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

“But my dear Paul, this is wonderful.”
    “You mean you know him?”
    “Do I know him?” Orsini turned to Carlo. “Tell him about our good friend Toto.”
    “He works for a man called Vacelli,” Carlo said. “A real bad one. Runs a couple of fishing boats out of here, engaged in the Albanian trade, the town brothel and a café in the old quarter.” He spat vigorously. “A pig.”
    “It looks as if Kapo must have employed Vacelli to get hold of the girl for him,” Orsini said. “The sort of task for which Nature has fitted him admirably. Unfortunately, you arrived on the scene and messed things up.”
    “Which doesn’t explain why Kapo went to the trouble of having me pulled in for a personal interview.”
    “He probably thought he could do some kind of a deal, you made a break for it and he had to leave in a hurry in case you decided to whistle down the law on him. No other choice.”
    “And in the meantime, Vacelli and his boys picked up the girl?”
    Orsini nodded. “And Kapo had to leave before they could get in touch with him.”
    “So you think Vacelli may still have the girl?”
    Orsini opened the drawer of his desk, took out a Luger and slipped it into his hip pocket. He smiled and the great, ugly face was quite transformed.
    “Let’s go and find out.”
     
    V ACELLI ’ S PLACE FRONTED THE HARBOR ON the corner of an alley that led into the heart of the old town. The sign simply read Café . Inside, someone was playing a guitar. They parked the pickup at the entrance, and when they went in, Orsini led the way downstairs.
    There was a bead curtain and the murmur of voices from the bar beyond. The guitar player sat just inside the entrance, chair balanced against the wall. He was young with dark curling hair, the sleeves of his check shirt rolled back to expose muscular arms.
    Orsini pulled back the curtain and looked down at the legs sprawled across the entrance. The guitar player made no effort to move and Orsini hooked the chair from under him, the sudden clatter stunning the room to silence.
    There was a narrow, marble-topped bar, the wall behind it lined with bottles, and a few small tables, chairs ranged about them. The floor was of stone, the walls whitewashed, and there were no more than a dozen customers, most of them men.
    The guitar player came up fast, a spring knife in one hand, but Carlo was faster. His hand tightened over the wrist, twisting cruelly, and the youth screamed, dropping the knife. He staggered back against the wall, tears of pain in his eyes, and Orsini shook his head.
    “God knows what’s happened to the youth of this country. No manners at all.” He turned, looking the other patrons over casually. The bearded man with the scarred face, the one they called Toto, sat at the table by the wall, one arm in a sling.
    Orsini grinned. “Eh, Toto, you don’t look too good. Where’s Vacelli?”
    There was a scrape of a boot on stone and a surly voice growled, “What the hell do you want?”
    Vacelli stood at the top of the flight of stone steps in the corner leading up to the first floor. He was built like Primo Carnera, a great ox of a man with a bullet-shaped head that was too small for the rest of his body.
    “Hello there, you animal,” Orsini cried gaily. “We’ve come for the Minetti girl.”
    Vacelli’s brutal face reddened in anger and he obviously restrained his temper with difficulty. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “What a pity.” Orsini picked up the nearest chair and threw it at the shelves behind the bar, smashing the mirror and bringing down a dozen bottles. “Does that help?”
    Vacelli gave a roar of rage and came down the steps on the run. Orsini picked up a full bottle of Chianti from a nearby table, jumped to one side and smashed it across Vacelli’s skull as he staggered past.
    Vacelli fell to one knee. Orsini picked up a chair and brought it down across the great shoulders. Vacelli grunted, started to keel over. Orsini