He pocketed the keys and walked away.

Fifteen minutes later, Harlow parked his car in an undistinguished little street, almost an alleyway. He mounted a flight of street steps and at the top did not even have to knock or ring a bell. The door opened and an elderly man, plump, grey-haired and wrapped in a Chinese dressing-gown, beckoned him inside. The room into which he led Harlow seemed to be a cross between an electronic laboratory and a photographer's dark room. It was filled with, festooned with, impressively scientific-looking equipment which appeared to be of the most advanced kind. It did, however, possess two comfortable arm-chairs. The elderly man waved Harlow towards one of them.

He said : 'Alexis Dunnet warned me, but you do do come at a most inconvenient hour, John Harlow. Pray, a seat.' 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 ca.s.sette 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 a.s.sa.s.sin was going to incriminate his employer by leaving a corpse in the room next to his: there were acres of water in and around Ma.r.s.eilles 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 a.s.sume 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 b.l.o.o.d.y morning !' Jacobson's shock showed through in his strained and over-loud voice. 'Where the h.e.l.l have you been, Harlow?'

'You're not my keeper, Jacobson.'

'I b.l.o.o.d.y 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 would have been ironic. I've just come from them.' 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.'