The Keys Of Hell

FIVE

THE AIR IN THE ROOM WAS STILL HEAVILY tainted by cigarette smoke, but the card players had gone. In the light of the shaded lamp, a British Admiralty chart of the Drin Gulf area of the Albanian coast was unfolded across the table. Chavasse and Orsini leaned over it and Francesca sat beside them.

“The Buene River runs down to the coast from Lake Scutari, or Shkoder, as they call it these days,” Orsini said.

“What about these coastal marshes? Are they as bad as Francesca says?”

Orsini nodded. “One hell of a place. A maze of narrow channels, saltwater lagoons and malaria-infested swamps. Unless you knew where to look, you could search for a year for that launch and never find it.”

“Anyone living there?”

“A few fishermen and wildfowlers, mainly geghs. The Reds haven’t done too well in those parts. The whole area’s always been a sort of refuge for people on the run.”

“You know it well?”

Orsini grinned. “I’d say I’ve made the run into those marshes at least half a dozen times this year. Penicillin, sulphonamide, guns, nylons. There’s a lot of money to be made and the Albanian navy can’t do much to stop it.”

“Still a risky business, though.”

“For amateurs, anything is risky.” Orsini turned to Francesca. “This man Ramiz, what did he do for a living?”

“He was an artist. I believe he did most of his sailing at weekends.”

Orsini looked at the ceiling and raised his hands helplessly. “My God, what a setup. That he got you back safely to Italy is a miracle, signorina.”

The door opened and Carlo came in carrying cups on a tray. He handed them round and Chavasse sipped hot coffee. He frowned down at the map, following the main channel, then turned to Francesca.

“You say you know where the launch went down. How can you be sure? These lagoons all look the same.”

“Marco took a cross bearing just before we sank,” she said. “I memorized it.”

Orsini pushed a piece of paper and a pencil across and she quickly wrote the figures down. He examined them with a slight frown and then calculated the position. He drew a circle round the central point.

“X marks the spot.”

Chavasse examined it quickly. “About five miles in. Another three or four to this place Tama. What’s it like there?”

“Used to be quite a thriving little river port years ago, but it’s gone down the slot in a big way since the trouble started between Albania and the satellite countries.” Orsini traced a finger along the line of the river. “The Buene forms part of the boundary between Albania and Yugoslavia. Most of the main stream’s been allowed to silt up. That means you have to know the estuary and delta region well to get as far inland as Tama.”

“But could you get us there?”

Orsini turned to Carlo. “What do you think?”

“We’ve never had any trouble before. Why should we now?”

“The pitcher can go to the well too often,” Francesca observed softly.

Orsini shrugged. “For all men, death makes the last appointment. He chooses his own time.”

“That only leaves the question of the price to be settled,” Chavasse said.

“No problem there,” Francesca put in quickly.

“Signorina, please.” Orsini took her hand and touched it to his lips. “This thing I will do because I want to and for no other reason.”

She seemed close to tears and Chavasse interrupted quickly. “One thing I’m not happy about 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.”

IT 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 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.