The Keys of Hell Read Online Free Page B

in?”
    “What on earth for?” The Chief shook his head. “Get rid of him; a swimming accident, anything you like. Nothing messy.”
    “Of course,” Chavasse said calmly.
    He glanced through the file again, memorizing the facts it contained, then pushed it across and stood up. “I’ll see you in London?”
    The Chief nodded. “In three weeks, Paul. Enjoy your holiday.”
    “Don’t I always?”
    The Chief pulled a file across, opened it and started to study the contents, and Chavasse crossed to the door and left quietly.

THREE
    E NRICO N OCI LAY STARING THROUGH the darkness at the ceiling, smoking a cigarette. Beside him the woman slept, her thigh warm against his. Once, she stirred, turning into him in her sleep, but didn’t awaken.
    He reached for another cigarette and there was a slight distinctive rattle as something was pushed through the letter box in the outer hall. He slid from beneath the blankets, careful not to waken the woman, and padded across the tiled floor in his bare feet.
    A large buff envelope lay on the mat at the front door. He took it into the kitchen, lit the gas under the coffeepot and opened the envelope quickly. Inside there was a smaller sealed envelope, the one he was to take with him, and a single typed sheet containing his movement orders. He memorized them, then burned it quickly at the stove.
    He glanced at his watch. Just before midnight. Time for a hot bath and something to eat. He stretched lazily, a conscious pleasure seeping through him. The woman had really been quite something. Certainly a diverting way of spending his last evening.
     
    H E WAS WALLOWING UP TO HIS CHIN IN HOT water, the small bathroom half full of steam when the door opened and she came in, yawning as she tied the belt of his silk dressing gown.
    “Come back to bed, caro ,” she said plaintively.
    For the life of him he couldn’t remember her name and he grinned. “Another time, angel. I must get moving. Scrambled eggs and coffee like a good girl. I’ve got to be out of here in twenty minutes.”
    When he left the bathroom ten minutes later, he was freshly shaved, his dark hair slicked back, and he wore an expensive hand-knitted sweater and slacks. She had laid a small table in the window and placed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him as he sat down.
    As he ate, he pulled back the curtain with one hand and looked down across the lights of Bari to the waterfront. The town was quiet and a slight rain drifted through the yellow street lamps in a silver spray.
    “Will you be coming back?” she said.
    “Who knows, angel?” He shrugged. “Who knows?”
    He finished his coffee, went into the bedroom, picked up a dark blue nylon raincoat and a small canvas grip and returned to the living room. She sat with her elbows on the table, a cup of coffee in her hands. He took out his wallet, extracted a couple of banknotes and dropped them on the table.
    “It’s been fun, angel,” he said and moved to the door.
    “You know the address.”
    When he closed the outside door and turned along the street it was half past twelve exactly. The rain was falling quite heavily now and fog crouched at the ends of the streets, reducing visibility to thirty or forty yards.
    He walked briskly along the wet pavement, turning confidently out of one street into another and, ten minutes later, halted beside a small black Fiat sedan. He opened the door, lifted the corner of the carpet and found the ignition key at once. A few moments later he was driving away.
    On the outskirts of Bari, he stopped and consulted the map that he found in the glove compartment. Matano was about twelve miles away on the coast road running south to Brindisi. An easy enough run, although the fog was bound to hold him up a little.
    He lit a cigarette and started off again, concentrating on his driving as the fog grew thicker. He was finally reduced to a cautious crawl, his head out of the side window. It was almost an hour later when he halted at a