The Way to Dusty Death

who would like to see you, Marie.’

For someone who claimed that he could not swim, Tracchia was cleaving through the water like a torpedo. He reached the landing steps, scrambled up to the quay, and headed for the nearest phone booth. He put through a.reverse charge call to Vignolles and had to stand there for almost five minutes before his call came through: the French telephone service is not world renowned.

He asked for Jacobson and finally reached him in his bedroom. Tracchia’s account of the evening’s happenings were succinct and to the point but could have been shorter as it was heavily burdened with a wide range of expletives. ‘So that’s it, Jake,’ Tracchia finished up. That bastard has outsmarted us all.’

Jacobson’s face, as he sat on his bed, was tight with anger but he was clearly in control of himself. He said: ‘Not quite yet. So we’ve lost our ace in the hole. We’ll just have to get ourselves another one, won’t we? You understand? Meet you at Bandol inside the hour. Usual

‘place.’

‘Passport?’

‘Yes.’

‘In my bedside table drawer. And for Christ’s sake bring me a set of dry clothing or I’ll have pneumonia before the night is out.’

Tracchia emerged from the phone booth. He was actually smiling. He went to take up position among some crates and barrels, seeking a safe position where he could keep The Chevalier under observation and, in the process of doing so, literally tripped over the prostrate Yonnie.

‘Good God, Yonnie, I’d forgotten just where you were’.’ The bound and gagged man looked up with pleading eyes. Tracchia shook his head. ‘Sorry, can’t untie you yet. That bastard Harlow, young MacAlpine rather, has shot Pauli. I had to swim for it. The two of them will be coming ashore any minute. Harlow may check whether you’re still here. If he does, and you’re gone, he’ll raise a hue and cry immediately: if you’re still here he’ll reckon that you can be left in cold storage for a while. Gives us more time to play with. When they’ve landed and gone take the dinghy out to The Chevalier. Find a bag and stuff it with all the papers in the two top drawers of the chart-table. God, if the police were ever to lay hands on that lot! Among other things, your days would be numbered. You’ll take them to your place in Marseilles in my car and wait mere. If you get those papers you’re in the clear. Harlow didn’t recognize you, it was too dark in the shadows here, nobody even knows your name. Understand?’

Yonnie nodded glumly then turned his head in the direction of the harbor. Tracchia nodded.

The sound of the outboard was unmistakable and soon the dinghy appeared in sight round the bows of The Chevalier. Tracchia prudently withdrew twenty or thirty yards along the waterfront.

The dinghy came alongside the landing steps and Rory was the first out, painter in hand. As he secured the dinghy, Harlow helped Marie ashore, then followed himself, her suitcase in his hand.

His gun was in his other hand. Tracchia toyed briefly with the idea of way-laying Harlow in the shadows but almost immediately and very prudently changed his mind. He knew that Harlow would be in no mood to be taking any chances and, if necessary, would shoot and shoot to kill without the slightest compunction.

Harlow came straight to where Yonnie lay, bent over him, straightened and said: ‘He’ll keep.’

The three crossed the road to the nearest phone booth — the one that Tracchia had lately occupied-and Harlow went inside. Tracchia moved stealthily along behind the cover of barrels and crates until he reached Yonnie. He produced a knife and cut him free. Yonnie sat up and he had the expression of a man who would have given a great deal to be able to shout in pain. He rubbed hands and wrists in agony: Rory was no respecter of circulations. By and by, gingerly and clearly not enjoying the process, he removed the insulated tape from his face. He opened his mouth but Tracchia clapped his hand across it to prevent what would be doubtless a torrential outpouring of imprecations.

‘Quiet,’ Tracchia whispered. they’re just on the other side of the road. Harlow’s in the phone booth.’ He removed his hand. ‘When they leave, I’m going to follow them to see that they do really leave Bandol. As soon as they’re out of sight, get down to the dinghy. Use — the oars. We don’t want Harlow hearing the outboard start up and coming back to investigate.’

