Read Online Early One Morning by Robert Ryan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Ryan
Ads: Link
weren’t.
A light drizzle had started and Robert watched the big seven-litre Mercedes of Rudi Caracciola roar into the square, pass the Hotel de Paris and slide into the bend, with Rudi having to steer it like a boat. Robert wondered how Rudi was coping with the Station hairpin and the demanding Gasworks bend.
As if to show how it should be done, a Bugatti came into view, power as full on as the driver dared in a fresh fall of rain on cobbles, and nimbly took the bend, straightening and flooring the pedal up the Avenue des Spellugues towards the downhill zig-zag to Monte Carlo station. Perfect. But something wasn’t quite right with number 12. Then it struck him. It had been green. Not blue. It was a green Bugatti 35B. How could Ettore allow this?
Robert looked at Maurice. ‘Who is that?’ But it was gone. ‘Number twelve.’
Maurice consulted his liste de engages. ‘Williams. Englishman.’
‘Do we know him?’
‘Some talentless peasant.’
Robert brooded until, three minutes later, Williams came by again and he watched the same mix of looseness and precision guide the car through the bends. ‘Peasant maybe …’ he mused.
‘Look. Over there. In navy blue.’ Maurice’s attention, as usual, was elsewhere.
Robert picked up his binoculars and scanned the sparse crowd on the opposite side of the square. ‘Where?’
‘At the top. Blonde.’
Robert focused on a mass of curly hair framing a face made even more beautiful by its lack of makeup. ‘That’s his woman.’
‘Whose?’
‘Williams,’ said Maurice in triumph.
‘And what do we know about her?’
‘Sucks like a nanny goat.’
Robert lowered his binoculars and gave Maurice one of his powerful stares. ‘Meaning you have tried and got nowhere?’
Maurice grinned. ‘Something like that.’ In fact, nothing like that. He’d introduced himself and been greeted with a I’ve-just-stepped-in-a-dog-turd expression from the woman.
Robert raised the glasses again, but she had gone, off to find another vantage point. Robert watched the Alfas, Maseratis and Bugattis come round one more time, followed by Rudi’s Mercedes, now making its way through the field as its talented driver got the measure of the track. ‘Where are they holding the draw for the start positions?’
‘The Salles Touzet in the casino. Tomorrow night.’
Robert ordered another glass of wine and thought about the blonde. ‘Make sure we’re there. I’d like a closer look.’
Seven
RACE DAY, MONACO, APRIL 1929
O NE HUNDRED LAPS. One hundred and ninety-seven miles. Sixteen cars.
Eve positioned herself near the pits, under the trees, just before the Ste Devote bend, right behind where their two ad hoc mechanics, Bernard and Jacques, hired, cajoled and flattered from the village garage and trained in the art of refuelling and tyre changing in the yard at the Normandy house, had set up shop. A large board in front of each station proclaimed the name and number of the driver. She tried not to dwell on all those hours ahead, hours in which her lover would try to drive as quickly as humanly possible through streets designed for horses and trams.
A lap of honour by Prince Louis, Antony Noghes accompanying, beaming. A year of hard work. Lobbying the International Association of Recognised Automobile Clubs, the Automobile Club de Monaco, the drivers and the manufacturers. Now, a happy man.
Robert and Maurice were positioned further along behind the Dreyfus pit stop, with Ettore and his son Jean Bugatti. Maurice could not fail to notice that, even at the start when the tension mounted as Prince Louis did a lap of honour and the crowd cheered his vision and generosity in allowing the race, Robert’s attention wandered along to where Williams was making frantic adjustments to his car, and Eve looked on, concerned and nervous.
Two laps of warm-up and the cars shuffled their way on to the grid under the watchful eye of Charles Faroux, the hard-bitten race organiser. Engines,
A light drizzle had started and Robert watched the big seven-litre Mercedes of Rudi Caracciola roar into the square, pass the Hotel de Paris and slide into the bend, with Rudi having to steer it like a boat. Robert wondered how Rudi was coping with the Station hairpin and the demanding Gasworks bend.
As if to show how it should be done, a Bugatti came into view, power as full on as the driver dared in a fresh fall of rain on cobbles, and nimbly took the bend, straightening and flooring the pedal up the Avenue des Spellugues towards the downhill zig-zag to Monte Carlo station. Perfect. But something wasn’t quite right with number 12. Then it struck him. It had been green. Not blue. It was a green Bugatti 35B. How could Ettore allow this?
Robert looked at Maurice. ‘Who is that?’ But it was gone. ‘Number twelve.’
Maurice consulted his liste de engages. ‘Williams. Englishman.’
‘Do we know him?’
‘Some talentless peasant.’
Robert brooded until, three minutes later, Williams came by again and he watched the same mix of looseness and precision guide the car through the bends. ‘Peasant maybe …’ he mused.
‘Look. Over there. In navy blue.’ Maurice’s attention, as usual, was elsewhere.
Robert picked up his binoculars and scanned the sparse crowd on the opposite side of the square. ‘Where?’
‘At the top. Blonde.’
Robert focused on a mass of curly hair framing a face made even more beautiful by its lack of makeup. ‘That’s his woman.’
‘Whose?’
‘Williams,’ said Maurice in triumph.
‘And what do we know about her?’
‘Sucks like a nanny goat.’
Robert lowered his binoculars and gave Maurice one of his powerful stares. ‘Meaning you have tried and got nowhere?’
Maurice grinned. ‘Something like that.’ In fact, nothing like that. He’d introduced himself and been greeted with a I’ve-just-stepped-in-a-dog-turd expression from the woman.
Robert raised the glasses again, but she had gone, off to find another vantage point. Robert watched the Alfas, Maseratis and Bugattis come round one more time, followed by Rudi’s Mercedes, now making its way through the field as its talented driver got the measure of the track. ‘Where are they holding the draw for the start positions?’
‘The Salles Touzet in the casino. Tomorrow night.’
Robert ordered another glass of wine and thought about the blonde. ‘Make sure we’re there. I’d like a closer look.’
Seven
RACE DAY, MONACO, APRIL 1929
O NE HUNDRED LAPS. One hundred and ninety-seven miles. Sixteen cars.
Eve positioned herself near the pits, under the trees, just before the Ste Devote bend, right behind where their two ad hoc mechanics, Bernard and Jacques, hired, cajoled and flattered from the village garage and trained in the art of refuelling and tyre changing in the yard at the Normandy house, had set up shop. A large board in front of each station proclaimed the name and number of the driver. She tried not to dwell on all those hours ahead, hours in which her lover would try to drive as quickly as humanly possible through streets designed for horses and trams.
A lap of honour by Prince Louis, Antony Noghes accompanying, beaming. A year of hard work. Lobbying the International Association of Recognised Automobile Clubs, the Automobile Club de Monaco, the drivers and the manufacturers. Now, a happy man.
Robert and Maurice were positioned further along behind the Dreyfus pit stop, with Ettore and his son Jean Bugatti. Maurice could not fail to notice that, even at the start when the tension mounted as Prince Louis did a lap of honour and the crowd cheered his vision and generosity in allowing the race, Robert’s attention wandered along to where Williams was making frantic adjustments to his car, and Eve looked on, concerned and nervous.
Two laps of warm-up and the cars shuffled their way on to the grid under the watchful eye of Charles Faroux, the hard-bitten race organiser. Engines,
Similar Books
