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

enquiringly.
    “Nothing to lose,” Chavasse said.
    The big Italian knocked on the door. There was a sudden silence and then a woman’s voice called, “Come back later. I’m busy.”
    Orsini knocked even harder. There was a quick angry movement inside and the door was jerked open. The woman who faced them was small with flaming red hair. The black nylon robe she wore did little to conceal her ample charms. She recognized Orsini immediately and the look of anger on her face was replaced by a ready smile.
    “Eh, Guilio, it’s been a long time.”
    “Too long, cara,” he said, patting her face. “You still look as good as ever. My friend and I wanted a word with the man opposite, but he doesn’t appear to be at home.”
    “Oh, that one,” she said in disgust. “Sitting around his room like that. Wouldn’t even give a girl the time of day.”
    “He must have been blind,” Orsini said gallantly.
    “A couple of men came looking for him earlier,” she said. “I think there was some trouble. When I looked out, they were taking him away between them. He didn’t look good.”
    “You didn’t think of calling the police?” Chavasse asked.
    “I wouldn’t cut that bastard of a sergeant down if he were hanging.” There was an angry call from inside the room and she grinned. “Some of them get really impatient.”
    “I bet they do,” Chavasse said.
    She smiled. “You, I definitely like. Bring him round sometime, Guilio. We’ll have ourselves a party.”
    “Maybe I’ll do that,” Orsini told her.
    There was another impatient cry from inside and she raised her eyebrows despairingly and closed the door.
    Orsini and Chavasse went back downstairs and out into the street. The Italian paused to light a cheroot and flicked the match into the darkness.
    “What now?”
    Chavasse shrugged. “There isn’t really much we can do. I know one thing. I could do with some sleep.”
    Orsini nodded. “Go back to your hotel. Stay with the girl and behave yourself. We’ll sort something out in the morning.” He punched Chavasse lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Paul. You’re in the hands of experts.”
    He turned away into the fog, and as Chavasse watched him go tiredness seemed to wash over him in a great wave. He walked along the pavement, footsteps echoing between narrow stone walls, and paused on a corner, fumbling for a cigarette.
    As the match flared in his hands, something needle-sharp sliced through his jacket to touch his spine. A voice said quietly, “Please to stand very still, Mr. Chavasse.”
    He waited while the expert hands passed over his body, checking for the weapon that wasn’t there.
    “Now walk straight ahead and don’t look round. And do exactly as you are told. It would desolate me to have to kill you.”
    It was only as he started walking that Chavasse realized the voice had spoken in Albanian.

SIX
    T HERE WERE TWO OF THEM , HE COULD tell that much from their footfalls echoing between the walls of the narrow alleys as they moved through the old quarter of the town. The harsh voice of the man who had first spoken occasionally broke the silence to tell him to turn right or left, but otherwise there was no conversation and they stayed well behind him.
    Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from an alley onto the sea wall on the far side of the harbor from the jetty. A house several floors high reared into the night, and beside it a flight of stone steps led down to a landing stage.
    An old naval patrol boat was moored there, shabby and neglected, paint peeling from her hull. Across her stern ran the faded inscription Stromboli—Taranto .
    The landing stage was deserted in the light of a solitary lamp and there was no one to help him. He turned slowly and faced the two men. One of them was small and rather nondescript. He wore a heavy jersey and a knitted cap was pulled over his eyes.
    The other was a different proposition, a big, dangerous-looking man badly in need of a shave. He had a