‘Me? Row?’ Yonnie said huskily. He flexed his fingers and winced. ‘My hands are dead.’

‘You’d better get them back to life fast,’ Tracchia said unfeelingly. ‘Or you’re going to be dead. Ah, now.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘He’s just left the phone box. Be dead quiet.

That bastard Harlow can hear a leaf drop twenty feet away.’

Harlow, Rory and Mrs. MacAlpine walked up a street away from the waterfront. They turned a corner and disappeared. Tracchia said: ‘Get going.’

He watched Yonnie head for the landing steps then followed quickly after the trio in front. For about three minutes he trailed them at a very discreet distance indeed, then lost sight of them as they turned another left corner. He peered cautiously round the corner, saw that it was a cul-de-sac, hesitated and then stiffened as he heard the unmistakable sound of a Ferrari engine starting up. Shivering violently in his still soaking clothes, he pressed himself into the darkness of a recessed and’ unlit alleyway. The Ferrari emerged from the cul-de-sac, turned left and headed north out of Bandol. Tracchia watched it go then hurried back to the phone booth. ‘ There was the usual frustrating delay in getting through to Vignolles. Eventually, he succeeded in reaching Jacobson. He said: ‘Harlow’s just left with Rory and Mrs. MacAlpine. He made a phone call before he left — almost certainly to Vignolles to tell MacAlpine that he’s got his wife back. I’d leave by the back door if I were you.’

‘No worry,’ Jacobson sounded confident. ‘I am leaving by the back door. The fire-escape. I’ve already got our cases in the Aston and our passports in my pocket. I’m now on my way to collect our third passport. See you. ‘

Tracchia replaced the receiver. He was about to open the booth door when he stopped and stood as if a man turned to stone. A large black Citroen had slid silently down to the waterfront, showing only side-lights. Even those were switched off before the car came to a halt. No flashing lights, no howling sirens — but it was indisputably a police car and one paying a very private visit.

Four uniformed policemen came out of the car. Tracchia pried open the door of the booth so that the automatic light went out, then leaned as far back as possible, praying that he wouldn’t be seen. He wasn’t. The four policemen at once disappeared behind the — barrels where Yonnie had been, two of them with lit torches in hand, and reappeared within ten seconds, one of them carrying some unidentifiable objects in his hand. Tracchia did not need to see it to know what the man was carrying — the twine and black tape that had immobilized and silenced Yonnie. The four policemen held a brief conference then headed for the landing steps. Twenty seconds later a rowing boat was heading purposefully but silently towards The Chevalier.

Tracchia emerged from the booth, fists clenched, his face black with anger and softly but audibly swearing to himself. The only printable word, and one that was repeated many times, was

‘Harlow’. The bitter realization had come to Tracchia that Harlow had not phoned Vignolles: he had phoned the local police.

In her room in Vignolles Mary was getting ready for dinner when a knock came at her door.

She opened it to find Jacobson standing there. He said: ‘Can I have a private word with you, Mary? It’s very important.’

She regarded him with mild astonishment then opened the door for him to enter. Jacobson closed the door behind him.

She said curiously: ‘What’s so important? What do you want?’

Jacobson pulled a gun from his waist-band. ‘You. I’m in trouble and I need some form of security to make sure that I don’t get into more trouble. You’re the security. Pack an overnight bag and give me your passport’

She gave him her passport and packed the bag. Jacobson crossed to the bed and snapped shut the catches of her case. ‘You’d better come now.’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Now, I said.’ He lifted his gun menacingly.

Then you’d better shoot me now. Number eight.’

‘Cuneo. Then parts beyond.’ His voice was harsh but had the ring of sincerity. ‘I never make war on women. You’ll be released within twenty-four hours.’

‘I’ll be dead in twenty-four hours.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘May I go to the bathroom? I feel sick.’

Jacobson opened the bathroom door and looked inside. ‘No window. No telephone. OK.’