The Keys of Hell Read Online Free PDF Page B

further two chips into the center.
    Chavasse shook his head and tossed in his hand. “Too rich for my blood, Guilio.”
    There was a general murmur and Guilio Orsini grinned and raked in his winnings. “Bluff, Paul, always the big bluff. That’s all that counts in this game.”
    Chavasse wondered if that explained why he was so bad at cards. For him, action had to be part of a logical progression from a carefully reasoned calculation of the risk involved. In the great game of life and death he had played for so long, a man could seldom bluff more than once and get away with it.
    He pushed back his chair and stood up. “That’s me for tonight, Guilio. I’ll see you on the jetty in the morning.”
    Orsini nodded. “Seven sharp, Paul. Maybe we’ll get you that big one.”
    The cards were already on their way round again as Chavasse crossed to the door, opened it and stepped into a whitewashed passage. In spite of the lateness of the hour, he could hear music from the front of the club and careless laughter. He took down an old reefer jacket from a peg, pulled it on and opened the side door.
    The cold night air cut into his lungs as he breathed deeply to clear his head and moved along the alley. A thin sea fog rolled in from the water and, except for the faint strains of music from the Tabu, silence reigned.
    He found a crumpled packet of cigarettes in his pocket, extracted one and struck a match on the wall, momentarily illuminating his face. A woman emerged from a narrow alley opposite, hesitated, then walked down the jetty, the clicking of her high heels echoing through the night. A moment later, two sailors moved out of the entrance of the Tabu, crossed in front of Chavasse and followed her.
    Chavasse leaned against the wall feeling curiously depressed. There were times when he really wondered what it was all about, not just this dangerous game he played, but life itself. He smiled in the darkness. Three o’clock in the morning on the waterfront of any kind of port was one hell of a time to start thinking like that.
    The woman screamed and he flicked his cigarette into the fog and stood listening. Again the screaming sounded, curiously muffled, and he started to run toward the jetty. He turned a corner and found the two sailors holding her on the ground under a street lamp.
    As the nearest one turned in alarm, Chavasse lifted a boot into his face and sent him back over the jetty. The other leapt toward him with a curse, steel glinting in his right hand.
    Chavasse was aware of the black beard, blazing eyes and strange hooked scar on the right cheek, and then he flicked his cap into the man’s face and raised a knee into the exposed groin. The man writhed on the ground, gasping for breath, and Chavasse measured the distance and kicked him in the head.
    In the water below the jetty there was a violent splashing and he moved to the edge and saw the first man swimming vigorously into the darkness. Chavasse watched him disappear, then turned to look for the woman.
    She was standing in the shadow of a doorway and he went toward her. “Are you all right?”
    “I think so,” she replied in a strangely familiar voice and stepped out of the shadows.
    His eyes widened in amazement. “Francesca—Francesca Minetti. What in the world are you doing here?”
    Her dress had been ripped from neck to waist and she held it in place, a slight smile on her face. “We were supposed to have a date on the terrace at the Embassy a week ago. What happened?”
    “Something came up,” he said. “The story of my life. But what are you doing on the Matano waterfront at this time of the morning?”
    She swayed forward and he caught her just in time, holding her close to his chest for a brief moment. She smiled up at him wanly.
    “Sorry about that, but all of a sudden I felt a little light-headed.”
    “Have you far to go?”
    She brushed a tendril of hair back from her forehead. “I left my car somewhere near here, but all the streets