The Way to Dusty Death Read Free Page A

adolescents.
    Understandably, he operated in a limited social circle. What made matters worse for Tracchia was his realization that, brilliant driver though he was, he was fractionally less good than Harlow, and even this was exacerbated by the knowledge that, no matter how long or desperately he tried, he would never quite close that fractional gap. When he spoke now to MacAlpine he made no effort to lower his voice which in the circumstances mattered not at all for Harlow could not possibly have heard him above the baying of the crowd: but it was quite clear ‘that Tracchia would not have lowered his voice no matter what the circumstances.
    ‘An act of God!’ The bitter incredulity in the voice was wholly genuine. ‘Jesus Christ!Did you hear what those cretins called it? An act of God! An act of murder, I call it.’
    ‘No, lad, no.’ MacAlpine put his hand on Tracchia’s shoulder, only to have it angrily shrugged off.MacAlpine sighed. ‘At the very outside, manslaughter. And not even that. You know yourself how many Grand Prix drivers have died in the past four years because their cars went wild.’
    ‘Wild! Wild!’ Tracchia, at a momentary and most uncharacteristic loss for words, gazed heavenwards in silent appeal. ‘Good God, Mac, we all saw it on the screen. We saw it five times. He took his foot off the brake and pulled out straight in front of Jethou. An act of God! Sure, sure, sure. It’s an act of God because he’s won eleven Grand Prix in seventeen months, because he won last year’s championship and looks as if he’s going to do the same this year.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘You know damn well what I mean. Take him off the tracks and you might as well take us all off the tracks. He’s the champion, isn’t he? If he’s that bad, then what the hell must the rest of us be like? We know that’s not the case, but will the public? Will they hell. God knows that there are already too many people, and damned influential people as well, agitating that Grand Prix racing should be banned throughout the world, and too many countries just begging for a good excuse to get out. This would be the excuse of a lifetime. We need our Johnny Harlows, don’t we Mac? Even though they do go around killing people.’
    ‘I thought he was your friend, Nikki?’
    ‘Sure, Mac. Sure he’s my friend. So was Jethou.’
    There was no reply for MacAlpine to make to this so he made none. Tracchia appeared to have said his say, for he fell silent and got back to his scowling. In silence and in safety —the police escort had been steadily increasing-the four men reached the Coronado pits.
    Without a glance at or word to anyone Harlow made for the little shelter at the rear of the pits. In their turn nobody — Jacobson and his two mechanics were there also — made any attempt either to speak to or stop him, nor did any among them do even as much as trouble to exchange significant glances : the starkly obvious requires no emphasis. Jacobson ignored him entirely and came up to MacAlpine. The chief mechanic — and he was one of acknowledged genius — was a lean, tall and strongly built man. He had a dark and deeply lined face that looked as if it hadn’t smiled for a long time and wasn’t about to make an exception in this case either.
    He said : ‘Harlow’s clear, of course.’
    ‘Of course? I don’t understand.’
    ‘I have to tell you? Indict Harlow and you set the sport back ten years. Too many millions tied up in it to allow that to happen. Isn’t there now, Mr. MacAlpine?’
    MacAlpine looked at him reflectively, not answering, glanced briefly at the still scowling Tracchia, turned away and walked across to Harlow’s battered and fire-blistered Coronado which was by that time back on all four wheels. He examined it leisurely, almost contemplatively, stooped over the cockpit, turned the steering wheel which offered no resistance to his hand, then straightened.
    He said : ‘Well, now. I wonder.’
    Jacobson