Something you never were, Chavasse said. Lets 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 Orsinis 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 isnt 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 womans voice called, Come back later. Im 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, its 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 doesnt appear to be at home.
Oh, that one, she said in disgust. Sitting around his room like that. Wouldnt 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 didnt look good.
You didnt think of calling the police? Chavasse asked.
I wouldnt 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. Well have ourselves a party.
Maybe Ill 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 isnt 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. Well sort something out in the morning. He punched Chavasse lightly on the shoulder. Dont worry, Paul. Youre 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 wasnt there.
Now walk straight ahead and dont 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.
SIX
THERE WERE TWO OF THEM, HE COULD tell that much from their footfalls echoing between the walls of the narrow alleys as they moved through the old quarter of the town. The harsh voice of the man who had first spoken occasionally broke the silence to tell him to turn right or left, but otherwise there was no conversation and they stayed well behind him.
Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from an alley onto the sea wall on the far side of the harbor from the jetty. A house several floors high reared into the night, and beside it a flight of stone steps led down to a landing stage.
An old naval patrol boat was moored there, shabby and neglected, paint peeling from her hull. Across her stern ran the faded inscription Stromboli Taranto.
The landing stage was deserted in the light of a solitary lamp and there was no one to help him. He turned slowly and faced the two men. One of them was small and rather nondescript. He wore a heavy jersey and a knitted cap was pulled over his eyes.
The other was a different proposition, a big, dangerous-looking man badly in need of a shave. He had a scarred, brutal face, cropped hair, and wore a reefer coat and seaboots.
He slipped a cigarette into his mouth and struck a match on the seawall. Down we go, Mr. Chavasse. Down we go.
Chavasse descended the steps slowly. As he reached the landing stage, the little man moved past him and led the way to the far end, where he opened a door set in the thickness of the wall. A flight of stone stairs lifted into the gloom and Chavasse followed him, the big man a couple of paces behind.
They arrived on a stone landing and the little man opened another door and jerked his head. Chavasse moved past him and stood just inside the entrance. The room was plainly furnished with a wooden table and several chairs. A narrow iron bed stood against one wall.
The man who sat at the table writing a letter was small and dark and dressed in a suit of blue tropical worsted. His skin was the color of fine leather, the narrow fringe of beard combining to give him the look of a conquistadore.
Chavasse paused a couple of feet away, hands in pockets. Small, black, shining eyes had swivelled to a position from which they could observe him. The man half turned and smiled.
Mr. Chavasse a distinct pleasure, sir.
His English was clipped and precise, hardly any accent at all. Chavasse decided that he didnt like him. The eyes were cold and merciless in spite of the polite, birdlike expression, the eyes of a killer.
Im beginning to find all this rather a bore.
The little man smiled. Then we must try to make things more interesting. How would you like to earn ten thousand pounds?
At the other end of the table was a tray containing a couple of bottles and several glasses. Chavasse walked to it calmly, aware of a slight movement from the big man over by the door.
One of the bottles contained Smirnoff, his favorite vodka. He half filled a glass and walked casually to the window, gazing forty feet down into the harbor as he drank, assessing the position of the Stromboli to the left, her outline showing dimly through the fog.
Well? the little man asked.
Chavasse turned. How are things in Tirana these days?
The little man smiled. Very astute, but I havent seen Tirana in five years. A slight difference of opinion with the present regime. He produced a white card and flicked it across. My card, sir. I am Adem Kapo, agent for Alb-Tourist in Taranto.
Among other things, Im sure.
Kapo took out a case and extracted a cigarette, which he fitted into a holder. You could describe me as a sort of middle-man. People come to me with their requirements and I try to satisfy them.
For a fee?
But of course. He extended the case. Cigarette?
Chavasse took one. Ten thousand pounds. Thats a lot of money. What makes you think Id be interested?
Knowing who people are is part of my business and I know a great deal about you, my friend. More than you could dream of. Men like you are a gun that is for sale to the highest bidder. In any case, the money would be easily earned. My principals will pay such a sum in advance if you will agree to lead them to the position of a certain launch which recently sank in the marshes of the Buene River in Northern Albania. You are interested?
I could be if I knew what you were talking about.
Im sure Signorina Minetti has already filled you in on the details. Come now, Mr. Chavasse, all is discovered, as they say in the English melodramas. According to the information supplied to me by my clients, the body of an Italian citizen, one Marco Minetti, was discovered on a mud bank at the mouth of the Buene recently after an attempt had been made to smuggle a priceless religious relic from the country.
You dont say, Chavasse said.
Kapo ignored the interruption. A few hours earlier his launch had disappeared into the wastes of the Buene Marshes. Later, a priest and two men were taken into custody by the sigurmi at the town of Tama. Apparently, the priest was stubborn to the end, a bad habit they have, but the two men talked. They named Minetti, his sister and an Albanian refugee, an artist called Ramiz. I was offered what I must admit was a very handsome fee to trace them.
And did you?
Weve been watching Ramiz for weeks, waiting for him to make his move. Incredible though it may seem, he apparently intended to go in again. You see, he was an intellectual one of those rather irritating people who feel they have a mission in life.