The Way to Dusty Death

He said: ‘I thought you said you were a very private person.’

‘I am. But I hug everyone. You know that.’

‘Well, thank you very much.’

She rubbed her cheek. ‘You’re scruffy, filthy and unshaven.’

‘What do you expect of a face that hasn’t seen water or felt a blade for twenty-four hours?’

She smiled. ‘Mr. Dunnet would like to see you in the chalet, Johnny. Though why he couldn’t come to see you in the canteen — ‘

‘I’m sure Mr. Dunnet has his reasons. Such as not wanting to be seen in my company.’

She wrinkled her nose to show her disbelief and led the way out to — the rain. She clung to his arm and said: ‘I was so scared, Johnny. So scared.’

‘And so you’d every right to be,’ Harlow said solemnly. ‘It’s a perilous mission lugging a transporter to Marseilles and back.’ — ‘Johnny.’

‘Sorry.’

They hurried through the rain to the chalet, up the wooden steps, across — the porch and into the hall. As the door closed, Mary reached for Harlow and kissed him. As a kiss, it was neither sisterly nor platonic. Harlow blinked his unresisting astonishment.

She said: ‘But I don’t do that to everyone. Or anyone.’

‘You, Mary, are a little minx.’

‘Ah, yes. But a lovable little minx.’

‘I suppose so. I suppose so.’

Rory watched this scene from the head of the chalet stairs. He was scowling most dreadfully but had the wit to disappear swiftly as Mary and Harlow turned to mount the stairs: Rory’s last meeting with Harlow was still a very painful memory.

Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved, but still looking very tired, Harlow was in Dunnet’s room. The account of the night’s activities he’d given to Dunnet had been brief, succinct, but had missed out nothing of importance.

Dunnet said: ‘And now?’

‘Straight back into Marseilles in the Ferrari. I’ll check on Giancarlo and the films, then go and extend my sympathies to Luigi the Light-fingered.’

Will he sing?’

Take a linnet. If he talks, the police will forget that they ever saw his gun and knife which will save our friend from five years’ mail-bag sewing or breaking boulders in a quarry or whatever.

Luigi does not strike me as the noblest Roman of them all.’

‘How do you get back here?’

‘By Ferrari.’

‘But I thought that James said that-’

‘That I was to leave it in Marseilles? I’m going to leave it in that disused farmyard down the road. I want the Ferrari tonight. I want to get into the Villa Hermitage tonight. I want a gun.’

For almost fifteen interminable seconds Dunnet sat quite still, not looking at Harlow, then he brought up his typewriter from beneath the bed, upended it and undipped the, base plate. This was lined with felt and was equipped with six pairs of spring clips. In the clips were held two automatic pistols, two silencers and two spare ammunition magazines. Harlow removed the smaller pistol, a silencer and a spare magazine. He pressed the magazine release switch, examined the magazine already in the gun and pressed it home again. He put all three items in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and zipped it up. He left the room without another word.

Seconds later he was with MacAlpine. MacAlpine’s complexion was quite grey and he was unquestionably a very sick man with an illness insusceptible to physical diagnosis. He said:

‘Leaving now? You must be exhausted.’

Harlow said: ‘It’ll probably hit me tomorrow morning.’

MacAlpine glanced through the window. The rain was sheeting down. He turned back to Harlow and said: ‘Don’t envy you your trip to Marseilles. But the forecast says it’ll clear this evening. We’ll unload the transporter then.’

‘I think you’re trying to say something, sir.’

‘Well, yes.’ MacAlpine hesitated. ‘I believe you have been kissing my daughter.’

That’s a bare-faced lie. She was kissing me. Incidentally, one of — these days I’m going to clobber that boy of yours.’

‘You have my best wishes,’ MacAlpine said wearily. ‘Do you have designs upon my daughter, Johnny?’

‘I don’t know about that. But she sure as hell has designs on me.’

‘Harlow left and literally bumped into Rory in the corridor outside. They eyed each other, speculation in Harlow’s eyes, trepidation in Rory’s.

Harlow said: ‘Aha! Eavesdropping again. Almost as good as spying, isn’t it, Rory?’

‘What? Me? Eavesdrop? Never!’

Harlow put a kindly arm around his shoulder.

‘Rory, my lad, I have news. I not only have your father’s permission for but approval of my intention to clobber you one of these days. At my convenience, of course.’

Harlow gave Rory a friendly pat on the shoulder: there was considerable menace in the friendliness. Harlow, smiling, descended the stairs to find Mary waiting.

She said: ‘Speak to you, Johnny?’

‘Sure. But on the porch. That black-haired young monster has probably got the whole place wired for sound.’

They went out on the porch, closing the door behind them. The chill rain was falling so heavily that it was impossible to see more than half-way across the abandoned airfield.

Mary said: ‘Put your arm around me, Johnny.’

‘I obediently put my arm round you. In fact, as a bonus, I’ll put them both around you.’

‘Please don’t talk like that, Johnny. I’m scared. I’m scared all the time now, scared for you.

There’s something terribly wrong, isn’t there, Johnny?’

‘What should be wrong?’

‘Oh, you are exasperating!’ She changed the subject — or appeared to. ‘Going to Marseilles?’

‘Yes.’

Take me with you.’

‘No’

‘That’s not very gallant.’

‘No.’

‘What are you, Johnny? What are you doing?’

She had been pressing closely against him but now she drew back, slowly, wonderingly. She put her hand inside his leather jacket, pulled the pocket zip and took out the automatic: she gazed down, hypnotized, at the blue metallic sheen of the gun.

‘Nothing that’s wrong, sweet Mary.’

She put her hand in his pocket again, took out the silencer and stared at it with eyes sick with worry and fear. She whispered: This is a silencer, isn’t it? This way you can kill people without making a noise.’

‘I said ‘Nothing that’s wrong, sweet Mary.’’

‘I know. I know you never would. But — I must tell Daddy.’

‘If you wish to destroy your father, then do so.’ It was brutal, Harlow realized, but he knew of no other way. ‘Go ahead. Tell him.’

‘Destroy my — what do you mean?’

There’s something I want to do. If your father knew, he’d stop me. He’s lost his nerve.

Everybody’s opinion to the contrary, I haven’t lost mine.’

‘What do you mean — destroy him?’

‘I don’t think he’d long survive the death of your mother.’

‘My mother?’ She stared at him for long seconds. ‘But my mother—’