The Way to Dusty Death Read Online Free PDF

questioningly at Dunnet. Dunnet said: Well, I suppose we’ve got to face it some time.’
    MacAlpine said : ‘I suppose.’ Both men rose, nodded to the barman, and left.
    now moving at no more than a fast walk, crossed the street in the direction of a neon-signed hotel. Instead of using the main entrance, he went down a side alleyway, turned to his right and started to climb a fire-escape two steps at a time. His steps were as sure-footed as a mountain goat, his balance immaculate, his face registering no emotion. Only his eyes registered any expression. They were clear and still but possessed an element of clear-eyed and concentrated calculation. It was the face of a dedicated man who knew completely what he was about.
    MacAlpine and Dunnet were outside a door, numbered 412. MacAlpine’s face registered a peculiar mixture of anger and concern. Dunnet’s face, oddly, showed only unconcern. It could have been tight-lipped unconcern, but then Dunnet was habitually a tight-lipped man. MacAlpine hammered loudly on the door. The hammering brought no reaction. MacAlpine glanced furiously at his bruising knuckles, glanced at Dunnet and started a renewed assault on the door. Dunnet had no comment to make, either vocally or facially.
    Harlow reached a platform on the fourth-floor fire-escape. He swung over the guard-railing, took a long step towards a nearby open window, negotiated die crossing safely and passed inside. The room was small. A suitcase lay on the floor, its contents spilled out in considerable disarray. On die bedside table stood a low-wattage lamp, which gave the only weak illumination in the room, and a half empty bottle of whisky. Harlow closed and locked the window to the accompaniment of a violent tattoo of knocks on the door. MacAlpine’s outraged voice was very loud and clear.
    ‘Open up! Johnny! Open up or I’ll break the bloody door in.’
    Harlow pushed both cameras under the bed. He tore off his black leather jacket and black roll-neck pullover and thrust them both after the cameras. He then took a quick swill of whisky, split a little in the palm of his hand and rubbed it over his face.
    The door burst open to show MacAlpine’s outstretched right leg, the heel of which he’d obviously used against the lock. Both MacAlpine and Dunnet entered, then stood still. Harlow, clad only in shirt and trousers and still wearing his shoes, was stretched out in bed, apparently in an almost coma-like condition. His arm dangled over the side of the bed, his right hand clutching the neck of the whisky bottle. MacAlpine, grim-faced and almost incredulous, approached the bed, bent over Harlow, sniffed in disgust and removed the bottle from Harlow’s nerveless hand He looked at Dunnet, who returned his expressionless glance.
    MacAlpine said: The greatest driver in the world.’
    ‘Please James. You said it yourself. It happens to all of them. Remember? Sooner or later, it happens to them all.’
    ‘But Johnny Harlow?’
    ‘Even to Johnny Harlow.’
    MacAlpine nodded. Both men turned and left the room, closing the broken door behind them. Harlow opened his eyes, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His hand stopped moving and he sniffed his palm. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

CHAPTER THREE
    As the crowded weeks after the Clermont-Ferrand race rushed by there appeared to be little change in Johnny Harlow. Always a remote, withdrawn and lonely figure, remote and withdrawn he still remained, except that he was now more lonely than ever. In his great days, at the peak of his powers and the height of his fame, he had been a man relaxed to the point of abnormality, his inner self under iron control: and so, in his quietness, he seemed to be now, as aloofly remote and detached as ever, those remarkable eyes — remarkable in the quality of their phenomenal eyesight, not in appearance — as clear and calm and unblinking as ever and the aquiline face quite devoid of expression.
    The hands were still now, hands that bespoke a