Free Early One Morning by Robert Ryan Page A

the open-mouthed crowds, their cheering unable to penetrate the gruff roar of the engine, instruments blurring as he braked for Tabac, down through the gears for the left hander, then back on the throttle, worrying the feisty little Bugatti all the way to Gasworks. Then he felt the slide, the wheels slither on the road surface, scrabbling for grip, and the back swing wildly. Trouble.
    A rattle over the tram lines and up the hill now, and Rudi saw the Bugatti twitch on the oil-slicked surface. Rudi dived to the right, gambling on how the Englishman would correct his line, saw the supercharger of the twelve car vent smoke and flame through the hole in the bonnet, knew he had him, corrected his own back end as a wheel caught the oil slick on the cobbles, and was away powering up towards Ste Devote, in first place.
    Lap 35.
    Eve covered her eyes as Williams bravely stormed after the German, could feel his despair as the Mercedes rounded the bend first. She hated this, hated it. The next thing she knew Williams was in, grinning, face blackened by oil and smoke, urging Bernard on as the villager tipped fuel into the filler cap behind his head. He raised a hand to Eve, waited for the tap on his shoulder to tell him refuelling was complete, and floored the accelerator.
    Eve looked across at Ettore and wondered who was the man next to him, calmly meeting her gaze. Then she had him. Robert Benoist. Looking right at her, those piercing eyes fixing her, a hint of a smile playing about his mouth. Eve had smiled back then turned her attention once more to the track, counting the seconds till Williams reappeared. He did. With Caracciola on his tail this time. She hated it.
    Lap 75.
    Eve watched as Rudi came rumbling into his designated pit slot and his white overalled mechanics leapt out at him. Rudi was out of the car and pointing furiously. New tyres. He needed new tyres. The strain of those corners had torn through the tread, leaving tendrils of rubber hanging down. The mechanics set about the wheel change while Rudi himself poured fuel into the thirsty monster. He looked up in despair as Williams rocketed by, willing the petrol into the tank, sloshing it carelessly over the bodywork and ground. Finally it was done and Rudi climbed back in and, grim faced, rejoined the battle. Eve looked at her watch. Over four minutes. Too slow, she knew. Far too slow.
    Lap 100 .
    Close to four hours after the start the chequered flag came down on Williams. He had averaged 49.83 mph, round the 1.97 mile course, and had the fastest lap—2 mins 15 seconds, at 52.69 mph. He came home 1 minute 17.8 seconds ahead of Bouriano’s 35C. An exhausted Rudi came home third, his arms numb from the exertion of handling the Mercedes.
    As Williams pulled in after his lap of honour, the crowd surged forward. Antony Noghes struggled through with the cup and managed to thrust it into Williams’ hands, while flashes detonated all around. Williams saw Eve and beckoned her over. He kissed her, leaving a black smudge on her nose, which he made worse by trying to wipe away.
    ‘How does it feel?’ she asked him.
    The grin that threatened to bisect his face said it all. Eve produced the gift with a flourish, holding it above his hand and while Williams snapped at it like a hungry dog, mesmerised by the way the diamonds caught the light. Theatrically he snatched it away and looked at it. A beautiful Carrier. He turned it over, but the steel back was unadorned.
    ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she said. ‘We’ll get it engraved. First in the first.’
    Then she lost him as everybody else pressed in to claim their piece of the day’s hero.
    Robert watched Williams and Rudi pose, the weary combatants of the race. Maurice had been talking to Ettore and scuttled back as fast as his limp would allow.
    ‘Good gossip, brother. She is, or was, the mistress of Bill Orpen. The painter. He … you will like this … he is the chauffeur. The chauffeur.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes and