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

Nor was their minimal regard for him in any way heightened by what they sourly regarded as the limpet-like persistency with which he had attached himself to the Coronado team on an almost permanent basis. Not that there were any laws, written or unwritten, about this sort of behaviour, for no independent journalist had ever done this sort of thing before. Now that it had been done it was, his fellow-writers said, a thing that simply was not done. It was his job, they maintained and complained, to write in a fair and unbiased fashion on all the cars and all the drivers in the Grand Prix field and their resentment remained undiminished when he pointed out to them, reasonably and with unchallengeable accuracy, that this was precisely what he did. What really grieved them, of course, was that he had the inside track on the Coronado team, then the fastest burgeoning and most glamorous race company in the business: and it would have been difficult to deny that the number of off-track articles he had written partly about the team but primarily about Harlow would have made up a pretty fair-size volume. Nor had matters been helped by the existence of a book on which he had collaborated with Harlow.

MacAlpine said: "I'm afraid you're right, Alexis. Which means that I know you're right but I don't even want to admit it to myself. He's just terrifying the living daylights out of everyone. And out of me. And now this."

They looked across the pits to where Harlow was sitting on a bench just outside the shelter. Uncaring whether he was observed or not, he half-filled a glass from a rapidly diminishing brandy bottle. One did not have to have eyesight to know that the hands were still shaking: diminishing though the protesting roar of the crowd still was, it was still sufficient to make normal conversation difficult: nevertheless, the Castanet rattle of glass against glass could be clearly heard. Harlow took a quick gulp from his glass then sat there with both elbows on his knees and stared, unblinkingly and without expression, at the wrecked remains of his car.

Dunnet said: "And only two months ago he'd never touched the hard stuff in his life. What are you going to do, James?"

"Now?" MacAlpine smiled faintly. "I'm going to see; Mary. I think by this time they might let me in to see her." He glanced briefly, his face seemingly impassive, around the pits, at Harlow lifting his glass again, at the red-haired Rafferty twins looking almost as unhappy as Dunnet, and at Jacobson, Tracchia and Rory wearing; uniform scowls and directing them in uniform directions, sighed for the last time, turned and walked heavily away.



Mary MacAlpine was twenty-two years old, pale complexioned despite the many hours she spent in the sun, with big brown eyes, gleamingly brushed black hair as dark as night and the most bewitching smile that ever graced a Grand Prix racing track: she did not intend that the smile should be bewitching, she just couldn't help it. Everyone in the team, even the taciturn and terrible-tempered Jacobson, was in love with her in one; way or another, not to mention a quite remarkable number of other people who were not in the team: this Mary recognized and accepted with commendable aplomb, although without either amusement or condescension: condescension was quite alien to her nature. In any event, she viewed the regard that others had for her as only the natural reciprocal of the regard she had for them: despite her quick no-nonsense mind, Mary MacAlpine was in many ways still very young.

Lying in bed in that spotless, soullessly antiseptic" hospital room that night, Mary MacAlpine looked younger than ever.. She also looked, as she unquestionably was, very ill. The natural paleness had turned to pallor and the big brown eyes which she opened only briefly and reluctantly, were dulled with pain.. This same pain was reflected in MacAlpine's eyes as he looked down at his daughter, at the heavily splinted and bandaged left leg lying on top of the sheet. MacAlpine stooped and kissed his daughter on the forehead.

He said: "sleep well, darling. Good night."

She tried to smile. "With all the pills they've given me? Yes, I think I will. And Daddy."

"Darling?"

"It wasn't Johnny's fault. I know it wasn't. It was his car. I know it was."

"We're finding that out. Jacobson is taking the car down."

"You'll see. Will you ask Johnny to come and see me?"

"Not tonight, darling. I'm afraid he's not too well."

"He-he hasn't been--"

"No, no. Shock." MacAlpine smiled. "He's been fed the same, pills as yourself."

"Johnny Harlow? In shock? I don't believe it. Three near-fatal crashes and he never once-- "

"He saw you, my darling." He squeezed her hand. "I'll be around later tonight."

MacAlpine left the room and walked down to the reception area. A doctor was speaking to the nurse at the desk. He had grey hair, tired eyes and the face of an aristocrat. MacAlpine said: "Are you the person who is looking after my daughter?"

"Mr. MacAlpine? Yes, I am. Dr Chollet."

"She seems very ill."

"No, Mr. MacAlpine. No problem. She is just under heavy sedation. For the pain, you understand."

"I see. How long will she be--"

"Two weeks. Perhaps three. No more."