"MacLean, Alistair - The Way to Dusty Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)

"Our little bird can't. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him."

Too late, my Mary," Harlow said. "Can't drive no more. Johnny Harlow's on the skids. Ask anyone."

"I don't mean that and you know it. I mean your drinking."

"Me? Drink?" Harlow's face was its usual impassive self. "Who says that?"

"Everybody."

"Everybody's a liar."

As a remark, it was a guaranteed conversation stopper. A tear fell from Mary's face on to her wrist watch, but if Harlow saw it he made no comment. By and by Mary sighed and said quietly: "I give up. I was a fool to try. Johnny, are you coming to the Mayor's reception tonight?"

"No."

"I thought you'd like to take me. Please."

"And make you a martyr? No."

"Why don't you come? Every other race driver does."

"I'm not every other driver. I'm Johnny Harlow. I'm a pariah, an outcast. I have a delicate and sensitive nature and I don't like it when nobody speaks to me."

Mary put both her hands on his. "I'll speak to you, Johnny, you know I always will."

"I know." Harlow spoke without either bitterness or irony. "I cripple you for life and you'll always speak to me. Stay away from me, young Mary. I'm poison."

There are some poisons I could get to like very much indeed."

Harlow squeezed her hand and rose. "Come on. You have to get dressed for this do tonight. I'll see you back to the hotel."

They emerged from the cafe, Mary using her walking stick with one hand while with the other she clung to Harlow's arm. Harlow, carrying the other stick, had slowed his normal pace to accommodate Mary's limp. As they moved slowly up the street, Rory MacAlpine emerged from the shadows of the recessed doorway opposite the cafe. He was shivering violently in the cold night air but seemed to be entirely unaware of this.

Judging from the look of very considerable satisfaction on his face, Rory had other and more agreeable matters on his mind than the temperature. He crossed the street, followed Harlow and Mary at a discreet distance until he came to the first road junction. He turned right into this and began to run.

By the time he had arrived back at the hotel, he was no longer shivering but sweating profusely for he had not stopped running all the way. He slowed down to cross the lobby and mount the stairs, went to his room, washed, combed his hair, straightened his tie, spent a few moments in front of his mirror practising his sad but dutiful expression until he thought he had it about right, then walked across towards his father's room. He knocked, received some sort of mumbled reply and went inside.

James MacAlpine's suite was, by any odds, the most comfortable in the hotel. As a millionaire, MacAlpine could afford to indulge himself: as both a man and a millionaire he saw no reason why he shouldn't. But MacAlpine wasn't indulging in any indulgence at that moment, nor, as he sat far back in an over-stuffed armchair did he appear to be savouring any of the creature comforts surrounding him. He appeared, instead, to be sunk in some deep and private gloom from which he roused himself enough to look up almost apathetically as his son closed the door behind him.

"Well, my boy, what is it? Couldn't it wait until the morning?"

"No, Dad, it couldn't."

"Out with it, then. You can see I'm busy."

"Yes, Dad, I know." Rory's sad but dutiful expression remained in position. "But there's something I felt I had to tell you." He hesitated as if embarrassed at what he was about to say. "It's about Johnny Harlow, Dad."

"Anything you have to say about Harlow will be treated with the greatest reserve." Despite the words, a degree of interest had crept into MacAlpine's thinning features. "We all know what you think of Harlow."