Free The Way to Dusty Death by Alistair MacLean Page B

gentlemen?’
    MacAlpine answered. ‘You could say that. We might enjoy it even more if you could tell us how the new Coronado is coming along.’
    ‘Shaping up. Jacobson —for once —agrees with me that a slight alteration in the ratios and the rear suspension is all that’s necessary. It’ll be all right for Sunday.’
    ‘No complaints, then?’
    ‘No. It’s a fine car. Best Coronado yet. And fast.’
    ‘How fast?’
    ‘I haven’t found out yet. But we equaled the lap record the last two times out.’
    ‘Well, well.’ MacAlpine looked at his watch. ‘Better hurry. We have to leave for the reception in half an hour.’
    ‘I’m tired. I’m going to have a shower, two hours’ sleep, then some dinner. I’ve come here for the Grand Prix, not for mingling with high society.’
    ‘You definitely refuse to come?’
    ‘I refused to come last time out too. Setting a precedent, if you like.’
    ‘It’s obligatory, you know.’
    ‘In my vocabulary, obligation and compulsion are not the same things.’
    ‘There are three or four very important people present tonight especially just to see you.’
    ‘I know.’
    MacAlpine paused before speaking, ‘How do you know. Only Alexis and I know.’
    ‘Mary told me.’ Harlow turned and walked away.
    ‘Well.’ Dunnet pressed his lips tightly together. the arrogant young bastard. Walking in here to tell us he’s just equalled the lap record without even trying. Thing is, I believe him. That’s why he stopped by, isn’t it?’
    To tell me that he’s still the best in the business? Partly. Also to tell me to stuff my bloody reception. Also to tell me that he’ll speak to Mary whether I like it or not. And the final twist, to let me know -that Mary has no secrets from him. Where’s that damned daughter of mine?’
    ‘This should be interesting to see.’
    ‘What should be?’
    ‘To see if you can break a heart twice.’
    MacAlpine sighed and slumped even farther back in his arm-chair. ‘I suppose you’re right, Alexis, I suppose you’re right. Mind you, I’d still like to knock their two damned young heads together.’
    Harlow, clad in a white bath-robe and obviously recently showered, emerged from the bathroom and opened up his wardrobe. He brought out a fresh suit then reached up to a shelf above it. Clearly, he didn’t find what he expected to and his eyebrows lifted. He looked in a cupboard with similarly negative results. He stood in the middle of the room, pondering, then smiled widely.
    He said softly: ‘Well, well, well Here we go again. Clever devils.’
    From the still-smiling expression on his face, it was clear that Harlow didn’t believe his own words. He lifted the mattress, reached under, removed a flat half-bottle of scotch, examined and replaced it. From there he went into the bathroom, removed the cistern lid, lifted out a bottle of Glenfiddich malt, checked the level-it was about three-parts full, replaced it in a certain position and then put the cistern lid back in place. This he left slightly askew. He returned to his bedroom, put on a light grey suit and was just adjusting his tie when he heard the sound of a heavy engine below. He switched out the light, pulled back the curtains, opened his window and peered out cautiously.
    A large coach was drawn up outside the hotel entrance and the various drivers, managers, senior mechanics and journalists who were headed for the official reception were filing aboard. Harlow checked to see that all those whose absence that evening he considered highly desirable were. among those present, and they were — Dunnet, Tracchia, Neubauer, Jacobson and MacAlpine, the last with a very pale and downcast Mary clinging to his arm. The door closed and the bus moved off into the night.
    Five minutes later, Harlow sauntered up to the reception desk. Behind it was the very pretty young girl he’d ignored on the way in. He smiled widely at her — his colleagues wouldn’t have believed it — and she,