The Keys of Hell by Jack Higgins Read Free Book Online Page A

is Ramiz. Are you sure it was his voice on the telephone?”
    She nodded. “He came from the province of Vlore. They have a distinctive accent. I’m sure it was him.”
    Chavasse decided that it didn’t look too good for Ramiz. Quite obviously the sigurmi had traced them with no difficulty. Maybe they’d recovered Marco Minetti’s body, or what was more probable, had got their hands on the people who had passed on the Madonna in Albania itself. Each man had his limits, his specific tolerance to pain. Once past that point, most would babble all they knew before dying.
    And it was natural that the Albanians should go to so much trouble to trace the Madonna. Its disappearance must have meant a big loss of prestige politically and the knowledge that it must still be in their own territory would be an added spur to recover it.
    “If Ramiz did make that phone call it was probably because he was made to. Either that or he was known to have made it.” He produced the slip of paper Francesca had given him at the hotel. “Do you know this place?”
    Orsini nodded. “It’s not far from here. The sort of fleabag where whores rent rooms by the hour and no questions asked.” He turned to Francesca. “No place for a lady.”
    She started to protest, but Chavasse cut in quickly. “Guilio’s right. In any case, you’re out on your feet. What you need is about eight hours’ solid sleep. You can use my room at the hotel.” He turned to Carlo. “See she gets there safely.”
    He pulled on his reefer jacket and she stood up. “You’ll be careful?”
    “Aren’t I always?” He gave her a little push. “Lock yourself in the room and get some sleep. I’ll be along later.”
    She went reluctantly and Carlo followed her out. When Chavasse turned, Orsini was grinning hugely. “Ah, to be young and handsome.”
    “Something you never were,” Chavasse said. “Let’s get moving.”
     
    I T WAS STILL RAINING , A THIN DRIZZLE THAT beaded the iron railings of the harbor wall like silver as they walked along the pavement. The old stuccoed houses floated out of the fog, unreal and insubstantial, and each street lamp was a yellow oasis of light in a dark world.
    The hotel was no more than five minutes from the Tabu, a seedy tenement, plaster peeling from the brickwork beside the open door. They entered a dark and gloomy hall. There was no one behind the wooden desk and no response to Orsini’s impatient push on the bell.
    “Did she give you the room number?”
    Chavasse nodded. “Twenty-six.”
    The Italian moved behind the desk and examined the board. He came back, shaking his head. “The key isn’t there. He must still be in his room.”
    They went up a flight of rickety wooden stairs to the first floor. There was an unpleasant musty smell compounded of cooking odors and stale urine and a strange brooding quiet. They moved along the passage, checking the numbers on the doors, and Chavasse became aware of music and high brittle laughter. He paused outside the room from which it came and Orsini turned from the door opposite.
    “This is it.”
    The door swung open to his touch and he stepped inside and reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. He struck a match and Chavasse moved in beside him.
    The room was almost bare. There was a rush mat on the floor, an iron bed and a washstand. A wooden chair lay on its side beside the mat.
    As Chavasse reached down to pick it up, the match Orsini was holding burned his fingers and he dropped it with a curse. Chavasse rested on one knee, waiting for him to strike another, and was aware of a sudden dampness soaking through the knee of his slacks. As the match flared, he raised his hand, the fingers sticky and glutinous with half-dried blood.
    “So much for Ramiz.”
    They examined the room quickly but there was nothing to be found, not even a suitcase, and they went back into the passage. High-pitched laughter sounded from opposite and Orsini raised his eyebrows