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 circumstances. The walls on either side of the gate were at least ten feet high, topped with broken bottle glass 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-fashioned Edwardian building much behung with balconies. Lights showed through chinks 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
‘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
‘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.
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.
