Read Online The Keys of Hell by Jack Higgins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack Higgins
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brought the chair down again and again until it splintered into matchwood. He tossed it to one side and waited.
Slowly, painfully, Vacelli reached for the edge of the bar and hauled himself up. He swayed there for a moment, then charged head-down, blood washing across his face in a red curtain. Orsini swerved and slashed him across the kidneys with the edge of his hand as Vacelli plunged past him.
Vacelli screamed and fell on his face. He tried to push himself up, but it was no good. He collapsed with a great sigh and lay still.
“Anyone else?” Orsini demanded.
No one moved and he turned to Carlo. “Watch things down here. We won’t be long.”
Chavasse followed him up the stairs and the big Italian pulled back a curtain and led the way along a narrow passage. A young woman in a cheap nylon housecoat leaned in a doorway smoking a cigarette.
“Eh, Guilio, have you killed the bastard?”
“Just about.” He grinned. “He’ll be inactive for quite a while. Time enough for you to pack your bags and move on. There was a girl brought here tonight. Any idea where she is?”
“The end room. He was just going in when you arrived. I don’t think he meant her any good.”
“My thanks, carissima .” Orsini kissed her lightly on one cheek. “Go home to your mother.”
Chavasse was already ahead of him, but the door was locked. “Francesca, it’s Paul,” he called.
There was a quick movement inside and she called back, “The door’s locked on the outside.”
Orsini stood back, raised one booted foot and stamped twice against the lock. There was a sudden splintering sound, the door sagged on its hinges, rotten wood crumbling. He stamped again and it fell back against the wall.
Francesca Minetti stood waiting, her face very white. She was still wearing Chavasse’s old sweater and looked about fifteen years old. Chavasse was aware of the breath hissing sharply between Orsini’s teeth and then the Italian was moving forward quickly.
His voice was strangely gentle and comforting, like a father reassuring a frightened child. “It’s all right now, cara. There is nothing to worry about anymore.”
She held his hand, gazing up into the ugly, battered face and tried to smile, and then she started to tremble. She turned, stumbled across the wreckage of the door and ran into Chavasse’s arms.
EIGHT
I T WAS JUST AFTER EIGHT O ’ CLOCK ON the following evening when the Buona Esperanza moved away from the jetty and turned out to sea. It was a warm, soft night with a luminosity shining from the water. There was no moon, for heavy cloud banked over the horizon as though a storm might be in the offing.
Orsini was at the wheel and Chavasse stood beside him, leaning forward to peer through the curved deckhouse window into the darkness ahead.
“What about the weather?” he said.
“Force four wind with rain imminent. Nothing to worry about.”
“Is it the same for the Drin Gulf?”
“A few fog patches, but they’ll be more of a help than anything else.”
Chavasse lit two cigarettes and handed one to the Italian. “Funny what a day-to-day business life is. I never expected to set foot on Albanian soil again.”
“The things we do for the ladies.” Orsini grinned. “But this one is something special, Paul. This I assure you as an expert. She reminds me very much of my wife, God rest her.”
Chavasse looked at him curiously. “I never knew you’d been married.”
“A long time ago.” Orsini’s face was calm, untroubled, but the sadness was there in his voice. “She was only nineteen when we married. That was in 1941 during my naval service. We spent one leave together, that’s all. The following year she was killed in an air raid while staying with her mother in Milan.”
There was nothing to be said and Chavasse stood there in silence. After a while, Orsini increased speed. “Take over, Paul. I’ll plot our course.”
Chavasse slipped behind him and the Italian moved to the chart table. For
Slowly, painfully, Vacelli reached for the edge of the bar and hauled himself up. He swayed there for a moment, then charged head-down, blood washing across his face in a red curtain. Orsini swerved and slashed him across the kidneys with the edge of his hand as Vacelli plunged past him.
Vacelli screamed and fell on his face. He tried to push himself up, but it was no good. He collapsed with a great sigh and lay still.
“Anyone else?” Orsini demanded.
No one moved and he turned to Carlo. “Watch things down here. We won’t be long.”
Chavasse followed him up the stairs and the big Italian pulled back a curtain and led the way along a narrow passage. A young woman in a cheap nylon housecoat leaned in a doorway smoking a cigarette.
“Eh, Guilio, have you killed the bastard?”
“Just about.” He grinned. “He’ll be inactive for quite a while. Time enough for you to pack your bags and move on. There was a girl brought here tonight. Any idea where she is?”
“The end room. He was just going in when you arrived. I don’t think he meant her any good.”
“My thanks, carissima .” Orsini kissed her lightly on one cheek. “Go home to your mother.”
Chavasse was already ahead of him, but the door was locked. “Francesca, it’s Paul,” he called.
There was a quick movement inside and she called back, “The door’s locked on the outside.”
Orsini stood back, raised one booted foot and stamped twice against the lock. There was a sudden splintering sound, the door sagged on its hinges, rotten wood crumbling. He stamped again and it fell back against the wall.
Francesca Minetti stood waiting, her face very white. She was still wearing Chavasse’s old sweater and looked about fifteen years old. Chavasse was aware of the breath hissing sharply between Orsini’s teeth and then the Italian was moving forward quickly.
His voice was strangely gentle and comforting, like a father reassuring a frightened child. “It’s all right now, cara. There is nothing to worry about anymore.”
She held his hand, gazing up into the ugly, battered face and tried to smile, and then she started to tremble. She turned, stumbled across the wreckage of the door and ran into Chavasse’s arms.
EIGHT
I T WAS JUST AFTER EIGHT O ’ CLOCK ON the following evening when the Buona Esperanza moved away from the jetty and turned out to sea. It was a warm, soft night with a luminosity shining from the water. There was no moon, for heavy cloud banked over the horizon as though a storm might be in the offing.
Orsini was at the wheel and Chavasse stood beside him, leaning forward to peer through the curved deckhouse window into the darkness ahead.
“What about the weather?” he said.
“Force four wind with rain imminent. Nothing to worry about.”
“Is it the same for the Drin Gulf?”
“A few fog patches, but they’ll be more of a help than anything else.”
Chavasse lit two cigarettes and handed one to the Italian. “Funny what a day-to-day business life is. I never expected to set foot on Albanian soil again.”
“The things we do for the ladies.” Orsini grinned. “But this one is something special, Paul. This I assure you as an expert. She reminds me very much of my wife, God rest her.”
Chavasse looked at him curiously. “I never knew you’d been married.”
“A long time ago.” Orsini’s face was calm, untroubled, but the sadness was there in his voice. “She was only nineteen when we married. That was in 1941 during my naval service. We spent one leave together, that’s all. The following year she was killed in an air raid while staying with her mother in Milan.”
There was nothing to be said and Chavasse stood there in silence. After a while, Orsini increased speed. “Take over, Paul. I’ll plot our course.”
Chavasse slipped behind him and the Italian moved to the chart table. For
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