The Keys Of Hell

whoever he is.”

Orsini grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “You’d murder him, Gilberto. Nothing like a bit of science to have these young toughies running around in circles.”

They went out into the passage, leaving the old man sitting at the fire, a blanket around his shoulders. “A good heavyweight in his day,” Orsini said. “One with the sense to get out before they scrambled his brains. Anything from Rome?”

Chavasse shook his head. “Everything Kapo said about himself was true. He is the Alb-Tourist agent in Taranto, an old Party man from Tirana who said the wrong thing once too often and only got out by the skin of his teeth. According to Italian Intelligence he’s harmless, and they usually know what they’re talking about.”

“That’s what MI5 said about Fuchs and look where it got them,” Orsini pointed out. “Nobody’s perfect and the good agent is the man who manages to pull the wool over the eyes of the opposition most effectively.”

“Which doesn’t get us anywhere,” Chavasse said. “They’ve gone, which is all that counts, taking Francesca Minetti with them.”

They went into the office at the rear of the bar and Orsini produced a bottle of whisky and three glasses. He filled them, a slight thoughtful frown on his face.

“Whoever took the girl, it couldn’t have been Kapo and his men – the time factor wouldn’t have allowed it. The men who attacked her on the jetty earlier – what can you tell me about them?”

“Judging by the language the second one used when he tried to stick his knife into me, I’d say he was Italian,” Chavasse said. “Straight out of the Taranto gutter.”

“Anything else interesting about him?”

“He had a dark beard, anything but the trimmed variety, and his face was badly scarred. A sort of hook shape curving into his right eye.”

Orsini let out a great bellow of laughter and clapped him on the shoulder. “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 cafe 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.”

VACELLI’S PLACE FRONTED THE HARBOR ON the corner of an alley that led into the heart of the old town. The sign simply read Cafe. 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 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.