Harlow’s behaviour was becoming steadily more erratic. He had lost his ability to pursue a straight line and was beginning to weave noticeably. On one occasion he staggered in against a recessed doorway shop window and Tracchia caught a glimpse of Harlow’s reflected face, head shaking and eyes apparently closed. But he pushed himself off and went resolutely if unsteadily on his way. Tracchia closed up even more, his face registering an expression of mingled amusement, contempt and disgust. The expression deepened as Harlow, his condition still deteriorating, lurched round a street corner to his left.
Temporarily out of Tracchia’s line of vision, Harlow, all signs of insobriety vanished, moved rapidly into the first darkened doorway round the corner. From a back pocket he withdrew an article not normally carried by racing drivers — a woven leather black-jack with a wrist thong. Harlow slipped the thong over his hand and waited.
He had little enough time to wait. As Tracchia rounded the corner the contempt on his face gave way to consternation when he saw that the ill-lit street ahead was empty. Anxiously, he increased his pace and within half a dozen paces was passing by the shadowed and recessed doorway where Harlow waited.
A Grand Prix driver needs timing, accuracy and eyesight. All of those Harlow had in super-abundance. Also he was extremely fit. Tracchia lost consciousness instantly. Without as much as a glance at it, Harlow stepped over the prostrate body and strode briskly on his way. Only, it wasn’t the way he had been going. He retraced his tracks for about a quarter of a mile, turned left and almost at once found himself in the transporter parking lot. It seemed extremely unlikely that Tracchia, when he came to, would have even the slightest idea as to where Harlow had been headed.
Harlow made directly for the nearest transporter. Even through the rain and near darkness the name, in (two feet high golden letters, was easily distinguishable: CORONADO. He unlocked the door, passed inside and switched on the lights and very powerful lights they were too, as they had to be for mechanics working on such delicate engineering. Here there was no need for glowing red lights, stealth and secrecy: there was no one who was going to question Johnny Harlow’s right to be inside his own transporter. Nevertheless, he took the precaution of locking the door from the inside and leaving the key half-turned in the lock so that it couldn’t be opened from the outside. Then he used ply to mask the windows so that he couldn’t be seen from outside: only then did he make for the tool-rack on the side and select the implements he wanted.
MacAlpine and Dunnet, not for the first time, were 76 illegally in Harlow’s room and not feeling too happy about it: not about the illegality but what they had found there. More precisely, they were in Harlow’s bathroom. Dunnet had the cistern cover in his hand while MacAlpine held up a dripping bottle of malt whisky. Both men regarded each other, at a momentary loss for words, then Dunnet said : ‘Resourceful lad is our Johnny. He’s probably got a crate hidden under the driving seat of his Coronado. But I think you’d better leave that bottle where you found it.’
‘Why ever should I? What’s the point in that?’
‘That way we may know his daily consumption. If he can’t get it from that bottle he’ll sure as hell get it elsewhere—you know his uncanny way of vanishing in that red Ferrari of his. And then we’ll never know how much he drinks.’
‘I suppose so, I suppose so.’ He looked at the bottle and there was pain in his eyes. the most gifted driver of our time, perhaps the most gifted driver of all time, and now it’s come to this. Why do the gods strike a man like Johnny Harlow down, Alexis? Because he’s beginning to walk too close to them.’
‘Put the bottle back, James.’
Only two doors away was another pair of unhappy men, one of them markedly so. Tracchia, from the incessant way in which he massaged the back of his neck, appeared to be in very considerable pain. Neubauer watched him with a mixture of sympathy and anger.
Neubauer said : ‘Sure it was that bastard Harlow?’
‘I’m sure. I’ve still got my wallet.’
That was careless of him. I think I’ll lose my room key and borrow the master.’
Tracchia momentarily ceased to massage his aching neck. ‘What the hell for?’
‘You’ll see. Stay here.’
Neubauer returned within two minutes, a key ring whirling round his finger. He said: ‘I’m taking the blonde at reception out on Sunday night. I think I’ll ask for the keys’ of the safe next time.’
Tracchia said in agonized patience: ‘Willi, there is a time and a place for comedy.’
‘Sorry.’ He opened the door and they passed out into the corridor. It was deserted. Less than ten seconds later they were both inside Harlow’s room, the door locked behind them.
Tracchia said: ‘What happens if Harlow comes along?’
‘Who would you rather be? Harlow or us?’
They had spent no more than a minute in searching when Neubauer suddenly said : ‘You were quite right, Nikki. Our dear friend Johnny is just that little bit careless.’
He showed Tracchia the cine-camera with the crisscross of scratches round each of the four screws securing the plate at the back, produced a pocket-knife, selected a small screw-driver, removed the plate and extracted the micro camera. Neubauer then extracted the cassette from the micro camera and examined it thoughtfully. He said: ‘We take this?’
Tracchia shook his head and instantly screwed up his face in the agony caused by the thoughtless movement. When he had recovered, he said: ‘No. He would have known we were here.’
Neubauer said: ‘So there’s only one thing for it then?’
Tracchia nodded and again winced in pain. Neubauer lifted off the cover of the cassette, unreeled the film and passed it under a strong desk lamp, then, not without some difficulty, rewound the film, replaced the cover, put the cassette back in the micro camera and the micro camera in the cine.
Tracchia said: this proves nothing. We contact Marseilles?’
Neubauer nodded. Both men left the room.
Harlow had a Coronado pushed back by about a foot. He peered at the section of floor-board revealed, reached for a powerful torch, knelt and examined the floor intently. One of the longitudinal planks appeared to have two transverse lines on it, about fifteen inches apart. Harlow used an oily cloth to rub the front line, whereupon it became evident that the front line was no line at all but a very fine sharp cut. The revealed heads of the two holding nails were bright and clear of any marks. Harlow brought a chisel to bear and the front of the inlet wooden section lifted with surprising ease. He reached down an arm to explore the depth and length of the space beneath. A fractional lifting of the eyebrows expressed some degree of surprise, almost certainly as to the unseen extent of area available. Harlow brought out his arm and touched fingertips to mouth and nose: there was no perceptible change in his expression. He replaced the board section and gently tapped it into place, using the butt of a chisel on the gleaming nail-heads. With a suitably oiled and dirty cloth he smeared the cuts and nails.
Forty-five minutes had elapsed between the time of Harlow’s departure from the Villa-Hotel Cessni and his return there. The vast foyer looked semi-deserted but there must, n fact, have been over a hundred people there, many of them from the official reception party, all of them, probably, waiting to go ‘in for late dinner. The first two people Harlow saw were MacAlpine and Dunnet, sitting alone at a small table with short drinks. Two tables away Mary sat by herself, a soft drink and a magazine in front of her. She didn’t give the impression of reading and there was a certain stiff aloofness in her bearing. Harlow wondered towards whom the hostility was directed. Towards himself, likely enough, but on the other hand there had grown up an increasing estrangement between Mary on the one hand and MacAlpine on the other. Of Rory there was no sign. Probably out spying somewhere, Harlow thought.
The three of them caught sight of Harlow at almost the same instant as he saw them. MacAlpine immediately rose to his feet.
‘I’d be grateful, Alexis, if you could take Mary in to dinner. I’m going into the dining-room. I’m afraid if I were to stay-’
‘It’s all right, James. I understand.’
Harlow watched the calculated snub of the departing back without expression, an absence of outward feeling that quickly changed to a certain apprehension as he saw Mary bearing down on him. No question now as to whom the unspoken .hostility had been directed. She gave the very distinct impression of having been waiting for him. That bewitching smile that had made her the sweetheart of the race-tracks was, Harlow observed, in marked abeyance. He braced himself for what he knew was going to be a low but correspondingly fierce voice.